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Complete Works of Shakespeare
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
DON PEDRO, Prince of Arragon.
DON JOHN, his bastard Brother,
CLAUDIO, a young Lord of Florence, favourite
to DON PEDRO.
BENEDICK, a young Lord of Padua, favourite
likewise /DoN PEDRO.
LEONATO, Govemo r of Messina.
ANTONIO, his Brother.
BALTHAZAR, Servant to DON PEDRO.
BORACHIO,
CONRADE,
\ Followers of DON JOHN.
j- two foolish Officers.
*
tJrfW
DOGBERRY,
VERGES,
A SEXTON.
A FRIAR.
A BOY.
HERO, Daughter to LEONATO.
BEATRICE, Niece to LEONATO.
MARGARET, \ Gent i ewomen a ttendingon HERO.
URSULA, J
Messengers, Watch, and Attendants.
SCENE, MESSINA.
ACT I.
SCENE I. Before LEONATO'S House.
Enter LEONATO, HERO, BEATRICE, and
others, with a Messenger.
Leon. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro
of Arragon comes this night to Messina.
Mess. He is very near by this ; he was not
three leagues off when I left him.
Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost
in this action ?
Mess. But few of any sort, and none of name.
Leon. A victory is twice itself when the
achiever brings home full numbers. I find
here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much
honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.
Mess. Much 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 expecta-
tion than you must expect of me to tell you
how.
Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina
will be very much glad of it.
Mess. I have already delivered him letters,
and there appears much joy in him ; even so
much that joy could not show itself modest
enough without a badge of bitterness.
Leon. Did he break out into tears ?
Mess. In great measure.
Leon. A kind overflow of kindness. There
are no faces truer than those that are so washed.
How much better is it to weep at joy than to
joy at weeping ?
Beat. I pray you, is Signior Montanto re-
turned from the wars or no ?
Mess. I know none of that name, lady ; there
was none such in the army of any sort.
Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece ?
Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of
Padua.
Mess. O, he is returned, and as pleasant as
ever he was.
Beat. 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.
Leon. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Bene-
dick too much ; but he '11 be meet with you, I
doubt it not.
Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in
these wars.
Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath
holp to eat it : he is a very valiant trencher-
man ; he hath an excellent stomach.
Mess. And a good soldier too, lady.
Beat. And a good soldier to a lady : but
what is he to a lord ?
Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man ;
stuffed with all honourable virtues.
Beat. It is so, indeed : he is no less than a
stuffed man : but for the stuffing, well, we
are all mortal.
SCENE I.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
139
Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece :
there is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior
Benedick and her : they never meet but there
is a skirmish of wit between them.
Beat. Aias, he gets nothing by that. In
our last conflict four of his five wits went halt-
ing off, and now is the old 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 reason-
able creature. Who is his companion now?
He hath every month a new sworn brother.
Mess. Is it possible ?
Beat. Very eas'ly possible: he wears his
faith but as the fashion of his hat ; it ever
changes with the next block.
Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in
your books.
Beat. No : an he were I would burn my
study. But, I pray you, who is his companion?
Is there no young squarer, now, that will make
a voyage with him to the devil ?
Mess. He is most in the company of the
right noble Claudio.
Beat. O Lord ! he will hang upon him like
a disease : he is sooner caught than the pestil-
ence, and the taker runs presently mad. God
help the noble Claudio ! if he have caught the
Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere
he be cured.
Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady.
Beat. Do 4 good friend.
Leon. You will never run mad, niece.
Beat. No, not till a hot January.
Mess. Don Pedro is approached.
Enter Don PEDRO, attended by BALTHAZAR
and others, Don JOHN, CLAUDIO, and BENE-
DICK.
D. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, you are
come to meet your trouble : the fashion of the
world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
Leon. Never came trouble to my house in
the likeness of your grace ; for trouble being
gone, comfort should remain ; but when you
depart from me, sorrow abides, and happiness
takes his leave.
Z>. Pedro. You embrace your charge too
willingly. I think this is your daughter.
Leon. Her mother hath many times told me
sc. [her?
Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked
Leon. Signior Benedick, no ; for then were
you a child.
D. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick : we
may guess by this what you are, being a man.
Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy,
lady ! for you are like an honourable father.
Bene. If Signior Leonato be her father, she
would not have his head on her shoulders for
all Messina, as like him as she is.
Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking,
Signior Benedick ; nobody marks you.
Bene. What, my dear lady Disdain ! are you
yet living ?
Beat. Is it possible disdain should die while
she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior
Benedick ? Courtesy itself must convert to
disdain if you come in her presence.
Bene. Then is courtesy a turn-coat. But it
is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you ex-
cepted : and I would I could find in my heart
that I had not a hard heart : for, truly, I love
none.
Beat. A dear happiness to women ; they
would else have been troubled with a pernicious
suitor. I thank God, and my cold blood, I am
of your humour for that : I had rather hear my
dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves
me.
Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that
mind ! so some gentleman or other shall 'scape
a predestinate scratched face.
Beat. Scratching could not make it worse an
'twere such a face as yours were.
Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.
Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a
beast of yours.
Bene. I would my horse had the speed of
your tongue, and so good a continuer. But
keep your way o' God's name ; I have done.
Beat. You always end with a jade's trick ; I
know you of old.
D. Pedro. This 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 de-
tain us longer : I dare swear he is no hypocrite,
but prays from his heart.
Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not
be forsworn. Let me bid you welcome, my
lord : being reconciled to the prince your
brother, I owe you all duty.
D. John. I thank you : I am not of many
words, but I thank you.
Leon. Please it your grace lead on ?
D. Pedro. Your hand, Leonato ; we will go
together.
[Exeunt all but BENE. , and CLAUD.
Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daugh-
ter of Signior Leonato ?
140
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT I.
Bene. I noted her not, but I looked on her.
Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ?
Bene. Do you question me, as an honest
man should do, for my simple true judgment ;
or would you have me speak after my custom,
as being a professed tyrant to their sex ?
Claud. No, I pray thee, speak in sober
judgment.
Bene. Why, i' faith, methinks she is too low
for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise,
and too little for a great praise : only this com-
mendation I can afford her ; that were she
other than she is, she were unhandsome ; and
being no other but as she is, I do not like her.
Claud. Thou thinkest I am in sport : I pray
thee, tell me truly how thou likest her.
Bene. Would you buy her, that you inquire
after her ?
Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel ?
Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But
speak you this with a sad brow ? or do you play
the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-
finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter ? Come,
in what key shall a man take you to go in the
song?
Claud. In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady
that ever I looked on.
Bene. 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 in-
tent to turn husband, have you ?
Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I
had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my
wife.
Bene. Is it come to this, i' faith ? Hath not
the world one man but he will wear his cap
with suspicion ? Shall I never see a bachelor
of threescore again ? Go to, i' faith ; an thou
wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear
the print of it, and sigh away Sundays. Look,
Don Pedro is returned to seek you.
Re-enter Don PEDRO.
D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here,
that you followed not to Leonato's ?
Bene. I would your grace would constrain
me to tell.
D. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance.
Bene. You hear, Count Claudio : I can be
secret as a dumb man, I would have you think
so ; but on my allegiance, mark you this,
on my allegiance : He is in love. With who?
Now that is your grace's part. Mark how
short his answer is : With Hero, Leonato's
short daughter.
Claud. If this were so, so were it uttered.
Bene. Like the old tale, my lord : "It is
not so, nor 'twas not so ; but, indeed, God for-
bid it should be so."
Claud. If my passion change not shortly,
God forbid it should be otherwise.
D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her ; for the
lady is very well worthy.
Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my
lord?
D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought.
Claiid. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.
Bene. And, by my two faiths and troths, my
lord, I spoke mine.
Claud. That I love her, I feel.
D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know.
Bene. That I neither feel how she should be
loved, nor know how she should be worthy, is
the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me : I
will die in it at the stake.
D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate
heretic in the despite of beauty.
Claud. And never could maintain his part
but in the force of his will.
Bene. That a woman conceived me, I thank
her ; that she brought me up, I likewise give
her most humble thanks ; but that I will have
a 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.
D. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look
pale with love.
Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with
hunger, my lord ; not with love : prove that
ever I lose more blood with love than I will
get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes
with a ballad-maker's pen, and hang me up at
the door of a brothel-house, for the sign of
blind Cupid.
D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from
this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.
Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat,
and shoot at me ; and he that hits me, let him
be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam.
D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try :
In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
Bene. The savage bull may ; but if ever the
sensible Benedick bear it, pltick 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 Bene-
dick the married man.
SCENE II.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
141
Claud. If this should ever happen, thou
wouldst be horn-mad.
D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all
his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this
shortly.
Bene. I look for an earthquake too, then.
D. Pedro. Well, you will temporise with the
hours. In the meantime, good Signior Bene-
dick, repair to Leonato's ; commend me to
him, and tell him I will not fail him at supper ;
for, indeed, he hath made great preparation.
Bene. I have almost matter enough in me
for such an embassage ; and so I commit you
Claud. To the tuition of God : From my
house, if I had it
D. Pedro. The sixth of July. Your loving
friend, Benedick.
Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body
of your discourse is sometime guarded with
fragments, and the guards are but slightly
basted on neither : ere you flout old ends any
further, examine your conscience ; and so I
leave you. [Exit BENEDICK.
Claud. My liege, your highness now may do
me good.
D. 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.
Clatid. Hath Leonato any son, my lord ?
D. Pedro. No child but Hero, she 's his only
heir :
Dost thou affect her, Claudio ?
Claud. O my lord,
When you went onward on this ended action,
I looked 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.
D. 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?
Claud. How sweetly do you minister to love,
That know love's grief by his complexion !
But lest my liking might too sudden seem,
I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise.
D. Pedro. What need the bridge much
broader than the flood !
The fairest grant is the necessity.
Look, what will serve is fit : 'tis once, thou lov'st;
And I will fit thee with the remedy.
I know we shall have revelling to-night :
I will assume thy part in some disguise,
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio ;
And in her bosom I '11 unclasp my heart,
And take her hearing prisoner with the force
And strong encounter of my amorous tale :
Then, after, to her father will I break ;
And the conclusion is, she shall be thine :
In practice let us put it presently. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. A Room in LEONATO'S House.
Enter , severally , LEONATO and ANTONIO.
Leon. How now, brother! Where is my cousin,
your son? Hath he provided this music?
Ant. He is very busy about it. But,
brother, I can tell you strange news that you
yet dreamed not of.
Leon. Are they good ?
Ant. As the event stamps them ; but they
have a good cover ; they show well outward.
The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a
thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus
much overheard by a man of mine : the prince
discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece
your daughter, and meant to acknowledge it
this night in a dance ; and, if he found her ac-
cordant, he meant to take the present time by
the top, and instantly break with you of it.
Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you
this?
Ant. A good sharp fellow ; I will send for
him, and question him yourself.
Leon. No, no ; we will hold it as a dream,
till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my
daughter withal, that she may be the better
prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be
true. Go you and tell her of it. [Several persons
cross the stage.] Cousins, you know what you
have to do. O, I cry you mercy, friend : you
go with me, and I will use your skill. Good
cousin, have a care this busy time. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. Another Room in LEONATO'S
House.
Enter Don JOHN and CONRADE.
Con. What the good-year, my lord ! why are
you thus out of measure sad ?
D. John. There is no measure in the oc-
casion that breeds it ; therefore the sadness is
without limit.
Con. You should hear reason.
D.John. And when I have heard it, what
blessing bringeth it ? [sufferance.
Con. If not a present remedy, yet a patient
142
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT II.
D. John. I wonder that thou, being as thou
say'st thou art born under Saturn, goest about
to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mis-
chief. 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 to no man's business ; laugh when I am
merry, and claw no man in his humour.
Con. Yea, but you must not make the full
show of this till you may do it without control-
ment. 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.
D. 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 that I am a plain-dealing
villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and en-
franchised with a clog : therefore I have de-
creed not to sing in my cage. If I had my
mouth I would bite ; if I had my liberty I
would do my liking : in the meantime let me
be that I am, and seek not to alter me.
Con. Can you make no use of your discontent ?
D. John. I make all use of it, for I use it only.
Who comes here ? What news, Borachio ?
Enter BORACHIO.
Bora. 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.
D.John. Will it serve for any model to
build mischief on ? What is he for a fool that
betroths himself to unquietness ?
Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right hand.
D. John. Who ! the most exquisite Claudio?
Bora. Even he.
D. John. A proper squire ! And who, and
who ? which way looks he ?
Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and
heir of Leonato.
D. John. A very forward March-chick !
How came you to this ?
Bora. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I
was smoking a musty room, comes me the
prince and O audio hand in hand, in sad con-
ference. 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.
D. John. Come, come, let us thither ; this
may prove food to my displeasure : that young
start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow.
If I can cross him any way, I bless myself every
way. You are both sure, and will assist me ?
Con. To the death, my lord.
D. 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 ?
Bora. We '11 wait upon your lordship.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. A Hall in LEONATO'S House.
Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE,
and others.
Leon. Was not Count John here at supper ?
Ant. I saw him not.
Beat. Plow 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.
Beat. He were an excellent man that were
made just in the mid-way between him and
Benedick : the one is too like an image, and
says nothing ; and the other too like my lady's
eldest son, evermore tattling.
Leon. Then half Signior Benedick's tongue
in Count John's mouth, and half Count John's
melancholy in Signior Benedick's face,
Beat. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle,
and money enough in his purse, such a man
would win any woman in the world, if he
could get her good-will.
Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never
get thee a husband if thou be so shrewd of thy
tongue.
Ant. In faith, she is too curst.
Beat. Too curst is more than curst. I shall
lessen God's sending that way : for it is said,
God sends a curst cow short horns ; but to a
cow too curst he sends none.
Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send
you no horns.
Beat. Just if he send me no husband ; for the
which blessing I am at him upon my knees every
morning and evening. Lord ! I could not en-
dure a husband with a beard on his face : I had
rather lie in the woollen.
Leon. You may light upon a husband that
hath no beard.
Beat. What should I do with him ? dress him
in my apparel, and make him my waiting gentle-
woman ? He that hath a beard is more than a
youth ; and he that hath no beard is less than a
SCENE I.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
143
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.
Leon. Well then, go you into hell ?
Beat. No ; but to the gate ; and there will
the devil meetme, like an old cuckold, with horns
on his head, and say, Get you to heaven, Beatrice;
get you to heaven : here '.r no place for you maids :
so deliver I up my apes and away to Saint Peter
for the heavens ; he shows me where the bache-
lors sit, and there live we as merry as the day
is long.
Ant. Well, niece [to HERO], I trust you will
be ruled by your father.
Beat. Yes, faith; it's my cousin's duty to make
courtesy, and say, Father, as it please you : but
yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome
fellow, or else make another courtesy, and say,
Father, as it please me.
Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day
fitted with a husband.
Beat. Not till God make men of some other
metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman
to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust !
to make an account of her life to a clod of way-
ward marl? No, uncle, I '11 none : Adam's sons
are my brethren ; and, truly, I hold it a sin to
match in my kindred.
Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you :
if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you
know your answer.
Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if
you be not wooed in good time : if the prince be
too important, tell him there is measure in 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.
Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing
shrewdly.
Beat. I have a good eye, uncle ; I can see a
church by daylight.
Leon. The revellers are entering, brother;
make good room.
Enter Don PEDRO, CLAUDJO, BENEDICK, BAL-
THAZAR ; Don JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET,
URSULA, and others, masked.
D. 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.
D. Pedro. With me in your company ?
Hero. I may say so, when I please.
D. Pedro. And when please you to say so ?
Hero. When I like your favour ; for God de-
fend the lute should be like the case 1
D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof ; with-
in the house is Jove.
Hero. Why, then, your visor should be
thatched.
D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love.
[ Takes her aside.
Balth. Well, I would you did like me.
Marg. So would not I, for your own sake ;
for I have many ill qualities.
Balth. Which is one ?
Marg. I say my prayers aloud.
Balth. I love you the better ; the hearers
may cry Amen.
Marg. God match me with a good dancer !
Balth. Amen.
Marg. And God keep him out of my sight
when the dance is done ! Answer, clerk.
Balth. No more words ; the clerk is answered.
Urs. I know you well enough ; you are Sig-
nior Antonio.
Ant. At a word, I am not.
Urs. I know you by the waggling of your head.
Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him.
Urs. You could never do him so ill-well un-
less you were the very man. Here 's his dry hand
up and down : you are he ; you are he.
Ant. At a word, I am not.
Urs. Come, come ; do you think I do not
know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue
hide itself? Go to ; mum ; you are he : graces
will appear, and there 's an end.
Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so ?
Bene. No, you shall pardon me.
Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are ?
Bene. Not now.
Beat. That I was disdainful ! and that I had
my good wit out of the Hundred Merry Tales !
Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so.
Bene. What 'she?
Beat. I am sure you know him well enough.
Bene. Not I, believe me.
Beat. Did he never make you laugh ?
Bene. I pray you, what is he ?
Beat. Why, he is the prince's jester : a very
dull fool ; only his gift is in devising impossible
slanders : none but libertines delight in him ; and
the commendation is not in his wit but in his vil-
lany ; for he both pleaseth 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.
144
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT ii.
Bene. When I know the gentleman I '11 tell
him what you say.
Beat. Do, do : he '11 but break a comparison or
two on me ; which, perad venture, 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 with-
in.] We must follow the leaders.
Bene. In every good thing.
Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave
them at the next turning.
[Dance. Then exeunt all but Don JOHN,
BORACHIO, and CLAUDIO.
D.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. [his bearing.
Bora. And that is Claudio. I know him by
D. fohn. Are not you Signior Benedick ?
Claud. You know me well ; I am he.
D. John. Signior, you are very near my brother
in his Icve : 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.
Claud. How know you he loves her ?
D. John. I heard him swear his affection.
Bora. So did I too ; and he swore he would
marry her to-night.
D. John. Come, let us to the banquet.
[Exeunt Don JOHN and BORACHIO.
Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain so ; the prince woos 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, [Hero !
Which I mistrusted not: farewell, therefore,
Re-enter BENEDICK.
Bene. Count Claudio ?
Claud. Yea, the same.
Bene. Come, will you go with me ?
Claud. Whither?
Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own
business, count. What fashion will you wear
the garland of? About your neck, like an
usurer's chain? or under your arm like a lieu-
tenant's scarf? You must wear it one way, for
the prince hath got your Hero.
Claud. I wish him joy of her.
Bene. Why, that's spoken like an honest
drover; so they sell bullocks. But did you
think the prince would have served you thus ?
Claud. I pray you, leave me.
Bene. Ho ! now you strike like the blind man;
'twas the boy that stole your meat, and you '11
beat the post.
Claud. If it will not be, I '11 leave you. [Exit.
Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl ! Now will he creep
into sedges. But, that my Lady Beatrice
should know me, and not know me ! The prince's
fool ! Ha, it may be I go under that title because
I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself
wrong : I am not so reputed : it is the base, the
bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world
into her person, and so gives me out. Well,
I '11 be revenged as I may.
Re-enter Don PEDRO.
D. Pedro. Now, signior, where 's the count ?
Did you see him ?
Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part
of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy
as a lodge in a warren ; I told him, and I think
I told him true, that your grace had got the
good-will of this young lady ; and I 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.
D. Pedro. To be whipped ! What 's his fault ?
Bene. The flat transgression of a school-boy,
who, being overjoyed with rinding a bird's nest,
shows it his companion, and he steals it.
D. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgres-
sion ? The transgression is in the stealer.
Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had
been made, and the garland too ; for the garland
he might have worn himself ; and the rod he
might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it,
have stolen his bird's nest.
D. Pedro. I will but teach them to sing, and
restore them to the owner.
Bene. If their singing answer your saying,
by my faith, you say honestly.
D. Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel
to you ; the gentleman that danced with her
told her she is much wronged by you.
Bene. 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 impos-
sible 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
SCENE I.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
145
she were endowed with all that Adam had left
him before he transgressed : she would have
made Hercules have turned spit ; yea, and have
cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk
not of her : you shall find her the infernal Ate
in good apparel. I would to God some scholar
would conjure her ; for certainly, while she is
here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a
sanctuary ; and people sin upon purpose, be-
cause they would go thither ; so, indeed, all
disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows her.
D. Pedro. Look, here she comes.
Re-enter CLAUDIO and BEATRICE, LEONATO
and HERO.
Bene. Will your grace command me any ser-
vice to the world's end ? I will go on the
slightest errand now to the antipodes that you
can devise to send me on ; I will fetch you a
toothpicker now from the farthest 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 ?
D. Pedro. None, but to desire your good
company.
Bene. O God, sir, here 's a dish I love not ;
I cannot endure my Lady Tongue. [Exit.
D. Pedro. Come, lady, come ; you have lost
the heart of Signior Benedick.
Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile ;
and I gave him use for it, a double heart for
his single one : marry, once before he won it
of me with false dice, therefore your grace may
well say I have lost it.
D. Pedro. You have put him down, lady,
you have put him down.
Beat. So I would not he should do me, my
lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools.
I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent
me to seek. [fore are you sad ?
D. Pedro. Why, how now, count ! where-
Claud. Not sad, my lord.
D. Pedro. How then ? Sick ?
Clattd. Neither, my lord.
Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor
merry, nor well : but civil, count ; civil as an
orange, and something of that jealous com-
plexion.
D. Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon
to be true ; though I '11 be sworn, if he be so,
his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have
wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won. I
have broke with her father, and his good-will
obtained : name the day of marriage, and God
give thee joy !
Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and
with her my fortunes ; his grace hath made the
match, and all grace say Amen to it !
Beat. Speak, count, 'tis your cue.
Claud. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy:
I were but little happy if I could say how much.
Lady, as you are mine, I am yours : I give
away myself for you, and dote upon the ex-
change.
Beat. Speak, cousin ; or, if you cannot, stop
his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak
neither. [heart.
D. Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry
Beat. Yea, my lord ; I thank it, poor fool,
it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin
tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.
Claud. And so she doth, cousin.
Beat. Good lord, for alliance ! Thus goes
every one to the world but I, and I am sun-
burnt ; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-
ho ! for a husband.
D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
Beat. I would rather have one of your father's
getting. Hath your grace ne'er a brother like
you ? Your father got excellent husbands, if a
maid could come by them.
D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ?
Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have
another for working-days ; your grace is too
costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your
grace, pardon me ; I was born to speak all
mirth and no matter.
D. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and
to be merry best becomes you ; for, out of
question, you were born in a merry hour.
Beat. 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 !
Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I
told you of?
Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your
grace's pardon. [Exit BEATRICE.
D. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited
lady.
Leon. There 's little of the melancholy ele-
ment 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.
D. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of
a husband.
Leon. O, by no means she mocks all her
wooers out of suit. [Benedick.
D. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for
Leon. O Lord, my lord, if they were but a
week married, they would talk themselves mad.
146
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT ii.
D. Pedro. Count Claudio, when mean you to
go to church?
Claud. To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on
crutches till love have all his rites.
Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which
is hence a just seven-night ; and a time too brief
too, to have all things answer my mind.
D. Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so
long a breathing ; but I warrant thee, Caudio,
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.
Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost
me ten nights' watchings.
Clattd. And I, my lord.
D. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero?
Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord,
to help my cousin to a good husband.
D. Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhope-
fullest 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.
i-j'bnij . - ix\ R xu'-v Via/ft narfr iwf
SCENE II. Another Room in LEONATO'S
House.
Enter Don JOHN and BORACHIO.
-
D.John. It is so: the Count Claudio shall
marry the daughter of Leonato.
Bora. Yea, my lord, but I can cross it.
D.John. Any bar, any cross, any impedi-
ment will be medicinal to me; I am sick in
displeasure to him ; and whatsoever comes
athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine.
How canst thou cross this marriage?
Bora. Not honestly, my lord ; but so covertly
that no dishonesty shall appear in me.
D. John. Show me briefly how.
Bora. I think I told your lordship a year
since how much I am in the favour of Margaret,
the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero.
D. John. I remember.
Bora. I can at any unseasonable instant of
the night appoint her to look out at her lady's
chamber-window.
D. John. What life is in that, to be the death
of this marriage?
Bora. The poison of that lies in you to tem-
per. Go you to the prince your brother ; spare
not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour
in marrying the renowned Claudio whose esti-
mation do you mightily hold up to a con-
taminated stale, such a one as Hero.
D. John. What proof shall I make of that?
Bora. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to
vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato.
Look you for any other issue?
D.John. Only to despite them I will en-
deavour anything.
Bora. Go, then ; find me a meet hour to draw
Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone : tell
them that you know that Hero loves me ; intend
a kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio,
as, in love of your brother's honour, who hath
made this match, and his friend's reputation,
who is thus like to be cozened with the sem-
blance 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 Borachio; 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 dis-
loyalty that jealousy shall be called assurance,
and all the preparation overthrown.
D. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it
can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in
the working this, and thy fee is a thousand
ducats.
Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and
my cunning shall not shame me.
D. John. I will presently go learn their day
of marriage. ^Exeunt.
SCENE III. LEONATO'S Garden.
Enter BENEDICK and a Boy.
Bene. Boy,
Boy. Signior.
Bene. In my chamber- window lies a book ;
bring it hither to me in the orchard.
Boy. I am here already, sir.
Bene. I know that; but I would have thee
hence and here again. [Exit Boy.] I do
much wonder that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his
behaviours to love, will| after he hath laughed
SCENE III.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
147
at such shallow follies in others, become the
argument of his own scorn by falling in love.
And such a man is Claudio. I have known
when there was no music with him but the drum
and fife ; and now had he rather hear the tabor
and the pipe : I have known when he would
have walked ten mile afoot to see a good
armour ; and now will he lie ten nights awake
carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was
wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an
honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned
orthographer ; 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 '11 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 : an-
other 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 '11
none ; virtuous, or I '11 never cheapen her ;
fair, or I '11 never look on her ; mild, or come
not near me ; noble, or not I for an angel ; of
good discourse, an excellent musician, and her
hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha!
the prince and Monsieur Love ! I will hide
me in the arbour. [ Withdraws.
Enter Don PEDRO, LEONATO, and CLAUDIO.
D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ?
Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the
evening is,
As hushed on purpose to grace harmony !
D. Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid
himself? [ended,
Clattd. O, very well, my lord : the music
We '11 fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.
Enter BALTHAZAR, with Music.
D. Pedro. Come, Balthazar,. we '11 hear that
song again. [voice
Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a
To slander music any more than once.
D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency
To put a strange face on his own perfection :
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will
sing:
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy ; yet he woos ;
Yet will he swear he loves.
D. Pedro. Nay, pray thee, come :
Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.
Baltk. Note this before my notes,
There 's not a note of mine that 's worth the
noting. [he speaks ;
D. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that
Note notes, forsooth, and noting ! [Music.
Bene. 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.
BALTHAZAR sings.
Sigh no mure, ladies, sigh no more ;
Men were deceivers ever ;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never ;
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny ;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into. Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy ;
The fraud of men was ever so
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, &c.
D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song.
Balth. And an ill singer, my lord.
Claud. Ha, no ; no, faith ; thou singesfwell
enough for a shift.
Bene. [Aside.} 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.
D. Pedro. Yea, marry [to CLAUDIO]. Dost
thou hear, Balthazar ! I pray thee get us some
excellent music ; for to-morrcw night we would
have it at the lady Hero's chamber-window.
Balth. The best I can, my lord.
D. Pedro. Do so: farewell. [Exeunt BAL-
THAZAR and MusL.~\ Come hither, Leonato.
What was it you told me ot to-day, that your
niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Bene-
dick ?
Claud. O ay : stalk on, stalk on : the fowl
sits [aside to PEDRO]. I did never think that
lady would have loved any man.
Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful
that she should so dote on Signior Benedick,
whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed
ever to abhor.
Bene. Is 't possible ? Sits the wind in that
corner ? [Aside.
Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell
14*
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT ii.
what to think of it ; but that she loves him with
an enraged affection, it is past the infinite of
thought.
D. Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit.
Clatid. 'Faith, like enough.
Leon. O God ! counterfeit ! There was
never counterfeit of passion came so near the
life of passion as she discovers it.
D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion
shows she ?
Claud. Bait the hook well ; this fish will
bite. [Aside.
Leon. What effects, my lord ! She will sit
you, You heard my daughter tell you how.
Claud. She did, indeed.
D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You
amaze me : I would have thought her spirit had
been invincible against all assaults of affection.
Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord ;
especially against Benedick.
Bene. \_Aside.~} I should think this a gull, but
that the white-bearded fellow speaks it : knav-
ery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence.
Claud. He hath ta'en the infection ; hold it
up. [Aside.
D. Pedro. Hath she made her affection
known to Benedick.
Leon. No ; and swears she never will : that 's
her torment.
Claud. 'Tis true, indeed ; so your daughter
says : Shall /, says she, that have so oft en-
countered him with scorn, write to him that I
love him?
Leon. This says she now, when she is begin-
ning to write to him : for she '11 be up twenty
times a night : and there will she sit in her
smock till she have writ a sheet of paper : my
daughter tells us all.
Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I
remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.
Leon. O ! When she had writ it, and was
reading it over, she found Benedick and Beat-
rice between the sheet ?
Claud. That.
Leon. 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. / measure him, says she, by
my own spirit ; for I should jlout him if he
writ to me ; yea^ though I love him, I should.
Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls,
weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair,
prays, curses; O sweet Benedick! God give
me patience !
Leon. She doth indeed ; my daughter says
so ; and the ecstasy hath so much overborne
her that my daughter is sometime afraid she
will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is
very true.
D. Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew
of it by some other, if she will not discover it.
Claud. To what end ? He would but make
a sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse.
D. Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to
hang him. She 's an excellent sweet lady ;
and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.
Claud. And she is exceeding wise.
D. Pedro. In everything but in loving Bene-
dick.
Leon. O my lord, wisdom and blood com-
bating 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.
D. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this
dotage on me : I would have daffed all other
respects and made her half myself. I pray you,
tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.
Leon. Were it good, think you ?
Claud. Hero thinks surely she will die ; for
she says she will die if he love her not ; and
she will die ere she makes her love known : and
she will die if he woo her, rather than she will
'bate one breath of her accustomed crossness.
D. Pedro. She doth well ; if she should
make tender of her love, 'tis very possible he '11
scorn it : for the man, as you know all, hath a
contemptible spirit.
Claud. He is a very proper man.
D. Pedro. He hath, indeed, a good outward
happiness.
Claud. 'Fore God, and in my mind, very wise.
D. Pedro. He doth, indeed, show some
sparks that are like wit.
Leon. And I take him to be valiant.
D. 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 dis-
cretion, or undertakes them with a most
Christian-like fear.
Leon. If he do fear God, he must necessarily
keep peace ; if he break the peace, he ought to
enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.
D. 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 see Benedick,
and tell him of her love ?
Claud. Never tell him, my lord ; let her
wear it out with good counsel.
Leon. Nay, that 's impossible ; she may
wear her heart out first.
D. Pedro. Well, we '11 hear further of it by
your daughter : let it cool the while. I love
SCENE III.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
149
Benedick well : and I could wish he would
modestly examine himself, to see how much he
is unworthy to have so good a lady.
Leon. My lord, will you walk ? dinner is
ready.
Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I
will never trust my expectation. [Aside.
D. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread
for her : and that must your daughter and her
gentlewoman carry. The sport will be when
they hold one an opinion of another's dotage,
and no such matter ; that 's the scene that I
would see, which will be merely a dumb show.
Let us send her to call him in to dinner. [Aside.
[Exeunt Don PEDRO, CLAUDIO, am/LEONATO.
BENEDICK advances from the arbour.
Bene. This can be no trick. The conference
was sadly borne. They have the truth of this
from Hero. They seem to pity the lady ; it
seems her affections have their full bent. Love
me ! why, it must be requited. I hear how I
am 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 addi-
tion 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 rem-
nants 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.
Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you
come in to dinner. [pains.
Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your
Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks
than you take pains to thank me ; if it had
been painful I would not have come. [sage ?
Bene. You take pleasure, then, in the mes-
Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take
upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal.
You have no stomach, signior ; faie you well.
[Exit.
Bene. Ha ! Against my will I am sent to bid
you come to dinner there 's a double meaning in
that. / took no more pains for those thanks
than you took pains to thank me that 's as
much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is
as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her.
I am a villain ; if I do not love her, I am a
Jew : I will go get her picture. [Exit.
ACT. III.
SCENE L LEONATO'S Garden.
Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA.
Hero. Good Margaret, run thee into the
parlour ;
There shall 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 propose. This is thy office,
Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone.
Marg. I '11 make her come, I warrant you,
presently. [Exit.
Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatricedoth 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. Now begin ;
Enter BEATRICE, behind.
For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
Urs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,
And greedily devour the treacherous bait :
So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now
Is couched in the woodbine coverture :
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose
nothing
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.
[ They advance to the bower.
ISO
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT III.
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ;
I know her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.
Urs. But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ?
Hero. So says the prince and my new-trothed
lord. [madam ?
Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it,
Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her
of it ;
But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection,
And never to let Beatrice know of it. [man
Urs. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentle-
Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? [serve
Hero. O God of love ! I know he doth de-
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,
Misprizing what they look on ; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak : she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
Urs. Sure, I think so ;
And therefore, certainly, it were not good
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
Hero. Why, you speak truth : I never yet
saw man, [featured,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely
But she would spell him backward : if fair-faced,
She 'd swear the gentleman should be her sister ;
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic,
Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance ill-headed ;
If low, an agate very vilely cut :
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out ;
And never gives to truth and virtue that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not com-
mendable, [fashions
Hero. No : not to be so odd and from all
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable :
But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak,
She 'd mock me into air ; O, she would laugh
me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly :
It were a better death than die with mocks ;
Which is as bad as die with tickling. [say.
Urs. Yet tell her of it ; hear what she will
Hero. No ; rather I will go to Benedick
And counsel him to fight against his passion :
And, truly , I '11 devise some honest slanders
To stain my cousin with. One doth not know
How much an ill word may empoison liking.
Urs. O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without true judgment,
Having so swift and excellent a wit
As she is priz'd to have, as to refuse
So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
Hero. He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.
Urs. I pray you be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy ; Signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good
name. [it.
Urs. His excellence did earn it ere he had
When are you married, madam ? [go in ;
Hero. Why, every day ; to-morrow. Come,
I '11 show thee some attires, and have thy counsel
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.
Urs. [Aside.} She's lim'd, I warrant you;
we have caught her, madam.
Hero. If it prove so, then loving goes by
haps :
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
[Exeunt HERO and URSULA.
BEATRICE advances.
Beat. What fire is in mine ears ? Can this
be true ? [much ?
Stand I condemn'd for pride, and scorn so
Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu !
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And, Benedick, love on ; I will requite thee ;
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand :
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band :
For others say thou dost deserve, and I
Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit.
SCENE II. A Room in LEONATO'S House.
Enter Don PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, aitd
LEONATO.
D. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be
consummate, and then I go toward Arragon.
Claud. I'll bring you thither, my lord, if
you '11 vouchsafe me.
D. 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 com-
pany ; 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
SCENE II.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper ;
for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.
Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been.
Lewi. So say I ; methinks you are sadder.
Claud. I hope he be in love.
D.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.
Bene. I hav the toothache.
D. Pedro. Draw it.
Bene. Hang it !
Claud. You must hang it first and draw it
afterwards.
D. Pedro. What, sigh for the toothache !
Leon. Where is but a humour or a worm I
Bene. Well, every one can master a grief but
he that has it.
Claud. Yet, say I, he is in love.
D. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy
in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to
strange disguises ; as, to be a Dutchman to-day,
a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the shape of two
countries at once, as a German from the waist
downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the
hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a
fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he
is no fool for fancy,- as you would have it appear
he is.
Claud. If he be not in love with some woman
there is no believing old signs : he brashes his
hat o' mornings : what should that bode ?
D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the
barber's?
Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been
seen with him ; and the old ornament of his
cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls.
Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did,
by the loss of a beard.
D. Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet.
Can you smell him out by that ?
Claud. That 's as much as to say the sweet
youth 's in love.
D. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his
melancholy. [face ?
Claud. And when was he wont to wash his
D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the
which I hear what they say of him.
Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit ; which is
now crept into a lute-string, and now governed
by stops.
D. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for
him : conclude, conclude, he is in love.
Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him.
D. Pedro. That would I know too ; I war-
rant one that knows him not.
Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions ; and, in
despite of all, dies for him.
D. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face
upwards.
Bene. Yet is this no charm for the toothache.
Old signior, walk aside with me ; I have
studied eight or nine wise words to speak to
you, which these hobby-horses must not hear.
{Exeunt BENEDICK and LEONATO.
D. Pedro. For my life, to break with him
about Beatrice.
Claud. 'Tis even so : Hero and Margaret
have by this played their parts with Beatrice ;
and then the two bears will not bite one another
when they meet.
'
Enter Don JOHN.
D. John. My lord and brother, God save you.
D. Pedro. Good den, brother.
D. John. If your leisure served, I would
speak with you.
D. Pedro. In private ?
D. John. If it please you ; yet Count
Claudio may hear ; for what I would speak of
concerns him.
D. Pedro. What 's the matter ?
D. John. Means your lordship to be married
to-morrow. ? [ To CLAUDIO.
D. Pedro. You know he does.
D. John. I know not that, when he knows
what I know.
Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray
you discover it.
D. 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 !
D. Pedro. Why, what 's the matter?
D. John. I came hither to tell you : and,
circumstances shortened, for she hath been too
long a-talking of, the lady is disloyal.
Claud. Who? Hero?
D. John. Even she ; Leonato's Hero, your
Hero, every man's Hero.
Claud. Disloyal?
D. 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.
Claud. May this be so?
D. Pedro. I will not think it.
D. John. If you dare not trust that you see,
152
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT III.
confess not that you know : if you will follow
me I will show you enough ; and when you
have seen more, and heard more, proceed
accordingly.
Claud. If I see anything to-night why I
should not marry her to-morrow, in the con-
gregation where I should wed, there will I
shame her.
D. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to ob-
tain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her.
D. John. I will disparage her no farther till
you are my witnesses : bear it coldly but till
midnight, and let the issue show itself.
D. Pedro. O day untowardly turned !
Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting !
D. John. O plague right well prevented !
So will you say when you have seen the sequel.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. A Street.
Enter DOGBERRY and VERGES, with the
Watch.
Dogb. Are you good men and true ?
Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they
should suffer salvation, body and soul.
Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too good
for them, if they should have any allegiance in
them, being chosen for the prince's watch.
Verg. Well, give them their charge, neigh-
bour Dogberry.
Dogb. First, who think you the most desert-
less man to be constable ?
1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George
Seacoal ; for they can write and read.
Dogb. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal : God
hath blessed you with a good name : to be a
well-favoured man is the gift of fortune : but to
write and read comes by nature.
2 Watch. Both which, master constable,
Dogb. 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.
2 Watch. How if 'a will not stand ?
Dogb. Why, then, take no note of him, but
let him go ; and presently call the rest of the
watch together, and thank God you are rid of
a knave.
Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden,
he is none of the prince's subjects.
Dogb. 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 talk is most tolerable and not to
be endured.
2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk ;
we know what belongs to a watch.
Dogb. 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 them that are
drunk get them to bed.
2 Watch. How if they will not ?
Dogb. Why, then, let them alone till they
are sober ; if they make you not then the
better answer, you may say they are not the
men you took them for.
2 Watch. Well, sir.
Dogb. 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.
2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief,
shall we not lay hands on him ?
Dogb. 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.
Verg. You have been always called a merci-
ful man, partner.
Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my
will ; much more a man who hath any honesty
in him.
Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night
you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.
2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and
will not hear us ?
Dogb. Why, then, depart in peace, and let
the child wake her with crying : for the ewe
that will not hear her lamb when it baas will
never answer a calf when he bleats.
Verg. 'Tis very true.
Dogb. This is the end of the charge. You,
constable, are to present the prince's own per-
son ; if you meet the prince in the night you
may stay him.
Verg. Nay, by J r lady, that I think 'a cannot.
Dogb. Five shillings to one on 't, with any
man that knows the statues, he may stay him :
marry, not without the prince be willing : for,
indeed, the watch ought to offend no man ; and
it is an offence to stay a man against his will.
Verg. By 'r lady, I think it be so.
Dogb. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good
SCENE 111.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
153
night : an there be any matter of weight
chances, call up me : keep your fellows'
counsels and your own, and good night.
Come, neighbour.
2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our
charge : let us go sit here upon the church-
bench till two, and then all to bed.
Dogb. 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 vigi-
lant, I beseech you.
[Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES.
Enter BORACHIO and CONRADE.
Bora. What, Conrade !
Watch. Peace, stir not. [Aside.
Bora. Conrade, I say !
Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow.
Bora. Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought
there would a scab follow.
Con. I will owe thee an answer for that ; and
now forward with thy tale.
Bora. Stand thee close then under this pent-
house, for it drizzles rain ; and I will, like a
true drunkard, utter all to thee.
Watch. [Aside.] Some treason, masters;
yet stand close.
Bora. Therefore know, I have earned of Don
John a thousand ducats. [so dear ?
Con. Is it possible that any villany should be
Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were
possible any villany should be so rich; for when
rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones
may make what price they will.
Con. I wonder at it.
Bora. That shows thou ait unconfirmed.
Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or
a hat, or a cloak is nothing to a man.
Con. Yes, it is apparel.
Bora. I mean the fashion.
Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
Bora. Tush ! I may as well say the fool 's
the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed
thief this fashion is ?
Watch. 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.
Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody ?
Con. No ; 'twas the vane on the house.
Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed
thief this fashion is ? how giddily he turns about
all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-
and-thirty ? sometimes fashioning them like
Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting; some-
times like god Bel's priests in the old church
window ; sometimes like the shaven Hercules
in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his
cod-piece seems as massy as his club ?
Con. All this I see ; and see that the fashion
wears out more apparel than the man. But art
not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that
thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me
of the fashion ?
Bora. Not so neither ; but know that I have
to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's
gentlewoman, by the name of Hero ; she leans
me out at her mistress's 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 en-
counter.
Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero?
Bora. Two of them did, the prince and
Claudio ; but the devil my master knew she
was Margaret ; and partly by his oaths, which
first 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 en-
raged ; 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 over-night, and send her
home again without a husband.
1 Watch. We charge you in the prince's
name, stand.
2 Watch. Call up the right master constable:
we have here recovered the most dangerous
piece of lechery that ever was known in the
commonwealth.
1 Watch. And one Deformed is one of them;
I know him, 'a wears a lock.
Con. Masters, masters !
2 Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed
forth, I warrant you.
Con. Masters,
I Watch. Never speak ; we charge you, let
us obey you to go with us.
Bora. We are like to prove a goodly commo-
dity, being taken up of these men's bills.
Con. A commodity in question, I warrant
you. Come, we '11 obey you. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV. A Room in LEONATO'S House.
Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA.
Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beat-
rice, and desire her to rise.
Urs. I will, lady.
Hero. And bid her come hither. ; oV
UTS. Well. {Exit URSULA,
154
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT HI.
Marg. Troth, I think your other rabato were
better. [this.
Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I '11 wear
Marg. By my troth, it 's not so good ; and I
warrant your cousin will say so.
Hero. My cousin 's a fool, and thou art an-
other ; I '11 wear none but this.
Marg. I like the new tire within excellently,
if the hair were a thought browner : and your
gown 's a most rare fashion, i' faith. I saw the
Duchess of Milan's gown that they praise so.
Hero. O, that exceeds, they say.
Marg. By my troth, it 's but a night-gown in
respect of yours. Cloth of gold, and cuts, and
laced with silver; set with pearls, down-sleeves,
side-sleeves, and skirts round, underborne with
a blueish tinsel : but for a fine, quaint, graceful,
and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on 't.
Hero. God give me joy to wear it, for my
heart is exceeding heavy !
Marg. 'Twill be heavier soon, by the weight
of a man.
Hero. Fie upon thee ! art not ashamed ?
Marg. Of what, lady ? of speaking honour-
ably ? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar?
Is not your lord honourable without marriage?
I think, you would have me say, saving your
reverence, a husband: an bad thinking do not
wrest true speaking I '11 offend nobody. Is
there any harm in the heavier for a husband?
None, I think, an it be the right husband and
the right wife ; otherwise 'tis light, and not
heavy. Ask my Lady Beatrice else, here she
comes.
Enter BEATRICE.
Hero. Good morrow, coz.
Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Hero. Why, how now ! do you speak in the
sick tune ?
Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks.
Marg. Clap 's into Light a' love ; that goes
without a burden : do you sing it and I '11 dance
it.
Beat. Yea, Light o' love, with your heels !
then if your husband have stables enough, you Ml
see he shall lack no barns.
Marg. O illegitimate construction ! 1 scorn
that with my heels.
Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin ; 'tis
time you were ready. By my troth, I am ex-
ceeding ill : hey-ho !
Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband ?
Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.
Marg. Well, an you be not turned Turk,
there 's no more sailing by the star.
Beat. What means the fool, trow ?
Marg. Nothing I ; but God send every one
their heart's desire !
Hero. These gloves the count sent me ; they
are an excellent perfume.
Beat. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.
Marg. A maid and stuffed ! there 's goodly
catching of cold.
Beat. O, God help me ! God help me ! how
long have you professed apprehension ?
Marg. Ever since you left it : doth not my
wit become me rarely ?
Beat. It is not seen enough; you should wear
it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.
Marg. Get you some of this distilled Carduus
Benedictus and lay it to your heart ; it is the
only thing for a qualm.
Hero. There thou prick'st her with a thistle.
Beat. Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have
some moral in this Benedictus.
Marg. Moral ? no, by my troth, I have no
moral meaning ; I meant plain holy-thistle.
You may think, perchance, that I think you are
in love : nay, by 'r lady, I am not such a fool
to think what I list ; nor I list not to think what
I can ; nor, indeed, I cannot think, if I would
think my heart out of thinking, that you are in
love, or that you will be in love, or that you
can be in love : yet Benedick was such another,
and now is he become a man : he swore he
would never marry ; and yet now, in despite of
his heart, he eats his meat without grudging :
and how you may be converted I know not ;
but methinks you look with your eyes as other
women do. [keeps?
Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue
Marg. Not a false gallop.
Re-enter URSULA.
Urs. Madam, withdraw; the prince, the
count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all
the gallants of the town are come to fetch you
to church.
Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good
Meg, good Ursula. \_Exeunt.
SCENE V. Another Room in LEONATO'S
House.
Enter LEONATO, with DOGBERRY and VERGES.
Leon. What would you with me, honest
neighbour ?
Dogb. Marry, sir, I would have some confi-
dence with you that decerns you nearly.
Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for you see 'tis a
busy time with me.
Dogb. Marty, this it is, sir.
Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir.
SCENE V.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
Leon. What is it, my good friends ?
Dogb. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little
off the matter : an old man, sir, and his wits
are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire
they were ; but, in faith, honest as the skin
between his brows.
Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as
any man living that is an old man and no
honester than J.
Dogb. Comparisons are odorous : palabras,
neighbour Verges.
Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious.
Dogb. It pleases your worship to say so, but
we are the poor duke's officers : but, truly, for
mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I
could find in my heart to bestow it all of year
worship.
Leon. All thy tediousness on me ! ha !
Dogb. Yea, and 'twere a thousand times more
than 'tis : for I hear as good exclamation on
your worship as of any man in the city ; and
though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear
it.
Verg. And so am I. [say.
Leon. I would fain know what you have to
Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, except-
ing your worship's presence, have ta'en a couple
of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.
Dogb. A good old man, sir ; he will be talk-
ing ; as they say, When the age is in the wit is
out ; God help us ! if 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 ! [of you.
Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short
Dogb. Gifts that God gives.
Leon. I must leave you.
Dogb. One word, sir : our watch, sir, have
indeed comprehended two auspicious persons,
and we would have them this morning examined
before your worship.
Leon. Take their examination yourself, and
bring it me ; I am now in great haste, as it may
appear unto you.
Dogb. It shall be suffigance. [well.
Leon. Drink some wine ere you go: fare you
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your
daughter to her husband.
Leon. I will wait upon them ; I am ready.
[Exeunt LEON, and Messenger.
Dogb. Go, good partner, go, get you to
Francis Seacoal ; bid him bring his pen and
inkhorn to the gaol : we are now to examina-
tion these men.
Verg. And we must do it wisely.
Dogb. We will spare for no wit, I warrant
you; here's that [touching his forehead] shall
drive some of them to a non com . only get the
learned writer to set down our excommunication,
and meet me at the gaol. [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. The inside of a Chunk.
Enter Don PEDRO, Don JOHN, LEONATO,
FRIAR, CLAUDIO. BENEDICK. HERO, and
BEATRICE, &-'.
Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief ; only
to the plain form of marriage, and you shall re-
count their particular duties afterwards.
Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry
this lady ?
Claud. No. [to marry her.
Leon. To be married to her, friar ; you come
Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married
to this count?
Hero. I do.
Friar. If either of you know any inward im-
pediment why you should not be conjoined J
charge you, on your souls, to utter it.
Claud. Know you any, Hero ?
Hero. None, my lord.
Friar Know you any, count ?
Leon. I dare make his answer, none.
Claud. O, what men dare do ! what men
may do ! what men daily do ! not knowing
what they do !
Bene. How now ! Interjections ? Why ;
then, some be of laughing, as, ha ! ha ! he 5
Claud. Stand thee by, friar : Father, by
your leave ;
Will you with free and unconstrained scui
Give me this maid, your daughter ?
Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me.
Claud. And what have I to give you back,
whose worth
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift ?
D. Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her
again. [thankfulness.
Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble
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 1
O, what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal !
Comes not that blood as modest evidence
156
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT iv.
To witness simple virtue? Would you notswear,
All you that see her, that she were a maid,
By these exterior shows ? But she is none :
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed :
Her blush is guiltiness; not modesty.
Leon. What do you mean, my lord ?
Claud. Not to be married,
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.
Leon. Dear, my lord, if you, in your own
proof,
Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity,
Claud. I know what you would say : if I
have known her,
You '11 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 f
Claud. Out on thy 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. [so wide ?
Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak
Claud. Sweet prince, why speak not you ?
D. Pedro. What should I speak ?
I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.
Leon. Are these things spoken ? or do I but
dream ?
D.John. Sir, they are spoken, and these
things are true.
Bene. This looks not like a nuptial.
Hero. True ! O God !
Claud. Leonato, stand I here ? [brother ?
Is this the prince ? Is this the prince's
Is this face Hero's ? Are our eyes our own ?
Leon. All this is so ; but what of this, my
lord ? [your daughter ;
Claud. Let me but move one question to
And, by that fatherly and kindly power
That you have in her, bid her answer truly.
Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my
child.
Hero. O God defend me ! how am I beset !
What kind of catechising call you this ?
Claud. To make you answer truly to your
name. [name
Hero. Is it not Hero ? Who can blot that
With any just reproach ?
Claud. Marry, that can Hero ;
Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.
What man was he talk'd with you yesternight
Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one ?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my
lord. [Leonato,
D. Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden.
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.
D. 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. Tnus, pretty
lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.
Claud. O Hero ! what a Hero hadst thou
been
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart !
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair ! fare-
well,
Thou pure impiety and impious purity !
For thee I '11 lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.
Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point
for me ? [HERO swoons.
Beat. Why, how now, cousin ? wherefore
sink you down ?
D. John. Come, let us go : these things.
come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.
[Exeunt D. PEDRO, D. JOHN, and CLAUD.
Bene. How doth the lady ?
Beat. Dead, I think ; help, uncle ;
Hero ! why, Hero ! Uncle ! Signior Bene-
dick ! friar !
Leon. O fate, take not away thy heavy hand !
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wish'd for.
Beat. How now, cousin Hero ?
Friar. Have comfort, lady.
Leon. Dost thou look up ?
Friar. Yea ; wherefore should she not ?
Leon. Wherefore ! Why, doth not every
earthly thing
Cry shame upon her ? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood ?
Do not live, Hero ; do not ope thine eyes :
For did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy
shames,
SCENE I.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
157
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
Strike at thy life. Griev'd I I had but one ?
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame ?
O, one too much by thee ! Why had I one ?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes ?
Why had I not, with charitable hand,
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates ;
Who, smirched thus and mir'd with infamy,
I might have said, No part of it is mine ;
This shame derives itself from unknown loins ?
But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd,
And mine that I was proud on ; mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her ; why, she O, she is fallen
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little, which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh !
Bene. Sir, sir, be patient :
For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder
I know not what to say.
Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied !
Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last
night ? [night
Beat. No, truly not : although, until last
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.
Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd ! O, that is
stronger made
Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron !
Would the two princes lie ? and Claudio lie,
Who lov'd her so that, speaking of her foulness,
Wash'd it with tears ? Hence from her ! let
her die.
Friar. Hear me a little ;
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady : I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face ; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes ;
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool j
Trust not my reading, nor my observation,
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.
Leon. Friar, it cannot be :
Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
Is that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury ; she not denies it :
Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness ?
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are
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 convers'd
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintained the change of words with any
creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death !
Friar. There is some strange misprision in
the princes. [honour ;
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practice of it lives in John the bastard,
W'hose spirits toil in frame of villanies.
Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth
of her, [honour,
These hands shall tear her ; if they wrong her
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awak'd in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.
Friar. Pause awhile,
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead ;
Let her awhile be secretly kept in,
And publish it that she is dead indeed :
Maintain a mourning ostentation,
And on your family's old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.
Leon. What shall become of this? What
will this do ? [behalf
Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her
Change slander to remorse ; that is some good ;
But not for that dream I on this strange course,
But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,
Upon the instant that she was accus'd,
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd
Of every hearer : for it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value ; then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio :
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination ;
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit
158
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT iv.
More moving delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she liv'd indeed : then shall he
mourn,
If ever love had interest in his liver,
And wish he had not so accused her ;
No, though he thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be levell'd false,
The supposition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy :
And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her,
As best befits her wounded reputation,
In some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise
you ;
And though you know my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this
As secretly and justly as your soul
Should with your body.
Leon. Being that I flow in grief
The smallest twine may lead me.
Friar. 'Tis well consented ; presently away ;
For to strange sores strangely they strain the
cure.
Come, lady, die to live : this wedding-day
Perhaps is but prolonged ; have patience, and
endure.
[Exeunt FRIAR, HERO, and LEON.
Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this
while ?
Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
Bene. I will not desire that.
Beat. You have no reason ; I do it freely.
Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin
is wrong'd.
Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve
of me that would right her !
Bene. Is there any way to show such friend-
ship?
Beat. A very even way, but no such friend.
Bene. May a man do it ?
Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours.
Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well
as you. Is not that strange ?
Beat. As strange as the thing I know not.
It were as possible for me to say I loved noth-
ing so well as you : but believe me not ; and
yet I lie not ; I confess nothing, nor I deny
nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.
Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
Beat. Do not swear by it and eat it.
Bene. I will swear by it that you love me ;
and I will make him eat it that says I love not
you.
Beat. Will you not eat your word ? I j
Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to
it : I protest I love thee.
Beat. Why, then, God forgive me !
Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice ?
Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour :
I was about to protest I loved you.
Bene. And do it with all thy heart ?
Beat. I love you with so much of my heart
that none is left to protest.
Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee.
Beat. Kill Claudio.
Bene. Ha ! not for the wide world.
Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell.
Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
Beat. I am gone though I am here ; there
is no love in you : nay, I pray you, let me go.
Bene. Beatrice,
Beat. In faith, I will go.
Bene. We '11 be friends first.
Beat. You dare easier be friends with me
than fight with mine enemy.
Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ?
Beat. 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 !
Bene. Hear me, Beatrice ;
Beat. Talk with a man out at a window ! a
proper saying !
Bene. Nay but, Beatrice ;
Beat. Sweet Hero ! she is wronged, she is
slandered, she is undone.
Bene. Beat
Beat. Princes and counties ! Surely, a
princely testimony, a goodly count. -confect ; 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. [I love thee.
Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand,
Beat. Use 'it for my love some other way
than swearing by it.
Bene. Think you in your soul the Count
Claudio hath wronged Hero ? [soul.
Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a
SCENE II.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
159
Bene. Enough, I am engaged ; I will chal-
lenge him ; I will kiss your hand and so leave
you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a
dear account. As you hear of me, so think of
me. Go, comfort your cousin ; I must say she
is dead ; and so, farewell. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. A Prison.
Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and SEXTON, in
gowns ; and the Watch, with CONRADE and
BORACHIO.
Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ?
Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the
sexton !
Sexton. Which be the malefactors ?
Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner r
Verg. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the ex-
hibition to examine.
Sexton. But which are the offenders that are
to be examined ? let them come before master
constable.
Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me.
What is your name, friend ?
Bora. Borachio.
Dogb. Pray write down Borachio.
Yours, sirrah? [Conrade.
Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is
Dogb. Write down master gentleman Con-
rade. Masters, do you serve God ?
Con. \**T -L.
Bora. j Yea, sir, we hope.
Dogb. Write down that they hope they
serve God : and write God first ; for God de-
fend but God should go before such villains !
Masters, it is proved already that you are little
better than false knaves ; and it will go near to
be thought so shortly. How answer you for
yourselves ?
Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none.
Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure
you ; but I will go about with him. Come you
hither, sirrah : a word in your ear, sir ; I say
to you, it is thought you are false knaves.
Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none.
Dogb. 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.
Dogb. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way.
Let the Watch come forth. Masters, I charge
you in the prince's name, accuse these men.
I Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John,
the prince's brother, was a villain.
Dogb. Write down Prince John a villain.
Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's
brother villain.
Bora. Master constable,
Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not
like thy look, I promise thee.
Sexton. What heard you him say else ?
2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a
thousand ducats off Don John for accusing the
Lady Hero wrongfully.
Dogb. Flat burglary as ever was committed.
Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is.
Sexton. What else, fellow?
1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did
mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before
the whole assembly, and not marry her.
Dogb. O villain ! thou wilt be condemned
into everlasting redemption for this.
Sexton. What else ?
2 Watch. This is all.
Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you
can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly
stolen away; Hero was in this manner accused,
in this 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 examina-
tion. [Exit.
Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned.
Verg. Let them be in band.
Con. Off, coxcomb !
Dogb. God 's my life ! where 's the sexton ?
let him write down the prince's officer, cox-
comb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty
varlet !
Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass.
Dogb. 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, thcu 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 r go to ;
and a fellow that hath had losses ; and one
that hath two gowns, and everything handsome
about him. Bring him away. O that I had
been writ down an ass ! [Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I. Before LEONATO'S House.
Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO.
Ant. If you go on thus you will kill yourself ;
i6o
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT V.
And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief
Against yourself.
Leon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve : give not me counsel ;
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.
Bring me a father that so lov'd his child,
Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,
And bid him speak of patience ; [mine,
Measure his woe the length and breadth of
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,
Cry sorrow, wag ! and hem when he should
groan, [drunk
Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune
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 [sel :
The like himself : therefore, give me no coun-
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
Ant. Therein do men from children nothing
differ. [blood ;
Leon. I pray thee, peace ; I will be flesh and
For there was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods,
And make a pish at chance and sufferance.
Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon your-
self;
Make those that do offend you suffer too.
Leon. There thou speak'st reason : nay, I
will do so.
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied ;
And that shall Claudio know ; so shall the
prince,
And all of them that thus dishonour her.
Ant. Here comes the prince and Claudio
hastily.
Enter Don PEDRO and CLAUDIO.
D. Pedro. Good den, good den.
Claud. Good day to both of you.
Leon. Hear you, my lords,
Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato.
Leon. Some haste, my lord ! well, fare you
well, my lord :
Are you so hasty now ? well, all is one.
D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good
old man. [ling,
Ant. If he could right himself with quarrel-
Some of us would lie low.
Claud. Who wrongs him ?
Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me : thou dis-
sembler, thou :
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword
I fear thee not.
Claud. Marry, beshrew my hand
If it should give your age such cause of fear :
In faith, my hand meant nothing to rny swoid.
Leon. Tush, tush, man; never fleer and jest
at me;
I speak not like a dotard nor a fool ;
As, under privilege of age, to brag [do
What I have done being young, or what would
Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head.
Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and
me
That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by,
And with gray 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,
! in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villany.
Claud. My villany !
Leon. Thine, Claudio ; thine, I say.
D. Pedro. You say not right, old man.
Leon. My lord, my lord,
1 '11 prove it on his body if he dare,
Despite his nice fence and his active practice,
His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.
Claud. Away ! I will not have to do with
you.
Leon. Canst thou so daff me ? Thou hast
kill'd my child ;
If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
Ant. 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, boy, follow me:
Sir boy, I '11 whip you from your foining fence;
Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.
Leon. Brother, [my niece ;
Ant. Content yourself. God knows I lov'd
And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains,
That dare as well answer a man, indeed,
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue :
Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops !
Leon* Brother Antony,
SCENE I.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
161
Ant. Hold you content. What, man ! I
know them, yea, [scruple,
And what they weigh, even to the utmost
Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring boys,
That he, and cog, and flout, deprave and slander,
Go anticly, and show outward hideousness,
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,
How they might hurt their enemies, if they
durst ;
And this is all.
Leon. But, brother Antony,
Ant. Come, 'tis no matter ;
Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.
D. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake
your patience.
My heart is sorry for your daughter's death ;
But, on my honour, she was charg'd with nothing
But what was true, and very full of proof,
Leon. My lord, my lord,
D. Pedro. I will not hear you.
Leon. No ?
Come, brother, away. I will be heard ;
Ant. And shall,
Or some of us will smart for it.
{Exeunt LEON, and ANT.
D. Pedro. See, see ; here comes the man we
went to seek.
Enter BENEDICK.
Claud. Now, signior ! what news ?
Bene. Good day, my lord.
D.Pedro. Welcome, signior: you are almost
come to part almost a fray.
Claud. We had like to have had our two noses
snapped off with two old men without teeth.
D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What
think'st thou ? Had we fought, I doubt we
should have been too young for them.
Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true
valour. I came to seek you both.
Claud. We have been up and down to seek
thee ; for we are high proof melancholy, and
would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use
thy wit ?
Bene. It is in my scabbard : shall I draw it ?
D. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy
side?
Claud. Never any did so, though very many
have been beside their wit. I will bid thee
draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure
us.
D. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks
pale. Art thou sick or angry ?
Claud. What! courage, man ! What though
care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in
thee to kill care.
Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career,
an you charge it against me. I pray you, choose
another subject.
Claud. Nay, then, give him another staff;
this last was broke cross.
D. Pedro. By this light, he changes more
and more ; I think he be angry indeed.
Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his
girdle.
Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear ?
Claud. God bless me from a challenge 1
Bene. 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.
Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have
good cheer.
D. Pedro. What, a feast ? a feast ?
Claud. T 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 ?
Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well ; it goes
easily.
D. Pedro. I '11 tell thee how Beatrice praised
thy wit the other day : I said thou hadst a
fine wit ; True, says she, a fine little one. No,
said I, a great wit ; Right, 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 foreswore on
Tuesday morning ; there 's a double tongue;
there's two tongues. Thus did she, an hour
together, trans-shape thy particular virtues ; yet,
at last, she concluded, with a sigh, thou wast
the properest man in Italy. v ,\h
Claud. For the which she wept heartily, and
said she cared not.
D. Pedro. Yea, that she did ; but yet, for
all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she
would love him dearly : the old man's daughter
told us all.
Claud. All, all ; and, moreover, God saw him
when he was hid in the garden.
D. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage
bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head ?
Claud. Yea, and text underneath, Here
dwells Benedick the married man ?
Bene. Fare you well, boy ; you know my
mind. I will leave you now to your 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
F
162
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT v.
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 BENEDICK.
D. Pedro. He is in earnest.
Claud. In most profound earnest ; and I '11
warrant you for the love of Beatrice.
D. Pedro. And hath challenged thee?
Claud. Most sincerely.
D. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when
he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves off
his wit !
Claud. He is then a giant to an ape: but
then is an ape a doctor to such a man.
D. Pedro. But, soft, you, let be; pluck up,
my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my
brother was fled?
Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, a:td the Watch,
with CONRADE and BORACHIO.
Dogb. 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.
D. Pedro. How now ! two of my brother's
men bound ! Borachio one !
Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord.
D. Pedro. Officers, what offence hath these
men done?
Dogb. 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.
D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have
done ; thirdly, I ask thee what 's their offence ;
sixth and lastly, why they are committed ; and,
to conclude, what you lay to their charge?
Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own
division ; and, by my troth, there 's one mean-
ing well suited.
D. Pedro. Whom have you offended, masters,
that you are thus bound to your answer? this
learned constable is too cunning to be under-
stood. What's your offence?
Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no further 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.
D. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron
through your blood ? [it.
Claiid. I have drunk poison whiles he uttered
D. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to
this?
Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the prac-
tice of it. [treachery :
D. Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd of
And fled he is upon this villany. [appear
Claud. Sweet Hero!, now thy image doth
In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first.
Dogb. Come, bring away the plaintiffs ; by
this time our sexton hath reformed Signior
Leonato of the matter : and, masters, do not
forget to specify, when time and place shall
serve, that I am an ass.
Verg. Here, here comes master Signior
Leonato and the sexton too.
Re-enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, with the
SEXTON.
Leon. Which is the villain ? let me see his
eyes,
That when I note another man like him
I may avoid him : which of these is he ?
Bora. If you would know your wronger, look
on me.
Leon. Art thou the slave that with thy
breath hast kill'd
Mine innocent child ?
Bora. Yea, even I alone.
Leon. No, not so, villain ; thou bely'st thyself:
Here stand a pair of honourable men
A third is fled that had a hand in it.
I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death ;
Record it with your high and worthy deeds ;
'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.
Claud. I know not how to pray your patience,
Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge your-
self;
Impose me to what penance your invention
Can lay upon my sin : yet sinned I not
But in mistaking.
D. Pedro. By my soul, nor I ;
And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
I would bend under any heavy weight
That he '11 enjoin me to.
Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live
That were impossible ; but, I pray you both,
Possess the people in Messina here
SCENE I.]
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
163
wrong,
How innocent she died : and, if your love
Can labour aught in sad invention,
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,
And sing it to her bones ; sing it to-nieht :
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.
Claud. O, noble sir,
Your overkindness doth wring tears from me !
I do embrace your offer ; and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio.
Leon. To-morrow, then, I will expect your
coming ;
To-night I take my leave. This naughty man
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret
Who, I believe, was pack'd in all this wr
Hir'd to it by your brother.
Bora. No, by my soul, she was not ;
Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to
me ;
But always hath been just and virtuous
In anything that I do know by her.
Dogb. Moreover, sir, which, indeed, is not
under white and black, this plaintiff here, the
offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it
be remembered in his punishment. And also,
the Watch heard them talk of one Deformed :
they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock
hanging by it, and borrows money in God's
name ; the which he hath used so long, and
never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted,
and will lend nothing for God's sake : pray
you, examine him upon that point.
Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest
pains.
Dogb. Your worship speaks like a most thank-
ful and reverend youth, and I praise God for you.
Leon. There 's for thy pains.
Dogb. God save the foundation !
Leon. Go ; I discharge thee of thy prisoner,
and I thank thee.
Dogb. I leave an arrant knave with your wor-
ship ; 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 DOGB., VERG., and Watch.
Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, fare-
well, [to-morrow.
Ant. Farewell, my lords ; we look for you
D. Pedro. -We will not fail.
Claud. To-night I '11 mourn with Hero.
[Exeunt D. PEDRO and CLAUD.
Leon. Bring you these fellows on : we '11 talk
with Margaret
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. LEONATO'S Garden.
Enter BENEDICK and MARGARET, meeting.
Bene. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret,
deserve well at my hands by helping me to the
speech of Beatrice.
Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in
praise of my beauty ?
Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no
man living shall come over it ; for, in most
comely truth, thou deservest it.
Marg. To have no man come over me? why,
shall I always keep below stairs ?
Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's
mouth ; it catches.
Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's
foils, which hit, but hurt not.
Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret ; it will
not hurt a woman ; and so, I pray thee, call
Beatrice : I give thee the bucklers.
Marg. Give us the swords ; we have bucklers
of our own.
Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must
put in the pikes with a vice ; and they are dan-
gerous weapons for maids.
Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who,
I think, hath legs. {Exit MARGARET.
Bene. And therefore will come. [Singing.
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 pan-
ders, and a whole book full of these quondam
carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly
in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were
never so truly turned over and over as my poor
self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in 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 ?
|64
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
IACTV.
Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid
me.
Bene. O, stay but till then !
Beat. Then, is spoken ; fare you well now :
and yet, ere I go, let me go with .hat I came
for, which is, with knowing what hath passed
between you and Claudio,
Bene. Only foul words j and thereupon I
will kiss thee.
Beat. Foul words is but foul wind and foul
wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noi-
some ; therefore I will depart unkissed.
Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his
right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But, I must
tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge ;
and either I must shortly hear from him, or I
will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee
now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst
thou first fail in love with me?
Beat. For them all together ; which main-
tained so politic a state of evil that they will
not admit any good part to intermingle with
them. But for which of my good parts did you
first suffer love for me ?
Bene. Suffer love ; a good epithet ! I do suffer
love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Beat. In soite 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. [ably.
Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peace-
Beat. Itappears not in this confession? there's
not one wise man among twenty that will praise
himself.
^ Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that
lived in the time of good neighbours : if a man
do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies,
he shall live no longer in monument than the
bell rings and the widow weeps.
Beat. And how long is that, think you ?
Bene. Question : why, an hour in clamour,
and a quarter in rheum : therefore it is most
expedient for the wise (if Don Worm, his con-
science, find no impediment to the contrary) to
be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to
myself. So much for praising myself, who, I
myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy, and
now tell me, how doth your cousin ?
Beat. Very ill.
Bene. And how do you ?
Beat. Very ill too.
bene. Serve God y love me, and mend : there
will I leave you too, for here comes one in naste.
Enter URSULA.
Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle.
Yonder 's old coil at home : it is proved my
Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince
and Clauaio mightily abused ; and Don John
is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will
you come presently ?
Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior ?
Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap,
and be buried in thy eyes ; and, moreover, I will
go with thee to thy uncle's. [Exeunt*
SCENE III. The inside of a Church.
Enter Don, PEDRO, CL/UDIO, and Attendants,
with music and tapers.
Claud. Is thi the monument of Leonato ?
Atten. It is, my lord.
C/aud. reads from a scroll.]
Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lies :
Death in guerdon ot her wrongs,
Givus her fame which never dies :
So the life, that died with shame,
Lives in death with glorious fame.
Hantr thou there upon the tomb, {affixing it.
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 yiild your dead,
Till death be uttered,
Heavily, heavily.
Claud. Now unto thy bones goocl night :
Yearly will I do this rite.
D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters ; put youi
torches out :
The wol veb have prey 'd ; and look , the gen tie day,
Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray.
Thanks to you all, and leave us : fare you well.
Ctaud. Good morrow, masters; each his
several way. [other weeds ;
D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on
And then to Leonato's we will go. [speeds
Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue
Than this, for whom we render'd up this woe 1
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV. A Room in LEONATO'S House.
Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, BENEDICK, BEAT-
RICE, MARGARET, URSULA, FRIAR, and
HERO.
Frtar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ?
Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who
accus'd her
SCENE I V.I
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING,
165
Upon the error that you heard debated i
But Margaret was in some fault for this,
Although against her will, as it appeals
In the true course of all the question.
Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so
well.
Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen
all,
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves ;
And when I send for you, come hither mask'd :
The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour
To visit me. You know your office, brother ;
You must be father to your brother's daughter,
And give her to young Claudio.
[Exeunt Ladies.
Ant. Which I will do with confirm 'd coun-
tenance.
Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
Friar. To do what, signior?
Bene. To bind me, or undo me, one of them.
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.
Leon. That eye my daughter lent her. Tis
most true.
Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her.
Leon. The sight whereof, I think, you had
from me,
From Claudio, and the prince. But what 's your
will?
Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical :
But, for my will, my will is your good-will
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd
In the estate of honourable marriage ;
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
Leon. My heart is with your liking.
Friar. And my help.
Here come the prince and Claudio.
Enter Don PEDRO and CLAUDIO, with Attend-
ants.
D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly.
Leon. Good morrow, prince ; good morrow,
Claudio ;
We here attend you. Are you yet determin'd
To-day to marry with my brother's daughter ?
Claud. I '11 hold my mind were she an Kthiope
Leon. Call her forth, brother ; here's the friar
ready. [Exit ANTONIO.
D. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why,
what 's the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness ?
Claud. Ithhikhethinksuponthesavagebull.
Tush, fear not, man ; we '11 tip thy horns with
gold,
And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,
As once Europa did at lusty Jove,
When he would play the noble beast in love.
Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low ;
And some such strange bull leap'd your father's
cow,
And got a calf in that same noble feat
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.
Re-enter ANTONIO, with the Ladies masked.
Claud. For this I owe you : here come other
reckonings.
Which is the lady I must seize upon ?
Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her.
Claud. Why, then, she 's mine. Sweet, let
me see your face. [hand
Leon No, that you shall not, till you take her
Before this friar, and swear to marry her.
Claud. Give me your hand before this holy
friar ;
I am your husband if you lik ' ot me.
Hero. And when I lived I was your other wife:
[ Unmasking.
And when you lov'd you were my other husband.
Claud. Another Hero?
Hero. Nothing certainer :
One Hero died defil'd ; but I do live,
And, surely as I live, I am a maid. [dead !
D. Pedro. The former Hero ! Hero that is
Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her
slander liv'd.
Friar. All this amazement can I qualify ;
When, after that the holy rites are ended,
I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death :
Meantime let wonder seem familiar,
And to the chapel let us presently.
Bene. Soft and lair, friar. Which is Beatrice ?
Beat. I answer to that name; [Unmasking.
What is your will ?
Bene. Do not you love me ?
Beat. No, no more than reason.
Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the prince,
and Claudio
Have been deceived ; for they swore you did.
Beat. Do not you love me ?
Bene. No, no more than reason.
Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and
Ursula,
Are much deceived ; for they did swear you did.
Bene. They swore that you were almost sick
for me. [dead for me.
Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh
Bene. 'Tis no such matter. Then you do
not love me ?
Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the
gentleman.
166
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
[ACT v.
Claud. And I '11 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.
Bene. A miracle ! here 's our own hands
against our hearts ! Come, I will have thee ;
but, by this light, I take thee for pity.
Beat. I would not deny you ; but, by this
good day, I yield upon great persuasion ; and
partly to save your life, for I was told you were
in a consumption.
Bene. Peace ; I will stop your mouth.
\Kissing her.
D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick the
married man ?
Bene. I 'li 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, he shall wear nothing handsome
about him. In brief, since I do purpose to
marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that
the vrorld 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.
Claud. I had well hoped thou wouldst have
denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled
thee out of thy single life, to make thee a
double dealer ; which, out of question thou
wilt be if my cousin do not look exceeding
narrowly to thee.
Bene. Come, come, we are friends : let 's
have a da,nce ere we are married, that we may
lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels.
Leon. We '11 have dancing afterwards.
Bene. First, o' 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.
Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'en in
flight,
And brought with arm'd men back to Messina.
Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow : I '11
devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike
up, pipers. \Dance. Exeunt.
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A' MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM.
*-jn !i.._ Dfus i afiiio -!5O jfifi* fit D'jDi'i'O'i'j "/j'^JiurKJiinnl
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
THESEUS, Duke of Athens.
EGEUS, Father to HERMIA.
PHILOSTRATE, Masterofthe Revels to THESEUS.
QUINCE, the Carpenter.
SNUG, the Joiner.
BOTTOM, the Weaver.
FLUTE, the Bellows -mender.
SNOUT, the Tinker.
STARVELING, the 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 tJie F'airies.
TITAN i A, ^M?^W of ' tJie Fairies.
PUCK, ^ ROBIN GOODFELLOW, a
PEASBLOSSOM, ^
?, EB ' ^-^.
MOTH,
MUSTARDSEED,J
PYRAMUS,
THISBE,
WALL,
MOONSHINE,
LION,
Characters in the Interlude
performed by the Clowns.
acra VOY 3-K^-nno oh. I ^C\A. .
Other Fairies attending their King ana Queen.
Attendants on THESEUS and HIPPOLYTA.
SCENE, ATHENS, and a Wood not far from it.
ACT I.
Kfirt vrn .
SCENE I. ATHENS. A Room in the Palace
of THESEUS.
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE,
and Attendants.
The. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace ; four happy days bring in
Another moon : but, oh, methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes ! she lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame or a dowager,
Long withering out a young man's revenue.
Hip. Four days will quickly steep themselves
in nights ;
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.
The. 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 ibr 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.
Ege. Happy be Theseus, our renowned dukef
The. Thanks, good Egeus : what 's the news
with thee ?
Ege. 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 hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child.
Thou, thon, Lysander, thou hast given her
rhymes,
And interchang'd love-tokens with my child :
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love ;
And stol'n the impression of her fantasy
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, con-
ceits, [sengers,
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweatmeats, mes-
Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth ;
With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's
heart;
Turned 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,
168
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT i.
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.
The. What say you, Hermia? be advis'd,
fair maid :
To you your father should be as a god ;
One that compos'd your beauties ; yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax,
By him imprinted, and within his power
To leave the figure, or disfigure it.
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.
Her. So is Lysander.
The. In himself he is :
But, in this kind, wanting your father's voice,
The other must be held the worthier. [eyes.
Her. I would my father look'd but with my
The. Rather your eyes must with his judg-
ment look.
Her. 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.
The. 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 aJl 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.
Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,
Ere I will yield my virgin patent up
Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke
My soul consents not to give sovereignty.
The. Take time to pause ; and by the next
new moon,
The sealing-day betwixt my love and me,
For everlasting bond of fellowship,
Upon that day either prepare to die
For disobedience to your father's will ;
Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would ;
Or on Diana's altar to protest
For aye austerity and single life. [der, yield
Dem. Relent, sweet Hermia ; and, Lysan-
Thy crazed title to my certain right.
Lys. You have her father's love, Demetrius ;
Let me have Hermia's : do you marry him.
Ege. 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.
Lys. I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he,
As well possess'd ; my love is more than his ;
My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,
If not with vantage, as Demetrius's ;
And, which is more than all these boasts can be,
I am belov'd of beauteous Hermia :
Why should not I then prosecute my right ?
Demetrius, I '11 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.
The. 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.
Ege. With duty and desire we follow you.
[Exeunt THES. , HIP., EGE., DEM., and Train.
Lys. How now, my love ! why is your cheek
so pale ?
How chance the roses there do fade so fast ?
Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could
well
Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.
Lys. Ah me ! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth :
But either it was different in blood, [low !
Her. O cross ! too high to be enthrall 'd to
Lys. Or else misgraffed in respect of years ;
Her. O spite ! too old to be engag'd to young !
Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of
friends :
Her. O hell ! to choose love by another's
eye !
Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ;
SCENE I.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
169
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.
Her. 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 ; [sighs,
As due to love as thoughts, and dreams, and
Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
Lys. 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 lov'st 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.
Her. My good Lysander !
I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow,
By his best arrow with the golden head,
By the simplicity of Venus' doves,
By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,
And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage
queen,
When the false Trojan under sail was seen,
By all the vows that ever men have broke,
In number more than ever woman spoke,
In that same place thou hast appointed me,
To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.
Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes
Helena.
Enter HELENA.
Her. God speed fair Helena ! Whither away?
HeL 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, [melody.
My tongue should cacch your tongue's sweet
Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
The rest I '11 give to be to you translated.
O, teach me how you look ; and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.
Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.
Hel. O that your frowns would teach my
smiles such skill !
Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love.
Hel. O that my prayers could such affection
move ! [me.
Her. The more I hate, the more he follows
Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me.
Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.
HeL None, but your beauty : would that fault
were mine ! [face ;
Her. Take comfort ; he no more shall see my
Lysander and myself will fly this place..-wrM)
Before the time I did Lysander see,
Seem'd Athens like a paradise to me :
O then, what graces in my love do d-.vell,
That he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell !
Lys. 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 devis'd to steal.
Her. And in the wood where often you and I
Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie,
Emptying our Losoms 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.
Lys. I will, my Hermia. {Exit HERMIA.
Helena adieu :
As you on him, Demetrius dote on you !
{Exit LYS.
Hel. How happy some o'er other some can be \
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that ? Demetrius thinks not so ;
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind :
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste ;
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste :
And therefore is love said to be a child,
Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
So the boy Love is perjur'd everywhere :
For ere Demetrius look d on Hermia's eyne,
He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine ;
170
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT i.
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolv'd, and showers of oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight ;
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her ; and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense :
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.
\_Exit.
SCENE II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage.
Enter SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT,
QUINCE, and STARVELING.
Quin. Is all our company here ?
Bot. You were best to call them generally,
man by man, according to the scrip.
Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name,
which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play
in our interlude before the duke and duchess on
his wedding-day at night.
Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the
play treats on; then read the names of the
actors ; and so grow to a point.
Quin. Marry, our play is The most lament-
able comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus
and Thisby.
Bot. 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. [the weaver.
Quin. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom,
Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and
proceed. [Pyramus.
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for
Bot. What is Pyramus ? a lover, or a tyrant?
Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gal-
lantly for love.
Bot. That will ask some tears in the true per-
forming of it. If I do it, let the audience look
to their eyes ; I will move storms ; I will con-
dole 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 Phibbus* car
With shivering shocks, Shall shine from far, '
Shall break the locks And make and mar
Of prison gates : . 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.
Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.
Flu. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. You must take Thisby on you.
Flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering knight ?
Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love.
Flu. Nay, faith, let me not play a woman ;
I have a beard coming.
Quin. That 's all one ; you shall play it in a
mask, and you may speak as small as you will.
Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play
Thisby too : I '11 speak in a monstrous little
voice; Thisne^ Thisne.-Ah^ Pyramus , my
lover dear ; thy Thisby dear! and lady dear I
Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus ; and,
Flute, you Thisby.
Bot. Well, proceed.
Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor.
Star. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play
Thisby 's mother. Tom Snout, the tinker.
Snout. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. You, j Pyramus's 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.
Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is
nothing but roaring.
Bot. Let me play the lion too : I will roar,
that I will do any man's heart good to hear me 5
I will roar, that I will make the duke say, Let
him roar again, let him roar again.
Quin. An you should do it too terribly you
v/ould 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.
Bot. 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.
Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus .
for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man ; a proper
man, as one shall see on a summer's day ; a
most lovely, gentleman -like man; therefore
you must needs play Pyramus.
Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard
were I best to play it in ?
Quin. Why, what you will.
Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw-
coloured beard, your orange-tawny beard, your
purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-
colour beard, your perfect yellow.
Quin. Some of your French crowns have no
hair at all, and then you will play barefaced.
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
SCENE II.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM.
171
meet in the city, we shall be dogg'd with com-
pany, and our devices known. In the mean-
time I will draw a bill of properties, such as
our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.
Bot. We will meet ; and there we may re-
hearse more obscenely and courageously. Take
pains ; be perfect ; adieu.
Quin. At the duke's oak we meet.
Bot. Enough ; hold, or cut bow-strings.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. A Wood near Athens.
Enter a Fairy at one door, and PUCK at another.
Puck. How now, spirit ! whither wander you ?
Fai. 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 careen.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be :
In their gold coats spots you see ;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours :
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits ; I '11 be gone :
Omr 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, stol'n from an Indian king ;
She never had so sweet a changeling :
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild :
But she perforce withholds the 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.
Fai. Ekher I mistake your shape and mak-
ing quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
CalPd Robin Goodfellow : are you not 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 ;
M islead 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 dew-lap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three -foot stool mistaketh me ;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And tailor cries, and falls into a cough ;
And then the whole quire hold their hips and
loffe,
And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.
But room, fairy, here comes Oberon. _viT
Fai. And here my mistress. Would that lie
were gone !
SCENE II.
Enter OBERON at one door, -with his Train,
a/fc/TlTANIA, at ano her, with hers.
Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
Tita. What, jealous Oberon ! Fairies, skip
hence ;
I have forsworn his bed and company.
Obe. Tarry, rash wanton : am not I thy lord?
Tita. Then I must be thy lady : but I know
When thou hast stol'n away from fairy-land,
And in the shape of Corin sat all day,
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest steep of India ?
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love,
To Theseus must be wedded ; and you come
To give their bed joy and prosperity.
Obe. How can'st thou thus, or shame,
Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ?
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmer-
ing night
From Perigenia, whom he ravish'd?
And make him with fair ^gle break his faith,
With Ariadne and Antiopa ?
Tita. 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 on the beached margent of the sea.
172
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT ii.
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 murrain flock ;
The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud ;
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable :
The human mortals want their winter here ;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest :
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound :
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ;
And on old Hyem's chin 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 maz'd 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.
Obe. 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.
Tita. Set your heart at rest ;
The fairy- land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a vot'ress of my order :
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip'd by my side ;
And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,
Marking 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 I do rear up her boy :
And for her sake I will not part with him.
Obe. How long within this wood intend you
stay?
Lday.
Tita. Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-
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.
Obe. Give me that boy and I will go with thee.
Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies,
away :
We shall chide downright if I longer stay.
[Exit TITANIA and her Train.
Obe. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from
this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.
My gentle Puck, come hither: thou remember' st
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.
Obe. That very time I saw, but thou
couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd : a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west ;
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts :
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the 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 show'd thee
once :
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will m tke or man or woi.mn 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 '11 put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes. [Exit PUCK.
Obe. Having once this juice,
I '11 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 off from her sight,
As I can take it with another herb, -*?rnog
SCENE II.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
173
I '11 make her render up her page to me.
But who comes here? I am invisible ;
And I will overhear their conference.
Enter DEMETRIUS, HELEN & following hint.
Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue me
not.
Where is Lysander and fair Hermia ?
The one I '11 slay, the other slayeth me.
Thou told'st me they were stol'n into this wood,
And here am I, and wood within this wood,
Because I cannot meet with Hermia.
Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.
Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted ada-
mant ;
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.
Dem. 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 ?
HeL 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 ?
Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of ray
spirit ;
For I am sick when I do look on thee.
Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you.
Dem. 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.
HeL 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 ?
Dem. I '11 run from thee, and hide me in the
brakes,
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.
Hel. The wildest hath not such a heart as you.
Run when you will, the story shall be chang'd ;
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase ;
The dove pursues the griffin ; the mild hind
Makes speed to catch the tiger, bootless speed,
When cowardice pursues and valour flies.
Dem. 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.
HeL Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius !
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex :
We cannot fight for love as men may do :
We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.
I '11 follow thee, and make a heaven of hell,
To die upon the hand 1 love so well.
[Exeunt DEM. and HEL.
Obe. Far- 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.
Obe. I pray thee, give it me.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ;
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,
With sweet musk roses, and with eglantine :
There sleeps Titan ia sometime of the night,
Lulled in these flowers witn 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 '11 streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through thisgrove:
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 lond on her than she upon her love :
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.
Puck. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall
do so. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. Another part of the Wood.
Enter TlTANlA, -with her Train.
Tita. 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 [wonders
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep ;
Then to your offices, and let me rest.
SONG.
i.
I Fat. You spotted snakes, with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ;
Newts and blind-worms do no wrong ;
Come not near our fairy queen :
174
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT ii.
tence
CHORUS.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby :
Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby :
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh ;
So, good-night, witu lullaby;
II.
! Fai. Weaving spiders, come not here ;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hi
Beetles black, approach not near ;
Worm nor snail do no offence.
CHORUS.
Philomel, with melody, &c.
I Fai. Hence, away ; now all is well :
One, aloof, stand sentinel.
[Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps.
Enter OBERON.
Obe. What thou seest, when thou dost wake,
[Squeezes the flower on TITANIA'S eyelids.
Do it for thy true-love take ;
Love and languish for his sake ;
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,
Pard, or boar with bristled hair,
In thy eye that shall appear
When thou wak'st, it is thy dear ;
Wake when some vile thing is near. \_Exit.
Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA.
Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in
the wood ;
And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way ;
We '11 rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,
And tarry for the comfort of the day.
Her. Be it so, Lysander : find you out a bed,
For I upon this bank will rest my head.
Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.
Her. Nay, good Lysander ; for my sake, my
dear,
Lie farther off yet, do not lie so near.
Lys. 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.
Her. 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 farther 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 !
Lys. 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 !
Her. With half that wish the wisher's eyes be
pressed! \Theysleep.
Enter PUCK.
I)fiA
Puck. Through the forest have I gone,
But Athenian found I none,
On whose eyes I might approve
This flower's force in stirring love.
Night and silence ! who is here ?
Weeds of Athens he doth wear :
This is he, my master said,
Despised the Athenian maid ;
And here the maiden, sleeping sound,
On the dank and dirty ground.
Pretty soul ! she durst not lie
Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy
Churl, upon thy eyes I throw
All the power this charm doth owe ;
When thou wak'st let love forbid
Sleep his seat on thy eyelid :
So awake when I am gone ;
For I must now to Oberon. \Exit.
Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running.
Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Deme-
trius.
Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt
me thus.
HeL O, wilt thou darkling leave me? donotso.
Dem. Stay on thy peril ; I alone will go.
\Exit DEMETRIUS.
Hel. O, I am out 01 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 com pare 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.
Lys. And run through fire I will for thy sweet
sake. [ Waking.
Transparent Helena ! Nature here shows art,
That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.
SCENE III.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHrS DREAM.
'75
Where is Demetrius ? O, how fit a word
Is that vile name to perish on my sword !
Hel. 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.
Lys. 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.
Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery
born ?
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn ?
Is 't not enough, is 't not enough, young man,
That I did never, no, nor never can
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,
But you must flout my insufficiency ?
Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth,
you do
In such disdainful manner me to woo.
But fare you well : perforce I must confess,
I thought you lord of more true gentleness.
O, that a lady of one man refus'd,
Should of another therefore be abus'd ! [Exit.
Lys. She sees not Hermia : Hermia, sleep
thou there ;
And never mayst thou come Lysander near !
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings ;
Or, as the heresies that men do leave
Are hated most of those they did deceive ;
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me !
And, all my powers, address your love and might
To honour Helen, and to be her knight ! [Exit.
Her. [Starting.'} Help me, Lysander, help
me! do thy best
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast !
Ah me, for pity ! what a dream was here !
Lysander, look how I do quake with fear !
Methought a serpent eat my heart away,
And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.
Lysander ! what, removed ? Lysander ! lord !
What, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?
Alack, where are you? speak, an if you hear ;
Speak, of all loves ! I swoon almost with fear.
No ? then I well perceive you are not nigh :
Either death or you 1 3 11 find immediately.
[Exit.
ACT III.
SCENE I. The Wood. The Queen of Fairies
lying asleep.
Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE,
SNOUT, and STARVELING.
Bot. Are we all met ?
Qttin. Pat, pat ; and here s a marvellous con-
venient 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.
Bot. Peter Quince,
Quin. What say'st thou, bully Bottom ?
Bot. There are things in this comedy of Pyra*
mus 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.
Star. I believe you must leave the killing out,
when all is done.
Bot. Not a whit : I have a device to make all
well. Write me a prologue ; and let the pro-
logue 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.
Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue ;
and it shall be written in eight and six.
Bot. No, make it two more ; let it be written
in eight and eight.
Snozit. Will not the ladies be afeard of the
lion?
Star. I fear it, I promise you.
Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with
yourselves : to bring in, God shield us ! a lion
among ladies is a most dreadful thing : for there
is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion
living ; and we ought to look to it.
Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell
he is not a lion.
Bot. 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.
Quin. Well, it shall be so. But there is two
176
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT in.
hard things ; that is, to bring the moonlight into
a chamber: for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby
meet by moonlight.
Snug. Doth the moon shine that night we
play our play ?
Bot. A calendar, a calendar ! look in the
almanack ; find out moonshine, find out moon-
shine.
Quin. Yes, it doth shine that night
Bot. Why, then you may leave a casement
of the great chamber-window, where we play,
open ; and the moon may shine in at the case-
ment.
Quin. Ay ; or else one must come in with a
bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes
to disfigure or to present the person of moon-
shine. 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.
Snug. You never can bring in a wall. What
say you, Bottom ?
Bot. 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 ;
or let him hold his fingers thus, and through
that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.
Quin. 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.
Ji rJ, ;.^>'W , r . , .cVt
Enter PUCK behind.
Puck. What hempenhomespunshave we swag-
gering here,
So near the cradle of the fairy queen ?
What, a play toward ! I '11 be an auditor j
An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.
Quin. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth.
Pyr* Thisby) the flowers of odious savours
sweety
Quin. Odours, odours.
Pyr. odours savours sweet :
So doth thy breathy my dearest Thisby dear.
Bttt harky 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 ! [Aside. Exit.
This. Must I speak now ?
Quin. Ay, marry, must you : for you must
understand he goes but to see a noise that he
heard, and is to come again.
This. 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 horsey that yet would never
tire,
/'// meet 1hee t Pyramus , at Ninny 's tomb.
Quin. Ninus 3 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.
J?e-enterP\JCK,atid'BoTTOM. with anass'shead.
This. O, As true as truest horse, that yet
would never tire.
Pyr. If I were fairy Thisby , / were only
thine :
Quin. O monstrous ! O strange ! we are
haunted. Pray, masters ! fly, masters ! Help !
[Exeunt Clowns.
Puck. I '11 follow you ; I '11 lead you about a
round, [through brier ;
Through bog, through bush, through brake,
Sometime a horse I '11 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.
Bot. Why do they run away? this is a knavery
of them to make me afeard.
-lyff uov
Re-enter SNOUT,,: .
Snout. O Bottom, thou art changed ! what
do I see on thee ?
Bot. What do you see ? you see an ass-head
of your own, do you ?
t ... , jjjytfj fo-l/i
Re-enter QUINCE.
Quin. Bless thee, Bottom ! bless thee! thou
art translated. [Exit.
Bot. 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. [Singst
The ousel-cock, so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with bis note so true,
The wren with Httle quilt
Tita. What angel wakes me from my flowery
bed? [Waking*
Bot. 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 fool-
ish a bird? who would give a bird the lie, though
he cry cuckoo never so ?
SCENE I.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
177
Tito. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again :
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note.
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; [me,
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move
On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.
Bot. 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.
Tito. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.
Bot. Not so, neither : but if I had wit enough
to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve
mine own turn.
Tito,. 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 '11 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 grossneos so
That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.
Peasblossom ! Cobweb ! Moth ! and Mustard-
seed !
Enter Four Fairies.
1 Fai. Ready.
2 Fai. And I.
3 Fai. And I.
4 Fai. Where shah we go?
Tito. Be kind and courteous to this gentle-
man ;
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.
1 Fai. Hail, mortal !
2 Fai. Hail !
3 Fai. Hail !
4 Fai. Hail !
Bot. I cry your worship's mercy heartily. I
beseech your worship's name.
Cob. Cobweb.
Bot. 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 ?
Peas. Peasblossom.
Bot. 1 pray you, commend me to Mistress
Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod,
your father. Good Master Peasblossom, I shall
desire you of more acquaintance too. Your
name, I beseech you, sir ?
Mus. Mustardseed.
Bot. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your
patience well : that same cowardly giant-like
ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of
your house : I promise you, your kindred hath
made my eyes water ere now. I desire you
more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed.
Tita. Come, wait upon him ; lead him to my
bower.
The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye ;
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,
Lamenting some enforced chastity.
Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently.
{Exeunt.
SCENE II. Another part of 'the Wood.
*j ttr** --\ ^Tit -^ iiTT / -vipj *-"*'f te i t T : ffr rf ** "W/H
Enter OBERON.
Obe. I wonder if Titania be awak'd ;
Then what it was that next came in her eye,
Which she must dote on in extremity.
: sin c-J wl fA
Enter PUCK.
Here comes my messenger. How now, mad
spirit ?
What night-rule now about this haunted grove?
Puck. My mistress with a monster is in love.
Near to her close and consecrated bower,
While she 'was in her dull and sleeping hour,
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,
That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,
Were met together to rehearse a play
Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day.
The shallowest thickskin of that barren sort
Who Pyramus presented in their sport,
Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake ;
When I did him at this advantage take,
An ass's nowl I fixed on his head ;
Anon, his Thisbe must be answered, [spy,
And forth my mimic comes. When they him
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 tboms at their apparel snatch ;
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT in.
Some sleeves, some hats : from yielders all
things catch.
I led them on in this distracted fear,
And left sweet Pyramus translated there :
When in that moment, so it came to pass,
Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.
Obe. This fails out better than I could devise.
But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes
With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do ?
Puck. I took him sleeping, that is finish'd
too,
And the Athenian woman by his side ;
That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd.
Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA.
Obe. Stand close ; this is the same Athenian.
Puck. This is the woman, but not this the
man. [so ?
Dem. O, why rebuke you him that loves you
Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
Her. Now I but chide, but I should use thee
worse;
For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.
If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,
Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,
And kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day
As he to me : would he have stol'n away
From sleeping Hermia ? I '11 believe as soon
This whole earth may be bor'd ; and that the
moon
May through the centre creep, and so displease
Her brother's noontide with the antipodes.
It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him ;
So should a murderer look ; so dead, so grim.
Dem. So should the murder'd look ; and so
should I,
Pierc'd through the heart with your stern
cruelty :
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.
Her. What 's this to my Lysander ? where
is he?
Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me ?
Dem. I had rather give his carcass to my
hounds.
Her. Out, dog ! out, cur ! thou driv'st me
past the bounds [then?
Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him,
Henceforth be never number'd among men !
Oh ! 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.
Dem. You spend your passion on a mispris'd
mood :
I am not guilty of Lysander's blood ;
Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.
Her. I pray thee, tell me, then, that he is well.
Dem. An if I could, what should I get there-
fore ?
Her. 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.
Dem. There is no following her in this fierce
vein :
Here, therefore, for awhile I will remain.
So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe ;
Which now in some light measure it will pay,
If for his tender here I make some stay.
[Lies down.
Obe. What hast thou done ? thou hast mis-
taken quite, [sight :
And laid the love- juice on some true-love's
Of thy misprision must perforce ensue
Some true-love turn'd, and not a false turn'd
true. [holding troth,
Puck. Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man
A million fail, confounding oath on oath.
Obe. 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 cost the fresh blood
dear.
By some illusion see thou bring her here ;
I '11 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.
Obe. Flower of this purple dye,
Hit with Cupid's archery,
Sink in apple of his eye !
When his love he doth espy,
Let her shine as gloriously
As the Venus of the sky.
When thou wak'st, if she be by,
Beg of her for remedy.
_ rn.JisH .ft. l
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 .'
Obe. Stand aside : the noise they make
Will cause Demetrius to awake.
Puck. Then will two at once woo one,
SCENE II. j
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
179
That must needs be sport alone ;
And those things do best please me
That befall preposterously.
Enter LYSANDER and HELENA.
Lys. 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?
Hel. 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.
Lys. I had no judgment when to her I swore.
HeL Nor none, in my mind, now you give
her o'er. [you.
Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not
Dem. [Awaking.] O Helen, goddess, nymph,
perfect, divine !
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow !
That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow,
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold'st up thy hand : O let me kiss
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss !
HeL O spite ! O hell ! I see you all are bent
To set against me for your merriment.
If you were civil, and knew courtesy,
You would not do me thus much injury.
Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
But you must join in souls to mock me too ?
If you were men, as men you are in show,
You would not use a gentle lady so;
To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,
When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia ;
And now both rivals, to mock Helena :
A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,
To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes
With your derision ! None of noble sort
Would so offend a virgin, and extort
A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.
Lys. 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 to my death.
Hel. Never did mockers waste more idle
breath. [none :
Dem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia ; I will
If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone.
My heart with her but as guest-wise sojourn'd ;
And now to Helen is it home return'd,
There to remain.
Lys. Helen, it is not so.
Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not
know,
Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear.
Look where thy love comes ; yonder is thy dear.
Enter HERMIA.
Her. Dark night, that from the eye his func-
tion 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 ?
Lys. Why should he stay whom love doth
press to go ?
Her. What love could press Lysander from
my side ? [bide,
Lys. Lysander's love, that would not let him
Fair Helena, who more engilds the night
Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light.
Why seek'st thou me? could not this make
thee know
The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so?
Her. You speak not as you think ; it cannot
be.
Hel. Lo, she is one of this confederacy !
Now I perceive they have conjoin'd all three
To fashion this false sport in spite of me.
Injurious Hermia ! most ungrateful maid !
Have you conspir'd, have you with these con-
triv'd
To bait me with this foul derision ?
Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us, O, is all forgot ?
All school -days' friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our neelds created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key ;
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted ;
But yet a union in partition,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem :
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart,
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
i8o
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT in.
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.
Her. I am amazed at your passionate words :
I scorn you not ; it seems that you scorn me.
Hel. Have you not sent Lysander, as in scorn,
To follow me, and praise my eyes and face ?
And made your other love, Demetrius,
Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,
To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare,
Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this
To her he hates ? and wherefore doth Lysander
Deny your love, so rich within his soul,
And tender me, forsooth, affection,
But by your setting on, by your consent ?
What though I be not so in grace as you,
So hung upon with love, so fortunate ;
But miserable most, to love unlov'd ?
This you should pity, rather than despise.
Her. I understand not what you mean by
this.
Hel. Ay, do persever, counterfeit sad looks,
Make mows upon me when I turn my back ;
Wink at each 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 mine own fault ;
Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.
Lys. Stay, gentle Helena ; hear my excuse ;
My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena !
Hel. O excellent !
Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so.
Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can compel.
Lys. 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.
Dem. I say I love thee more than he can do.
Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it
too.
Dem. Quick, come,
Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this ?
Lys. Away, you Ethiope !
Dem. No, no, sir : he will
Seem to break loose ; take on as you would
follow :
But yet come not. You are a tame man ; go !
Lys. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr: vile
thing, let loose,
Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent.
Her. Why are you grown so rude? what
change is this,
Sweet love?
Lys. Thy love ? out, tawny Tartar, out !
Out, loath'd medicine ! hated potion, hence !
Her. Do you not jest?
Hel. Yes, 'sooth ; and so do you.
Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word with
thee.
Dem. I would I had your bond ; for I perceive
A weak bond holds you ; I '11 not trust your
word. [kill her dead?
Lys. What ! should I hurt her, strike her,
Although I hate her I '11 not harm her so.
Her. What ! can you do me greater harm
than hate ? [love ?
Hate me ! wherefore ? O me ! what news, my
Am not I Hermia ? Are not you Lysander ?
I am as fair now as I was ere while, [left me :
Since night you lov'd me ; yet since night you
Why, then, you left me, O, the gods forbid !
In earnest, shall I say ?
Lys. Ay, by my life ;
And never did desire to see thee more.
Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt,
Be certain, nothing truer ; 'tis no jest
That I do hate thee and love Helena.
Her. O me ! you juggler ! you canker-
blossom ! [night,
You thief of love ! What ! have you come by
And stol'n my love's heart from him ?
Hel. Fine, i' faith J
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 !
Her. Puppet ! why so ? Ay, that way goes
the game.
Now I perceive that she hath made compare
Between our statures ; she hath urg'd her height j
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.
Hel. I pray you, though you mock me, gentle-
men,
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 's something lower than myself,
That I can match her.
Her. Lower 1 hark, again.
SCENE II.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM.
181
Bel. 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 farther. Let me go-.
You see how simple and how fond I am.
Her. Why, get you gone : who is 't that hin-
ders you ?
Hel. A foolish heart that I leave here behind.
Her. What ! with Lysander ?
Hel. With Demetrius.
Lys. Be not afraid : she shall not harm thee,
Helena.
Dem. No, sir, she shall not, though you take
her part.
Hel. 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.
Her. Little again! nothing but low and little!
Why will you suffer her to flout me thus ?
Let me come to her.
Lys. Get you gone, you dwarf ;
You minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass made ;
You bead, you acorn.
Dem. 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.
Lys. Now she holds me not ;
Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right,
Or thine or mine, is most in Helena.
Dem. Follow 1 nay, I '11 go with thee, cheek
by jole. {Exeunt LYS. and DEM.
Her. You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you:
Nay, go not back.
Hel. 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.
Her. I am amaz'd, and know not what to say.
[Exit, pursuing HELENA.
Obe. This is thy negligence : still thou mis-
tak'st,
Or else commit'st thy knaveries wilfully.
Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.
Did not you tell me I should know the man
By the Athenian garments he had on ?
And so far blameless proves my enterprise,
That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes :
And so far am I glad it so did sort,
As this their jangling I esteem a sport.
Obe. Thou seest these lovers seek a place to
fight:
Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night ;
The starry welkin cover thou anon
With drooping fog, as black as Acheron
And lead these testy rivals so astray,
As one come not within another's way.
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong ;
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ;
And from each other look thou lead them thus,
Till o'er their brows death -counterfeiting sleep
With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep :
Then crush this herb into Lysandei'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 '11 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 cross- ways and floods have burial,
Already to their wormy beds are gone ;
For fear lest day should look their shames upofc
They wilfully exile themselves from light,
And must for aye consort with black-brow'd
night.
Obe. 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 OBE.
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.
1 82
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT IV.
Enter LYSANDER.
Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak
thou now. [art thou?
Puck. Here, villain ; drawn and ready. Where
Lys. I will be with thee straight.
Puck. Follow me, then,
To plainer ground.
[Exit LYS. as following the voice.
Enter DEMETRIUS.
Dem. Lysander ! speak again.
Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled ?
Speak. In some bush ? where dost thou hide
thy head ? [stars,
Puck. Thou coward, art thou bragging to the
Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,
And wilt not come ? Come, recreant ; come,
thou child ;
I '11 whip thee with a rod : he is defiled
That draws a sword on thee.
Dem. Yea, art thou there ?
Puck. Follow my voice ; we '11 try no man-
hood here. [Exeunt,
Re-enter LYSANDER.
Lys. He goes before me, and still dares me on;
When I come where he calls, then he is gone.
The villain is much lighter heeled than I :
I follow'd fast, but faster he did fly ;
That fallen am I in dark uneven way,
And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day!
[Lies down.
For if but once thou show me thy gray light,
I '11 find Demetrius, and revenge this spite.
[Sleeps.
Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS.
Puck. Ho, ho ! ho, ho ! Coward, why com'st
thou not ?
Dem. Abide me if thou dar'st ; for well I wot
Thou runn'st before me, shifting every place ;
And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face.
Where art thou ?
Pttck. Come hither ; I am here.
Dem. Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou
shalt buy this dear,
If ever I thy face by daylight see :
Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me
To measure out my length on this cold bed.
By day's approach look to be visited.
[Lies down and sleeps.
Enter HELENA.
Hel. O weary night, O long and tedious night,
Abate thy hours ! Shine comforts from the east,
That I may back to Athens by daylight,
From these that my poor company detest :
And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye,
Steal me awhile from mine own company.
[Sleeps.
Puck. Yet but three ? Come one more ;
Two of both kinds makes up four.
Here she comes, curst and sad :
Cupid is a knavish lad,
Thus to make poor females mad.
Enter HERMIA.
Her. Never so weary, never so in woe,
Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers ;
I can no farther crawl, no farther go ;
My legs can keep no pace with my desires.
Here will I rest me till the break of day.
Heaven shield Lysander, if they mean a fray !
[Lies down.
Puck. On the ground
Sleep sound :
I '11 apply
To your eye,
Gentle lover, remedy.
[Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER'S eye.
When thou wak'st,
Thou tak'st
True delight
In the sight
Of thy former lady's eye :
And the country proverb known,
That every man should take his own,
In your waking shall be shown :
Jack shall have Jill;
Nought shall go ill ; [be well.
The man shall have his mare again, and all shall
[Exit PUCK. DEM., HEL., &-V, sleep.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. The Wood.
Enter TITANIA and BOTTOM, Fairies attend-
ing ; OBERON behind, unseen.
Tita. 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.
Bot. Where 's Peasblossom ?
Peas. Ready.
Bot. Scratch my head, Peasblossom.
Where 's Monsieur Cobweb ?
Cob. Ready.
Bot. Monsieur Cobweb ; good monsieur, get
your weapons in your hand and kill me a red-hip-
ped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good
SCENE I.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
monsieur, bring me the honey- bag. Do not fret
yourself too much in the action, monsieur ; and,
good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break
not ; I would be loath to have you over-flown
with a honey-bag, signior. Where's Monsieur
Mustardseed ?
Must. Ready. [seed.
Bot. Give me your neif, Monsieur Mustard-
Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur.
Must. What 's your will ?
Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help
Cavalero Cobweb to scratch. I must to the bar-
ber'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.
Tito. What, wilt thou hear some music, my
sweet love ?
Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music ;
let us have the tongs and the bones. [eat.
Tit a. Or say, sweet love, what thou desir'st to
Bot. 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.
Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek
The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.
Bot. 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. [arms.
Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle
Gently en twist, the female ivy so
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.
O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee !
[They sleep.
OBERON advances. Enter PUCK.
Obe. Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this
sweet sight ?
Her dotage now I do begin to pity.
For, meeting her of late behind the wood,
Seeking sweet savours for this hateful fool,
I did upbraid her, and fall out with her :
For she his hairy temples then had rounded
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ;
And that same dew, which sometime on the buds
Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,
Stood now within the pretty fiow'rets' 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 ;
[ Touching her eyes -with an herb.
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.
Tita. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen !
Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.
Obe. There lies your love.
Tita. How came these things to pass ?
O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now !
Obe. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this
head.
Titania, music call ; and strike more dead
Than common sleep, of all these five, the sense.
Tita. Music, ho ! music ; such as charmeth
sleep.
Puck. Now, when thou wak'st, with thine
own fool's eyes peep.
Obe. ound, music. [Still untsic.} 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 posterity :
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.
Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad,
Trip we after the night's shade :
We the globe can compass soon,
Swifter than the wand'ring moon.
Tita. Come, my lord ; and in our flight,
Tell me how it came this night
That I sleeping here was found,
With these mortals on the ground.
[Exeunt.
[Horns sound within.
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and
Train.
The. 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 ; . go :
Despatch, I say, and find the forester.
184
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT iv.
We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top,
And mark the musical confusion
Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
Hip. 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.
The. 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-kneed and dew-lap'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 ? [asleep ;
Ege. My lord, this is my daughter here
And this Lysander ; this Demetrius is ;
This Helena, old Nedar's Helena :
I wonder of their being here together.
The. No doubt, they rose up early to observe
The rite of May ; and, hearing our intent,
Came here in grace of our solemnity.
But speak, Egeus ; is not this the day
That Hermia should give answer of her choice?
Ege. It is, my lord.
The. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with
their horns.
\Horns, and shout within. DEM., LYS.,
HER., and HEL., awake and start tip.
The. Good-morrow, friends. Saint Valentine
is past ;
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ?
Lys. Pardon, my lord.
\He and the rest kneel to THESEUS.
The. 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 ?
Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly,
Half 'sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear,
I cannot truly say how I came here :
But, as I think, for truly would I speak-
And now I do bethink me, so it is,
I came with Hermia hither : our intent [be
Was to be gone from Athens, where we might
Without the peril of the Athenian law.
Ege. Enough, enough, my lord; you have
enough ;
I beg the law", the law upon his head.
They would have stol'n away, they would,
Demetrius,
Thereby to have defeated you and me :
You of your wife, and me of my consent,
Of my consent that she should be your wife.
Dem. 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 doth the snow seems to me now
As the remembrance of an idle gawd
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 do I wish it, love it, long for it,
And will for evermore be tiue to it. ,.;/,;>
The. Fair lovers, you arc fortunately met :
Of this discourse we more will hear anon.
Egeus, I will overbear your will ;
For in the temple, by and by with us,
These couples shall eternally be knit.
And, for the morning now is something worn,
Our purpos'd hunting shall be set aside.
Away with us to Athens three and three,
We '11 hold a feast in great solemnity.
Come, Hippolyta.
[Exeunt THE., HIP., EGE., and Train.
Dem. These things seem small and undistin-
guishable,
Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.
Her. Methinks I see these things with parted
eye,
When everything seems double.
Hel. So methinks :
And I have found Demetrius like a jewel.
Mine own, and not mine own.
Dem. It seems to me
That yet we sleep, we dream. Do you not
think
The duke was here, and bid us follow him ?
Her. Yea, and my father.
Hel. And Hippolyta.
Lys. And he did bid us follow to the temple.
Dem. Why, then, we are awake : let 's follow
him;
And by the way let us recount our dreams.
[Exeunt.
As they go out, BOTTOM awa&es.
Bot. When my cue comes, call me, and I will
SCENE 1 1. J
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
185
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 ex-
pound this dream. Methought 1 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 nand 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, be-
fore the duke : peradventure, to make it the
more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. {Exit.
SCENE II. ATHENS. A Room in QUINCE'S
House.
Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVE-
LING.
Quin. Have you sent to Bottom's house ? is
he come home yet ?
Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt,
he is transported.
Flu. If he come not, then the play is marred ;
it goes not forward, doth it ?
Quin. It is not possible : you have not a man
in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.
Flu. No ; he hath simply the best wit of any
handicraft man in Athens.
Quin. Yea, and the best person too : and he
is a very paramour for a sweet voice.
Flu. 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 for-
ward we had all been made men.
Flu. 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 Pyra-
mus, I'll be hanged; he would have deserved
it : sixpence a-day in Pyramus, or nothing.
Enter BOTTOM.
Bot. Where are these lads ? where are these
hearts?
Quin. Bottom ! O most courageous day !
O most happy hour 1
Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders:
but ask me not what ; for if I tell , ou, I am no
true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right
as it fell out.
Quin. Let us hear, sweet Bottom.
Bot. 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 over 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 pare his nails, for
they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And,
most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlick ; for
we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not
doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy.
No more words : away ! go ; away ! \Exetmi.
navj
ACT V
SCENE I. ATHENS. An Apartment in the
Palace of THESEUS.
Entet THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE,
Lords and Attendants.
Hip. 'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these
lovers speak of.
The. More strange than true. I never may
believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact :
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold ;
That is the madman : the lover, all as frantic^
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt :
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth
to heaven,
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy ;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear ?
Hip. But all the story of the night told over.
And all their minds transfigur'd so together,
More witnessed! than fancy's images,
And grows to something of great constancy %
But, howsoever, Strange and admirable.
1 86
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT v.
Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and
HELENA.
- - 3t;iJ
The. Here comfc the lovers, full of joy and
mirth.
Joy, gentle friends ! joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts !
Ly S , More than to us
Wait on your royal walks, your board, your bed !
The. 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.
Philost. Here, mighty Theseus.
The. Say, what abridgment have you for this
evening ?
What masque? what music? How shall we
beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight ?
Philost. There is a brief how many sports
are ripe ;
Make choice of which your highness will see
first. [Giving a paper.
The. [reads.'} The battle with the Centaurs,
to be siing
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.
We '11 none of that : that I have told my love,
In glory of my kinsman Hercules.
The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.
That is an old device, and it was play'd
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
The thrice-three Muses mourning for the death
Of learning, late deceased in beggary *
That is some satire, keen and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.
A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus,
And his love Thisbe ; very tragical mirth.
Merry and tragical ! tedious and brief !
That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord ?
Philost. A play there is, my lord, some ten
words long,
Which is as brief as I have known a play ;
But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,
Which makes it tedious : for in all the play
There is not one word apt, one player fitted :
And tragical, my noble lord, it is ;
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself:
Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess,
Made mine eyes water ; but more merry tears
The passion of loud laughter never shed.
The. What are they that do play it ?
Philost. Hard-handed men that work in
Athens here,
Which never labour'd in their minds till now ;
And now have toil'd their unbreath'd memories
With this same play against your nuptial.
The. And we will hear it.
Philost. 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.
The. 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.
Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o'er-
charged,
And duty in his service perishing. [thing.
The. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such
Hip. He says they can do nothing in this kind.
The. The kinder we, to give them thanks
for nothing.
Our sport shall be to take what they mistake :
And what poor duty cannot do,
Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed
To greet me with premeditated welcomes ;
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,
Make periods in the midst of sentences,
Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears,
And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,
Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,
Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome
And in the modesty of fearful duty
I read as much as from the rattling tongue
Of saucy and audacious eloquence.
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity
In least speak most to my capacity.
Enter PHILOSTRATE.
Philost. So please your grace, the prologue
is address'd.
The. Let him approach.
[Flourish of Trumpets.
Enter Prologue.
Prol. If we offend, it is with our good will.
That you should think we come not tc offend
But with good will. To shyw our simple skill^
That is the true beginning of our end.
Consider, then, we come but in despite.
We do not me as minding to content you.
Our true intent is. All for your delight
We are not here. That you should here re
pentyou.
SCENE I.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
i87
The actors are at hand: and, by their show,
You shall know all that you are like to know.
The. This fellow doth not stand upon points.
Lys. He hath rid hL prologue like a rough
clt ; he knows not the stop. A good moral,
my lord : it is not enough to speak, but to
speak true.
Hip. Indeed he hath played on this prologue
like a child on a recorder ; a sound, but not in
government.
The. His speech was like a tangled chain ;
nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is
next?
Enter PYRAMUS and THISBE, WALL, MOON-
SHINE, and LlON, as in dumb show.
Prol. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this
show ; [plain.
But wonder on, till truth make all things
This man is Pyramus, if you would know ;
This beauteous lady Thisby is, certain.
This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth per-
sent [sunder :
Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers
And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are
content
To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.
This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth Moonshine : for, if you will know,
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo.
This grisly beast, which by name Lion hight,
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,
Did scare away, or rather did affright :
And as she fled, her mantle she did fall ;
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain :
Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth, and tall,
And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain ;
Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade,
He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast ;
And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,
His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,
Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain
At large discourse while here they do remain.
{Exeunt Prol., THIS., LION, and MOON.
The. I wonder if the lion be to speak,
Dem. 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. [show
This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth
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.
The. Would you desire lime and hair to
speak better ?
Dem. It is the wittiest partition that ever I
heard discourse, my lord.
The. Pyramus draws near the wall : silence !
Enter PYRAMUS.
Pyr. O grim-look'd night ! O night with
hue so black !
night, which ever art when day is not !
O night, O night, alack, alack, alack,
1 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 ;
Curst be thy stones for thus deceiving me !
The. The wall, methinks, being sensible,
should curse again.
Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not. De~
ceiving 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.
This. 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.
Pyr. I see a voice ; now will I to trie chink,
To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face.
Thisby !
This. My love ! thou art my love, I think.
Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's
grace :
And like Limander am I trusty still.
This. And I like Helen, till the fates me kill.
Pyr. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.
This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.
Pyr. O, kiss me through the hole of this
vile wall.
This. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.
Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me
straightway?
This. 'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without
delay.
1 88
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT v.
Wall. Thus have I, wall, my part discharged
so;
And, being done, thus wall away doth go.
[Exeunt WALL, PYR., andTms.
The. Now is the mural down between the
two neighbours.
Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are
so wilful to hear without warning.
Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.
The. The best in this kind are but shadows ;
and the worst are no worse, if imagination
amend them. [not theirs.
Hip. It must be your imagination then, and
The. If we imagine no worse of them than
they of themselves, they may pass for excellent
men. Here come two noble beasts in, a moon
and a lion.
_ T , , Jin .v noiiT
Enter LION and MOONSHINE.
Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts
do fear [floor,
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on
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 of my life.
The. A very gentle beast, and of a good con-
science, [e'er I saw.
Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that
Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour.
The. True ; and a goose for his discretion.
Dem. Not so, my lord ; for his valour can-
not carry his discretion; and the fox carries
the goose.
The. 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.
Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon
present: [head.
Dem. He should have worn the horns on his
The. He is no crescent, and his horns are
invisible within the circumference.
Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon
present ;
Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be.
The. This is the greatest error of all the rest :
the man should be put into the lantern. How
is it else the man i' the moon?
Dem. He dares not come there for the candle :
for, you see, it is already in snuff.
Hip. I am weary of this moon: would he
would change \
The. It appears, by his small light of discre-
tion, that he is in the wane: but yet, in
courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time.
Lys. Proceed, moon.
Moon. All that I have to say, is to tell you
that the lantern is the moon ; I, the man in the
moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and
this dog, my dog.
Dem. Why, all these should be in the
lantern ; for all these are in the moon. But,
silence ; here comes Thisbe.
~ _, .imrrujjiavoji
Enter THISBE.
This. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is
my love?
Lion. Oh !
[The LION roars. THISBE rims off.
Dem. Well roared, lion.
The. Well run, Thisbe.
Hip. Well shone, moon. Truly, the moon
shines with a good grace.
The. Well moused, lion.
[The LION tears THISBE'S mantle and exit.
Dem. And so comes Pyramus.
Lys. And then the lion vanishes.
gtS'ff-
Enter PYRAMUS.
Pyr. Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy
sunny beams ; [bright :
I thank thee, moon, for shining now so
For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering streams.
I trust to taste of truest Thisby's sight,
But stay ; O spite !
But mark, poor knight,
What dreadful dole is here !
Eyes, do you see ?
How can it be ?
O dainty duck ! O dear !
Thy mantle good,
What ! stained with blood ?
Approach, ye furies fell !
O fates ! come, come ;
Cut thread and thrum ;
Quail, rush, conclude, and quell !
The. This passion, and the death of a deai
friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
Pyr. O wherefore, nature, didst thou lions
frame ?
Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear :
Which is no, no which was the fairest dame
That liv'd, that Wd, that lik'd, that look'd
with cheer.
Come, tears, confound ;
Out, sword, and wound
The pap of Pyramus :
Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop :
SCENE I.]
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
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 !
New die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies. Exit MOONSHINE.
Dem. No die, but an ace, ior him ; for he is
but one. [he is nothing.
Lys. Less than an ace, man ; for he is dead;
7'he. With the help of a surgeon he might
yet recover and prove an ass.
Hip. How chance moonshine is gone before
Thisbe comes back and finds her lover ?
The. She will find him by starlight. Here
she comes ; and her passion ends the play.
Enter THISBE.
Hip. Methinks she should not use a long
one for such a Pyramus : I hope she wiil be
brief.
Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which
Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better.
Lys. She hath spied him already with those
sweet eyes.
Dem. And thus she moans, videlicet.
This. Asleep, my love ?
What, dead, my dove ?
O Pyramus, arise,
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead, dead ? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These lily brows,
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone :
Lovers, make moan !
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk ;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word :
Come, trusty sword ;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue :
And farewell, friends :
Thus Thisby ends *
Adieu, adieu, adieu. {Dies.
The. Moonshine and lion are left to bury
the dead.
Dem. Ay, and wall too.
JBot. No, I assure you ; the wall is down
that parted their fathers. Will it please you to
see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance
between two of our company.
The. No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play
needs no excuse. Never excuse ; for when the
players are all dead there need none to be
blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played
Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe's
garter, it would have been a fine tragedy : and
so it is, truly ; and very notably discharged.
But come, your Bergomask : let your epilogue
alone. [Here a dance of CLOWNS.
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve:
Lovers, to bed ; 'tis almost fairy time.
I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,
As much as we this night have overwatch'd.
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd
The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revels and new jollity. {Exeunt.
'
SCENE II.
Enter PUCK.
Pttck. 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 scritch-owl, scritching 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 its 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 aw^/TiTANiA, with /^zr Train.
Obe. Through this house give glimmering
light,
By the dead and drowsy fire :
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from brier :
And this ditty, after me,
Sing and dance it trippingly.
Tita. 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.
190
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
[ACT V.
SONG AND DANCE.
Obe. 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 " r
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 gate ;
And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace, with sweet peace ;
E'er shall it in safety rest,
And the owner of it biest.
Trip away :
Make no stay :
Meet me all by break of day.
{Exeunt OBE., TITA., 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'm an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long ;
Else the Puck a liar call :
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends. [Exit*
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PERSONS REPRESENTED.
FERDINAND, King of Navarre.
BIRON, )
LONGAVILLE, \ Lords attending on the KING.
DUMAIN. )
BOYET, \ Lords attending on the PRINCESS
MERCADE, / OF FRANCE.
DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO, a Fantastical
Spaniard.
SIR NATHANIEL, a Curate.
HOLOFERNES, a Schoolmaster
DULL, a Constable.
COSTARD, a Clown.
SCENE, NAVARRE.
fw. ^fauts oi f j*rfj
; feix-.i -.ti\f. xi*&3n&&3iil oj j H-jjiT
MOTH, Page to ARMADO.
A Forester.
,'.\':i:-'' ^n-i'J^fJJ-; :'- '
PRINCESS OF FRANCE.
ROSALINE,
,M& oi '{hmH
M , Ladies attending on the
1>1AK.1A, > PRTlMriS-;I
KATHARINE, J 'f ^ ,
JAQUENETTA, a Country Wench.
Officers and Others, Attendants on the KING
and PRINCESS.
ACT I.
SCENE I. NAVARRE. A Park> with a Palace
in it.
Enter the KING, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and
DUMAIN.
King. 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 endeavour of this present breath may buy
That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen
edge,
And make us heirs of all eternity.
Therefore, brave conquerors, for so you are,
That war against your own affections,
And the huge army of the world's desires,
Our late edict shall strongiy 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, Bir5n, 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.
Long. 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.
Dutn. 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.
King. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from
these. [please ;
Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if you
I only swore to study with your grace,
And stay here in your court for three years' space.
Long. You swore to that, Biron, and to the
rest. [Jest.
Biron. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in
What is the end of study ? let me knew.
King. Why, that to know which else we
should not know.
192
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT i.
Biron. Things hid and barr'd, you mean,
from common sense ?
King. Ay, that isStudy's god-like 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.
King. 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 purchas'd, doth inherit pain:
As painfully to pore upon a book [while
To seek the light of truth ; while truth the
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 naught but fame ;
And every godfather can give a name.
King. How well he 's read, to reason against
reading !
Dum. Proceeded well, to stop all good pro-
ceeding !
Long. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow
the weeding.
Biron. The spring is near, when green geese
are a-breeding.
Dum. How follows that ?
Biron. Fit in his place and time.
Dum. In reason nothing.
Biron. Something then in rhyme.
Long. 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 co sing ?
Why should I joy in an abortive birth ?
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows ;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
So you, to study now it is too late,
Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate.
King. Well, sit you out : go home, Bir6n :
adieu. [stay with you :
Biron. No, my good 'ord ; I have sworn to
And, though I have for barbarism spoke more
Than for that angel knowledge you can say,
Yet confident I '11 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 '11 write my name.
King. How well this yielding rescues thee
from shame !
Biron. \reads. ] Item, That no woman shall
come within a mile of my court. -
And hath this been proclaim 'd ?
Long. Four days ago.
Biron. Let 's see the penalty.
\_Read s.~\ On pain of losing her tongtte.
Whodevis'dthisi
Long. Marry, that did I.
Biron. Sweet lord, and why ? [penalty.
Long. To fright them hence with that dread
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
3T;fc j. speak,
A maid of grace and complete majesty.
About surrender-up of Aquitain
To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father :
Therefore this article is made in vain,
Or vainly comes the admired princess hither
King. What say you, lords ? why, this was
quite forgot^
Biron. So study evermore is over-shot ;
While it doth study to have what it would,
It doth forget to do the thing it should :
And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,
'Tis won as towns with fire, so won, so lost.
King. We must, of force, dispense with this
decree ;
She must He here on mere necessity.
Biron. Necessity will make us all forsworn
Three thousand times within this three years'
space :
SCENE I.j
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
193
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 others as to me ;
But I believe, although I seem so loath ;
I am the last that will last keep his oath.
But is there no quick recreation granted ?
King. Ah, 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.
Long. Costard, the swain, and he shall be
our sport ;
And so to study three years is but short.
Enter DULL with a letter, and COST \RD.
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.
Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touch-
ing me.
King. A letter from the magnificent Armado.
Biron. How low soever the matter, I hope
in God for high words.
Long. A high hope for a low heaven : God
grant us patience !
Biron. To hear ? or forbear laughing ?
Long. 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.
Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning
Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken
with the manner.
Biron. In what manner ?
Cost. 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 ?
Cost. As it shall follow in my correction : and
God defend the right !
King. Will you hear this letter with attention ?
Biron. As we would hear an oracle.
Cost. Such is the simplicity of man to
hearken after the flesh.
King, [reads.'] Great deputy, the welkin's
vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my
soul s earth's God and body's fostering patron,
Cost. Not a word of Costard yet.
King, [reads.] So it is,
Cost. It may be so : but if he say it is so, he
is, in telling true, but so so.
King. Peace !
Cost. be to me, and every man that dares
not fight !
King. No words !
Cost. of other men's secrets, I beseech you.
King, [reads.] So it is, besieged with sable-
coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-
oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic
of thy health-giving air ; and, as I am a gentle-
man, betook myself to walk. The time when ?
About the sixth hour ; when beasts most graze,
birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourish-
ment which is called supper : so much for the
time when. Now for the ground which ; which,
I mean, I walked upon : it is ycleped thy park.
Then for the place where ; where, I mean, I did
encounter that obscene and most preposterous
event that draweth from my snow-white pen the
ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, be-
holdest, 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,
Cost. Me. [soul,
King. that unlettered small-knowing
Cost. Me.
King. that shallow vassal,
Cost. Still me. [tard,
King. which, as I remember, hight Cos-
Cost. O, me.
King. sorted and consorted, contrary to
thy established proclaimed edict and continent
194
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT i.
canon, with with, O, with but with this I
passion to say wherewith,
Cost. With a wench.
King. with a child of our grandmother Eve,
a female ; or, for thy more sweet understanding,
a woman. Him, I as my ever esteemed duty
pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the
meed of punishment, by thy sweet grace's
officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute,
carriage, bearing, and estimation.
Dull. Me, an't shall please you; I am
Antony Dull.
King, [reads.'} For Jaquenetta, so is the
weaker vessel called, which I apprehended with
the aforesaid swain, I keep her as a vessel of
thy law's fury ; and shall, at the least of thy
sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all
compliments of devoted and 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.
King. Ay, the best for the worst. But,
sirrah, what say you to this ?
Cost. Sir, I confess the wench.
King. Did you hear the proclamation ?
Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it,
but little of the marking of it.
King. It was proclaimed a year's imprison-
ment, to be taken with a wench.
Cost. I was taken with none, sir ; I was
taken with a damosel.
King. Well, it was proclaimed damosel.
Cost. This was no damosel neither, sir ; she
was a virgin. [virgin.
King. It is so varied too ; for it was proclaimed
Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity ; I was
taken with a maid.
King. This maid will not serve your turn, sir.
Cost. This maid will serve my turn, sir.
King. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence :
you shall fast a week with bran and water.
Cost. I had rather pray a month with mutton
and porridge.
JCing. And Don Armado shall be your
keeper.
My Lord Biron, see him delivered over.
And go we, lords, to put in practice that
Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.
[Exeunt KING, LONG., and DUM.
Biron. I '11 lay my head to any good man'shat,
These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.
Sirrah, come on.
Cost. I suffer for the truth, sir : for true it is, I
was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a
truegirl ; and therefore, Welcome the sour cup of
prosperity 1 Affliction may one day smile again,
and till then, Sit thee down, sorrow ! [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Another part of the Park.
Enter ARMADO and MOTH.
Arm. Boy, what sign is it when a man of
great spirit grows melancholy ?
Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.
Arm. Why, sadness is one and the self-same
thing, dear imp.
Moth. No, no ; O lord, sir, no.
Arm. How canst thou part sadness and
melancholy, my tender juvenal ?
Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the
working, my tough senior.
Arm. Why tough senior? why tough senior?
Moth. Why tender juvenal? why tender
juvenal ?
Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a con-
gruent 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.
Arm. Pretty, and apt.
Moth. How mean you, sir ; I pretty, and my
saying apt ? or I apt, and my saying pretty ?
Arm. Thou pretty, because little.
Moth. Little pretty, because little. Where-
fore apt ?
Arm. And therefore apt, because quick.
Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master ?
Arm. In thy condign praise.
Moth. I will praise an eel with the same praise.
Arm. What, that an eel is ingenious ?
Moth. That an eel is quick.
Arm. I do say thou art quick in answers :
thou heatest my blood.
Moth. I am answered, sir.
Arm. I love not to be crossed.
Moth. He speaks the mere contrary ;
crosses love not him. [Aside.
Arm. I have promised to study three years
with the duke.
Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir.
Arm. Impossible.
Moth. How many is one thrice told ?
Arm. I am ill at reckoning ; it fitteth the
spirit of a tapster. [sir.
Moth. You are a gentleman and a gamester,
Arm. 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.
Arm. It doth amount to one more than two.
Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three.
Arm. True.
Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study?
Now here is three studied ere you'll thrice
SCENB II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
195
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.
Arm. A most fine figure I
Moth. To prove you a cipher. [Aside.
Arm. 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 out-
swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy : what great
men have been in love ?
Moth. Hercules, master.
Arm. Most sweet Hercules ! More author-
ity, 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.
Arm. 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.
Arm. Of what complexion ?
Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the
two ; or one of the four.
Arm. Tell me precisely of what complexion.
Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir.
Arm. Is that one of the four complexions ?
Moth. As I have read, sir : and the best of
them too.
Arm. 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.
Arm. My love is most immaculate white and
red.
Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are
masked under such colours.
Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant.
Moth. My father's wit and my mother's
tongue, assist me !
Arm. 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.
Arm. 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.
Arm. I will have the subject newly writ o'er,
that I may example my digression by some
mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that coun-
try girl that I took in the park with the rational
hind Costard : she deserves well.
Moth. To be whipped : and yet a better love
than my master. [Aside.
Arm. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in
love. [light wench.
Moth. And that's great marvel, loving a
Arm. I say, sing.
Moth. Forbear till this company be past.
*irf :-?o/i >bt-,p-! :v: . :!*>;j : ->rf: ,*Oii -"&yi -j;i
Enter DULL, CosTARD, and JAQUENETTA.
Dull. Sir, the duke's pleasure is, that you
keep Costard safe : and you must let him 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. [Maid.
Arm. I do betray myself with blushing.
Jaq. Man.
Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge.
Jaq. That 's here by.
Arm. I know where it is situate.
Jaq. Lord, how wise you are !
Arm. I will tell thee wonders.
Jaq. With that face?
Arm. I love thee.
Jaq. So I heard you say.
Arm. And so farewell.
Jaq. Fair weather after you !
Dull. Come, Jaquenetta, away.
{Exeunt DULL and JAQUENETTA.
Arm. Villain thou shalt fast for thy offences
ere thou be pardoned. * \*&
Cost. Well, sir, I hope, when I do it I shall
do it on a full stomach.
Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punished.
Cost. I am more bound to you than your
fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded.
Arm. Take away this villain ; shut him up.
Moth. Come, you transgressing slave : away.
Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir ; I will fast,
being loose.
Moth. No, sir ; that were fast and loose : thou
shalt to prison.
196
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT II,
Cost. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of
desolation that I have seen, some shall see
Muth. What shall some see ?
Cost. 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 anotner man ; and therefore I can be quiet.
[Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD.
Arm. 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 false-
hood, 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 Samson was 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's club, and therefore too
much odds jp3r 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 sonneteer.
Devise, wit ; write- pen ; for I am for whole
volumes in folio. [Exit.
ACT II.
SCENE I. Another part of the Park. A Pavi-
lion and Tents at a distance.
Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE,
MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, and
other Attendants.
Boyet. Now, madam, summon up your dear-
est 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 Aquitain, 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.
Prin. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though
but mean,
Needs not the painted flourish of your praise ;
Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,
Not 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 out-wear three years
No woman may approach his silent court :
Therefore to us 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 despatch,
Importunes personal conference with his grace.
Haste, signify so much ; while we attend,
Like humbly-visag'd suitors, his high will.
Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go.
Prin. 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 ?
I Lord. Longaville is one.
Prin. Know you the man ?
Mar. I know him, madam ; at a marriage feast,
Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heii
Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville :
A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd ;
Well fitted in the 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 Rath power to cut, whose will still
wills
It should none spare that come within his power.
Prin. Some merry mocking lord, belike ; is 't
so?
Mar. They say so most that most his humours
know.
Prin. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they
grow.
Who are the rest ? [youth,
Kath. The young Dumain, awell-accomplish'd
Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd :
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 Alenson's once ;
And much too little of that good I saw
Is my report to his great worthiness.
Ros. 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,
SCENE I.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
197
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.
Prin. God bless my ladies ! are they all in love,
That every one her own hath garnished
With such bedecking ornaments of praise?
Mar. Here comes Boyet.
Re-enter BOYET.
Prin. Now, what admittance, lord?
Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair ap-
proach ;
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. {The Ladies mask.
Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAIN, BIRON,
and Attendants.
King. Fair princess, welcome to the court of
Navarre.
Prin. Fair, I give you back again ; and wel-
come 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. [court.
King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my
Prin. I will be welcome then ; conduct me
thither. [oath.
King. Hear me, dear lady, I have sworn an
Prin. Our lady help my lord ! he '11 be for-
sworn, [will.
King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my
Prin. Why, will shall break it ; will, and no-
thing else.
King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.
Prin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were
wise,
Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.
I hear your grace hath sworn-out housekeeping :
'Tis deadly sin to keep that cath, 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.
[Gives a paper.
King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.
Prin. You will the sooner that I were away ;
For you '11 prove perjur'd if you make me stay.
Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant
once?
Ros. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
Biron. I know you did.
Ros. How needless was it then
To ask the question !
Biron. You must not be so quick.
Ros. 'Tis 'long of you, that spur me with such
questions.
Biron. Your wit 's too hot, it speeds too fast,
'twill tire.
Ros. Not till it leave the rider in the mire.
Biron. What time o' day?
Ros. The hour that fools should ask,
Biron. Now fair befall your mask !
Ros. Fair fall the face it covers !
Biron. And send you many lovers !
Ros. Amen, so you be none.
Biron. Nay, then will I be gone.
King. Madam, your father here doth intimate
The payment of a hundred thousand crowns ;
Being but the one-half of an entire sum
Disbursed by my father in his wars.
But say that he or we, as neither have,
Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid
A hundred thousand more; in surety of the
which,
One part of Aquitain 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 Aquitain,
And hold fair friendship with his majesty.
But that, it seems, he little purposeth,
For here he doth demand to have repaid
An hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,
On payment of a hundred thousand crowns,
To have his title live in Aquitain ;
Which we much rather had depart withal,
And have the money by our father lent,
Than Aquitain 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.
Prin. You do the king my father too much
wrong,
And wrong the reputation of your name,
In so unseeming to confess receipt
Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.
King. I do protest I never heard of it ;
And if you prove it, I '11 repay it back,
Or yield up Aquitain.
Prin. We arrest your word :
Boyet, you can produce acquittances
I 9 8
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT ii.
For such a sum from special officers
Of Charles his father.
King. Satisfy me so. [come,
Boyet. So please your grace, the packet is not
Where that and other specialties are bound ;
To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.
King. It shall suffice me ; at which interview
All liberal reason I will yield unto.
Meantime receive such welcome at my hand
As honour, without breach of honour, may
Make tender of to thy true worthiness :
You may not come, fair princess, in my gates ;
But here without you shall be so receiv'd
As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart,
Though so denied fair harbour in my house.
Your own good thoughts excuse me, ana farewell :
To-morrow shall we visit you again.
Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort
your grace ! [place !
King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every
[Exeunt KING and his Train.
Biron. Lady, I will commend you to my own
heart.
Ros. Pray you, do my commendations; I
would be glad to see it.
Biron. I would you heard it groan.
Ros. Is the fool sick?
Biron. Sick at heart.
Ros. Alack, let it blood.
Biron. Would that do it good ?
Ros. My physic says ay.
Biron. Will you prick 't with your eye?
Ros. No poynt> with my knife.
Biron. Now, God save thy life !
Ros. And yours from long living !
Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving.
[Retiring.
Dum. Sir, I pray you, a word ! what lady is
that same?
Boyet. The heir of Alen9on, Katharine her
name.
Dum. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well.
[Exit.
Long. I beseech you a word : what is she in
the white? [the light.
Boyet. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in
Long. Perchance, light in the light. I desire
her name.
Boyet. She hath but one for herself ; to desire
that were a shame.
Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter?
Boyet. Her mother's, I have heard.
Long. God's blessing on your beard T .
Boyet. Good sir, be not offended :
She is an heir of Falconbridge.
Long. Nay, my choler is ended.
She is a most sweet lady.
Boyet. Not unlike, sir : that may be.
[Exit LONG.
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 ! [you.
Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to
[Exit BIRON. Ladies unmask.
Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap
lord;
Not a word with him but a jest.
Boyet. And every jest but a word.
Prin. It was well done of you to take him at
his word. [board.
Boyet. I was as willing to grapple as he was to
Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry !
Boyet. And wherefore not ships I
No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your
lips. [finish the jest ?
Mar. You sheep and I pasture : shall that
Boyet. So you grant pasture for me.
[Offering to kiss her.
Mar. Not so, gentle beast ;
My lips are no common, though several they be.
Boyet. Belonging to whom ?
Mar. To my fortunes and me.
Prin. Good wits will be jangling: but,
gentles, agree :
The civil war of wits were much better used
On Navarre and his book-men ; for here 'tis
abus'd. [lies,
Boyet. If my observation, which very seldom
By the heart's still rhetoric disclos'd with eyes,
Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.
Prin. With what ? [affected.
Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle
Prin. Your reason ? [retire
Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their
To the court of his eye, peeping thorough de-
sire :
His heart, like an agate, with your print im-
press'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 eye-sight to be ;
All senses to that sense did make their repair,
To feel only looking on fairest of fair:
Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye,
As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy ;
Who, tend' ring their own worth from where they
were glass'd,
Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd.
His face's own margent did quote such amazes
That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes :
I '11 give you Aquitain, and all that is his,
An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.
SCENE I.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
'99
Prin. Come to our pavilion: Boyet is dis-
pos'd [eye hath disclos'd :
Boyet. But to speak that in words which his
I only have made a mouth of his eye,
By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.
Ros. Thou art an old love -monger, and
speak'st skilfully. [news of him.
Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns
Ros. Then was Venus like her mother ; for
her father is but grim.
Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches ?
Mar. No.
Boyet. What, then ; do you see ?
Ros. Ay, our way to be gone.
Boyet. You are too hard for me.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I. A part of the Park.
Enter ARMADO and MOTH.
Arm. Warble, child ; make passionate my
sense of hearing.
Moth. Concolinel [Singing.
Arm. 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 ?
Arm. How mean'st 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 eye-
lids ; 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 paint-
ing ; 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. [ence ?
Arm. How hast thou purchased this experi-
Moth. By my penny of observation.
Arm. But O, but O
Moth. the hobby-horse is forgot.
Arm. 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?
Arm. Almost I had.
Moth. Negligent student 1 learn her by heart.
Arm. By heart and in heart, boy.
Moth. And out of heart, master : all those
three I will prove.
Arm. 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.
Arm. I am all these three.
Moth. And three times as much more, and
yet nothing at all.
Arm. Fetch hither the swain ; he must carry
me a letter.
Moth. A message weW sympathized ; a horse
to be amba&iador for an ass 1
Arm. Ha, ha! what sayest thou?
Moth. Many, sir, you must send the ass upon
the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.
Arm. The way is but short : away.
Moth. As swift as lead, sir.
Arm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious ?
Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?
Moth. Minime, honest master; or rather,
master, no.
Arm. I say lead is slow.
Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so:
Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun ?
Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric ! [he :
He reputes me a cannon ; and the bullet, that 's
I shoot thee at the swain.
Moth. Thump, then, and I flee.
[Exit.
Arm. A most acute Juvenal; voluble and
free of grace ! [face :
By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy
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.
Arm. Some enigma, some riddle: come,
thy r envoy ; begin.
Cost. No egma, no riddle, no V envoy ; no
salve in the mail, sir : O, sir, plantain, a plain
plantain ; no I 'envoy -, no F envoy ^ no salve, sir,
but a plantain !
Arm. 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 fenvoy^ and the word F envoy for
a salve ? [V envoy a salve \
Moth. Do the wise think them other? is not
200
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT in.
No, page: it is an epilogue or dis-
course, to make plain [sain.
Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been
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 I' envoy, [again.
Moth. I will add the f envoy. Say the moral
Arm. 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 V envoy.
The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
Were still at odds, being but three :
Arm. Until the goose came out of door,
Staying the odds by adding four.
Moth. A good P envoy ) ending in the goose ;
Would you desire more?
Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a
goose, that's flat: [fat.
Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be
To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and
loose :
Let me see a fat V envoy ; ay, that 's a fat goose.
Arm. 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 V envoy.
Cost. True, and I for a plantain : thus came
your argument in ; [bought ;
Then the boy's fat V envoy, the goose that you
And he ended the market.
Arm. But tell me ; how was there a Costard
broken in a shin ?
Moth. I will tell you sensibly.
Cost. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth; I
will speak that V envoy.
I, Costard, running out, that was safely within,
Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.
Arm. We will talk no more of this matter.
Cost. Till there be more matter in the shin.
Arm. Sirrah, Costard, I will enfranchise thee.
Cost. O, marry me to one Frances ; I smell
some F envoy, some goose in this.
Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee
at liberty, enfreedoming thy person ; thou wert
immured, restrained, captivated, bound.
Cost. True, true; and now you will be my
purgation, and let me loose.
Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from
durance ; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee
nothing but this : bear this significant to the
country maid Jaquenetta : there is remuneration
\giving him money} ; for the best ward of mine
honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth,
follow. [Exit.
Moth. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard,
adieu.
Cost. My sweet ounce of man's flesh ! my in-
cony Jew ! [Exit MOTH.
Now will I look to his remuneration. Remun-
eration ! O, that 's the Latin word for three
farthings: three farthings remuneration.
What's the price of this inkle? A penny.
No, I* II 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 ! exceed-
ingly well met.
Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation
ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration?
Biron. What is a remuneration?
Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing, [silk.
Biron. O, why then, three-farthings-worth of
Cost. I thank your worship: God be with
you!
Biron. O, stay, slave ; I must employ thee ;
As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.
Cost. When would you have it done, sir?
Biron. O, this afternoon.
Cost. Well, I will do it, sir : fare you well.
Biron. O, thou knowest not what it is.
Cost. I shall know, sir, when I have done it.
Biron. Why, villain, thou must know first.
Cost. 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. [Gives him money.
Cost. Garden, O sweet garden ! better than
remuneration; elevenpence farthing better:
most sweet gardon ! I will do it, sir, in print.
Gardon remuneration. [Exit.
Biron. O !--and I, forsooth, in love ! I, that
have been love's whip ;
A very beadle to a humorous sigh ;
A critic ; nay, a night-watch constable ;
A domineering pedant o'er the boy,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent !
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;
SCENE T.
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
201
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 perjur'd, which is worst of all ;
And, among three, to love the worst of all ;
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,
With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes ;
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard :
And I to sigh for her ! to watch for her !
To pray for her ! Go to ; it is a plague
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might.
Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, watch,
groan ;
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.
{Exit.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. A part of the Park.
Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA,
KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, Attendants,
and a Forester.
Prin. Was that the king that spurr'd his horse
so hard
Against the steep uprising of the hill ?
Boyet. I know not ; but I think it was not he.
Prin. Whoe'er he was, he show'd a mount-
ing mind.
Well, lords, to-day we shall have our despatch ;
On Saturday we will return to France.
Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murderer in ?
For. Here by, upon the edge of yonder cop-
pice;
A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.
Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,
And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.
For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.
Prin. What, what? first praise me, and
again say no ?
O short-livM pride ! Not fair ? alack for woe !
For. Yes, madam, fair.
Prin. Nay, never paint me now j
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true ;
{Giving him money.
Fair payment for foul words is more than due.
For. Nothing but fair is that which you in-
herit, [merit.
Prin. See, see, my beauty will be sav'd by
O heresy in fair, fit for these days ! [praise.
A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair
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 ; [part,
W T hen, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward
We bend to that the working of the heart :
As I, for praise alone, now seek to spill [ill.
The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no
Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self-
sovereignty
Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be
Lords o'er their lords ? [afford
Prin. Only for praise : and praise we may
To any lady that subdues a lord.
Here comes a member of the commonwealth.
Enter COSTARD.
Cost. God dig-you-den all ! Pray you, which
is the head-lady ? [that have no heads.
Prin. Thou shall know her, fellow, by the rest
Cost. Which is the greatest lady, the highest?
Prin. The thickest and the tallest.
Cost. The thickest and the tallest ! it is so ;
truth is truth. [wit,
An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my
One of these maids' girdles for your waist should
be fit. [est here.
Are not you the chief woman? you are the thick -
Prin. What 's your will, sir? what 's your
will? [one Lady Rosaline.
Cost. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron, to
Prin. O, thy letter, thy letter ; he 's a good
friend of mine : [carve ;
Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can
Break up this capon.
Boyet. I am bound to serve.
This letter is mistook, it importeth none here f
It is writ to Jaquenetta.
Prin. We will read it, I swear :
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give
ear.
Boyet. [reads.] By heaven, that thou art fair
is most infallible ; true that thou art beauteous ;
truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer than
202
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT iv.
fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth
itself: have commiseration on thy heroical
vassal ! The magnanimous and most illustrious
king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and
indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and he it was
that might rightly say, veni, vidi, vici ; which to
anatomize 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 cap-
tive 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 en-
force 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.
Prin. What plume of feathers is he that in-
dited this letter?
What vane? what weather-cock? did you ever
hear better?
Boyet. I am much deceiv'd but I remember
the style. [erewhile.
Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it
Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps
here in court ; [sport
A phantasm, a Monarcho, and one that makes
To the prince and his book-mates.
Prin. Thou fellow, a word :
Who gave thee this letter?
Cost. I told you ; my lord.
Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it?
Cost. From my lord to my lady.
Prin. From which lord to which lady?
Cost. From my Lord Biron, a good master of
mine,
To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.
Prin. Thou hast mistaken this letter. Come,
lords, away.
Here, sweet, put up this ; 'twill be thine another
day. [Exeunt PRINCESS and Train.
Boyet. Who is the shooter? who is the shooter?
Ros. Shall I teach you to know?
Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.
Ros. Why, she that bears the bow.
Finely put off! [thou marry,
Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if
Hang me by the neck if horns that year mis-
carry.
Finely put on !
Ros. Well then, I am the shooter.
Boyet. And who is your deer?
Ros. If we choose by the horns, yourself:
come near.
Finely put on indeed !
Mar. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and
she strikes at the brow. [her now?
Boyet. But she herself is hit lower : have I hit
Ros. Shall I come upon thee with an old say.
ing, that was a man when King Pepin of France
was a little boy, as touching the hit it?
Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old,
that was a woman when Queen Guinever of
Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.
[Singing.
Ros. 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 Ros. and KATH.
Cost. By my troth, most pleasant ! how both
did fit it !
Mar. A mark marvellous well shot ; for they
both did hit it.
Boyet. A mark ! O, mark but that mark ! A
mark, says my lady ! [it may be.
Let the mark have a prick in } t, to mete at, if
Mar. Wide p' the bow-hand ! I' faith your
hand is out.
Cost. Indeed, 'a must shoot nearer, or he '11
ne'er hit the clout.
Boyet. And if my hand be out, then belike
your hand is in. [the pin.
Cost. Then will she get the upshot by cleaving
Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily, your
lips grow foul.
Cost. Shei too hard for you at pricks, sir;
challenge her to bowl.
Boyet. lifear too much rubbing ; good-night,
my good owl.
[Exeunt BOYET and MARIA.
Cost. By my soul, a swain ! a most simple
clown ! [down !
Lord, lord ! how the ladies and I have put him
O' my troth, most sweet jests! most incony
vulgar wit !
SCENE II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as
it were, so fit.
Armador o' the one side, O, a most dainty
man ! [fan !
To see him walk before a lady and to bear her
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 1
Sola, sola ! [Shouting -within.
[Exit COSTARD running.
SCENE II. Another part of the Park.
Enter HOLOFERNES, Sir NATHANIEL, and
DULL.
Nath. Very reverend sport, truly ; and done
in the testimony of a good conscience.
Hoi. The deer was, as you know, sanguis,
in blood ; ripe as a pomewater, who now hang-
eth like a jewel in the ear of ccelo, the sky, the
welkin, the heaven ; and anon falleth like a crab
on the face of terra ^ the soil, the land, the
earth.
Nath. Truly, Master Holoternes, the epithets
are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least:
but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first
head.
Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.
Dull. 'Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.
Hoi. 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, unpmned, 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.
Hoi. Twice sod simplicity, bis coctusl
O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost
thou look !
Nath. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties
that are bred in a book ;
He hath not eat paper, a.-> 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, in-
discreet, 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, [wind.
Matty can brook the weather that love not the
Dull. You two are book-men : can you tell
by your wit
What was a month old at Cain's birth that 's not
five weeks old as yet ?
Hoi. Dictynna, good man Dull ; Dictynna,
good man Dull.
Dull. What is Dictynna ?
Nath. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.
Hoi. The moon was a month old when Adam
was no more, [five-score.
And raught not to five weeks when he came to
The allusion holds in the exchange.
Dull. 'Tis true indeed ; the collusion holds
in the exchange.
Hoi. 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 orincess killed.
Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extem-
poral epitaph on the death of the deer ? and, to
humour the ignorant, I have called the deer the
princess killed a pricket.
Nath. Perge, good Master Holo femes, flerge ;
so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility.
Hoi. I will something affect the letter ; for
it argues facility.
The praiseful princess pierc'd and prick'd a
pretty pleasing pricket ;
Some say a sore ; but not a sore, till now
made sore with shooting.
The: dogs did yell ; put 1 to sore, then sorel
jumps from thicket ; [a-hooting.
Or pricket, sore, or else sorel ; the people fall
If sore be sore, then 1 to sore makes fifty sores ;
O sore 1 ! [one more 1.
Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but
Nath. A rare talent !
Dull. If a talent be a claw, look how he
claws him with a talent.
Hoi. 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.
Nath. 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.
204
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
I ACT iv.
HoL Meherc&y if their sons be ingenious,
they shall want no instruction : if their daughters
be capable, I will put it to them : but, vir
sapit qui pauca loquitur : a soul feminine salut-
eth us.
Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.
Jaq. God give you good-morrow, master
person.
Hoi. Master person, quasi pers-on. And
if one should be pierced, which is the one ?
Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is
likest to a hogshead.
Hoi. Of piercing a hogshead ! a good lustre
of conceit in a turf of earth ; fire enough for a
flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is
well.
Jaq. Good master person, 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.
Hoi. Fauste, precor gelidd quando pecus omne
nib umbrd [Mantuan !
Ruminat, and so forth. Ah, good old
I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of
Venice :
Vinegia, Vinegia,
Chi non te vede, ei non te pregia.
Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! who under-
standeth thee not, loves thee not? Ut, re, sel,
fa, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the
contents? or rather, as Horace says in his
What, my soul, verses?
Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned.
Hoi. Let me hear a staff, a stanza, a verse ;
Lege, domine.
Nath. [reads.] If love make me forsworn,
how shall I swear to love ? [vow'd !
Ah, never faith could hold if not to beauty
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I '11 faith-
ful 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 ; [thee commend :
Well learned is that tongue that well can
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, [sweet fire.
Which, not to anger bent, is music and
Celestial as thou art, O pardon, love, this
wrong,
That sings heaven's praise with such an
earthly tongue.
Hoi. You find not the apostrophes, 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 oderi-
ferous 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 ?
Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one
of the strange queen's lords.
hoi. 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 pro-
gression, 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.
Jaq. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God
save your life !
Cost. Have with thee, my girl.
{Exeunt COST, and JAQ.
Nath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of
God, very religiously ; and, as a certain father
saith
Hoi. Sir, tell not me of the father ; I do fear
colourable colours. But to return to the verses:
did they please you, Sir Nathaniel ?
Nath. Marvellous well for the pen.
Hoi. 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, under-
take your ben venuto; where I will prove those
verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring
of poetry, wit, nor invention : I beseech your
society.
Nath. And thank you too : for society, saith
the text, is the happiness of life.
Hoi. And certes, the text most infallibly
concludes it. Sir \to DULL], I do invite you
SCENE III.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
205
too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba.
Away ; the gentles are at their game, and we
will to our recreation. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. Another part of 'the Park.
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, sit 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 on 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. [Gets up into a tree.
Enter the KING, with a paper.
King. Ah me !
Biron. [aside. ] Shot, by heaven ! Proceed,
sweet Cupid ; thou hast thumped him with thy
bird-bolt under the left pap ; I' faith, secrets.
King, [reads.] So sweet a kiss the golden sun
gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
As thy eyebeams, when their fresh rays have
smote [flows :
The night of dew that on my cheeks down
Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright
Through the transparent bosom of the deep,
As doth thy face through tears of mine give light:
Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep ;
No drop but as a coach doth carry thee ;
So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
And they thy glory through my grief will show:
But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.
O queen of queens, how far dost thou excel !
No thought can thinknor tongue of mortal tell.
How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the
paper;
Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?
[Steps aside.
Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper.
What, Longaville ; and reading ! listen, ear.
Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool,
appear ! [Aside.
Long. Ah me ! I am forsworn.
Biron. Why, Le comes in like a perjure,
tearing papers. [Aside.
King. In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in
shame ! [Aside.
Biron. One drunkard loves another of the
name. [Aside.
Long. Am I the first that have been perjur'd so ?
Biron. [aside.'} I could put thee in comfort;
not by two that i know :
Thou mak'st the triumviry, the corner cap of
society,
The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up
simplicity.
Long. 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. [aside.] O, rhymes are guards on
wanton Cupid's hose :
Disfigure not his slop. .
Long. This same shall go.
[He reads the sonnet.
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argu-
ment,
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 beinggain'd curesall disgrace in me.
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is :
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost
shine,
Exhal'st this vapour vow ; in thee it is :
If broken, then it is no fault of mine :
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To lose an oath to win a paradise?
Biron. [aside.'] This is the liver vein, which
makes flesh a deity,
A green goose a goddess : pure, pure idolatry.
Go4 amend us, God amend ! we are much out
o' the way.
Long. By whom shall I send this? Com-
pany! stay. [Stepping aside.
Biron. [aside.] All hid, all hid, an old infant
play.
Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky,
And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye.
More sacks to the mill 1 O heavens, I have my
wish!
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT iv.
Enter DUMAIN, with a paper.
Dumain transform'd : four woodcocks in a dish !
Dum. O most divine Kate !
Biron O most profane coxcomb !
{Aside.
Dum. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye !
Biron. By earth, she is but corporal : there
you lie. {Aside.
Dum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber
quoted.
Biron. An amber-colour'd raven was well
noted. [Aside.
Dum. As upright as the cedar.
J3iron. Stoop, I say;
Her shoulder is with child. {Aside.
Dum. As fair as day.
Biron. Ay, as some days ; but then no sun
must shine. {Aside.
Dum. O that I had my wish !
Long. And I had mine !
{Aside.
King. And I mine too, good Lord ! {Aside.
Biron. Amen, so I had mine : is not that a
good word? {Aside.
Dum. 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 !
{Aside.
Dum. Once more I '11 read the ode that I
have writ.
Biron. Once more I '11 mark how love can
vary wit. {Aside.
Dum. {reads.] On a day, alack the day !
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air :
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen, can passage find ;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow :
Air, would I might triumph so !
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn :
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee :
Thou for whom even 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 perjur'd.note;
For none offend where all alike do dote.
Long. Dumain {advancing], thy love is faf
from charity,
That in love's grief desir'st society :
You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,
To be o'erheard and taken napping so.
King. Come, sir {advancing], 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. [fashion ;
I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd your
Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:
Ah me ! says one ; O Jove ! the other cries ;
One her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes;
You would for paradise break faith and troth ;
{To LONG.
And Jove for your love would infringe an oath.
{To DUMAIN.
What will Bir6n say when that he shall hear
A faith infring'd which such a 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 whi p hypocrisy.
{Descends from the tree
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me.
Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to re-
prove
These worms for loving, that art most in love?
Your eyes do make no coaches ; in your tears
There is no certain princess that appears :
You'll not be perjur'd 'tis a hateful thing;
Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting.
But are you not asham'd ? 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 I have 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 tuning 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?
SCENE III.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
207
And where my liege's? all about the breast:
A caudle, ho !
King. 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 moon -like men of strange inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?
Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute's time
In pruning me? When shall you hear that I
Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye,
A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist,
A leg, a limb?
King. Soft ! whither away so fast?
A true man or a thief that gallops so?
Biron. I post from love ; good lover, let me
go-
Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.
faq. God bless the king !
King. What present hast thou there?
Cost. Some certain treason.
King. What makes treason here?
Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir.
King. If it mar nothing neither,
The treason and you go in peace away together.
/ay. I beseech your grace, let this letter be
read;
Our parson misdoubts it ; 'twas treason he said.
King. Biron, read it over.
[Giving him the letter.
Where hadst thou it?
faq. Of Costard.
King. Where hadst thou it?
Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.
King. How now ! what is in you? why dost
thou tear it?
Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy: your grace
needs not fear it.
Long. It did move him to passion, and
therefore let's hear it.
Dum. It is Birdn's writing, and here is his
name. [Picks up the pieces.
Biron. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead \to
COSTARD], you were born to do me
shame.
Guilty, my lord, guilty ; I confess, I confess.
King. What?
Biron. That you three fools lack'd me fool
to make up the mess ;
He, he, 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.
Dum. Now the number is even.
Biron. True, true; we are four;
Will these turtles be gone?
King. Hence, sirs, away.
Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the
traitors stay.
{Exeunt COST. anetjAQ.
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 will not obey an old decree :
We cannot cross the cause why we were born ;
Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.
King* What ! did these rent lines show some
love of thine?
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?
King. What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd
thee now?
My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon,
She an attending star, scarce seen a light.
Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Bir6n :
O, but for my love, day would turn to night !
Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty
Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek;
Where several worthies make one dignity ;
Where nothing wants that want itself doth
seek.
Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,
Fie, painted rhetoric ! O, she needs it not ;
To things of sale a seller's praise belongs ;
She passes praise : then praise too short doth
blot.
A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn,
Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:
Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,
And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy.
O, 'tis the sun, that maketh all things shine !
King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.
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.
King. O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,
The hue of dungeons, and the scowl of night;
And beauty's crest becomes the heavens welL
Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling
spirits of light.
208
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT iv.
O, if in black my lady's brows be deckt,
It mourns that painting and usurping hair
Should ravish doters with a false aspect ;
And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Her favour turns the fashion of the days ;
For native blood is counted painting now ;
And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.
Dum. To look like her are chimney-sweepers
black. [bright.
Long. And, since her time, are colliers counted
King. And Ethiopes of their sweet complex-
ion crack. [is light.
Dum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark
Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in
; v&i rain,
For fear their colours should be washed away.
King. 'Twere good yours did; for, sir, to
tell you plain,
I '11 find a fairer face not wash'd to-day.
Biron. I '11 prove her fair, or talk till dooms-
day here.
King. No devil will fright thee then so much
as she. [dear.
Dum. I never knew man hold vile stuff so
Long. Look, here 's thy love : my foot and
her face see. {Showing his shoe.
Biron. O, if the streets were paved with
thine eyes
Her feet were much too dainty for such tread !
Dum. O vile ! then, as she goes, what up-
ward lies
The street should see as she walk'd over head.
King. But what of this? are we not all in
love? [forsworn.
Biron. O, nothing so sure ; and thereby all
King. Then leave this chat; and, good
Bir6n, now prove
Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.
Dum. Ay, marry, there; some flattery for
this evil.
Long. O, some authority how to proceed ;
Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the
devil.
Dum. Some salve for perjury.
Biron. O, 'tis more than need !
Have at you, then, affection's men-at-arms :
Consider what you first did swear unto ;
To fast, to study, and to see no woman ;
Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth.
Say, can you fast? your stomachs are too young,
And abstinence engenders maladies.
And where that you have vow'd to study, lords,
In that each of you hath forsworn his book,
Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look ?
Why, universal plodding prisons up
The nimble spints 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 when would you, my liege, or you, or you,
In leaden contemplation, have found out
Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes
Of beauteous tutors have enrich'd you with ?
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain,
And therefore, finding barren practisers,
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil ;
But love, first learned in a lady's eyes,
Lives not alone immured in the brain,
But, with the motion of all elements,
Courses as swift as thought in every power,
And gives to every power a double power
Above their functions and their offices.
It adds a precious seeing to the eye :
A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind ;
A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound,
When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd ;
Love's feeling is more soft and sensible
Than are the tender horns of cockled snails ;
Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in
taste :
For valour, is not love a Hercules,
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?
Subtle as sphinx ; as sweet and musical
As bright Apollo s lute, strung with his hair?
And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods
Make/ heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write
Until his ink were 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 aught proves excellent.
Then fools you were these women to forswear ;
Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.
For wisdom's sake a word that all men love,
Or for love's sake a word that loves all men,
Or for men's sake, the authors of these women,
Or women's sake, by whom we men are men,
Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,
Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths :
It is religion to be thus forsworn ;
For charity itself fulfils the law,
And who can sever love from charity?
King. Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to
the field ! [them, lords ;
Biron. Advance your standards, and upon
Pell-mell, down with them ! but be first advis'd
In conflict that you get the sun of them-
SCENE III.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
209
Ijmg. Now to plain-dealing ; lay these glozes
by;
Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?
King. And win them too: therefore let us
devise
Some entertainment for them in their tents.
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,
Forenm fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.
King, Away, away ! no time shall be omitted,
That will be time, and may by us be fitted.
Biron. Allans! A lions ! Sow'd cockle
reap'd no corn ;
And justice always whirls in equal measure :
Light wenches may prove plagues to men
forsworn ;
If so, our copper buys no better treasure.
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I. Another part of the Park.
Enter HOLOFERNES, Sir NATHANIEL, and
DULL.
Hoi. Satis quod sufficit.
Nath. I praise God for you, sir : your reasons
at dinner have been sharp and sententious;
pleasant without scurrility, witty without affec-
tion, audacious without impudency, learned
without opinion, and strange without heresy.
I did converse this quondam day with a com-
panion of the king's, who is intituled, nomin-
ated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado.
Hoi. Novi hominem tanquam te : his humour
is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue
filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and
his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and
thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too
affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate,
as I may call it.
Nath. A most singular and choice epithet.
[ Takes out his table-book.
Hoi. He draweth out the thread of his ver-
bosity finer than the staple of his argument. I
abhor such fanatical fantasms, such insociable
and point-devise companions; such rackers of
orthography, as to speak dout, fine, wnen he
should say doubt; det, when he should pro-
nounce debt, d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth
a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur
nebour ; neigh abbreviated ne. This is abho-
minable (which he would call abominable), it
insinuateth me of insanie : Ne inUlligis,dominc?
to make frantic, lunatic.
Nath. Laus Deo t bone intelligo.
Hoi. Bone! bone for bene: Priscian a
little scratched ; 'twill serve.
Nath. Videsne quis venit?
Hoi. Video ) et gaudeo.
Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD.
Arm. Chirra! [To MOTH.
Hoi. Quare Chirra, not sirrah?
Arm. Men of peace, well encountered.
Hoi. Most military sir, salutation.
Moth. They have been at a great feast of lan-
guages and stolen the scraps.
[ To COSTARD, aside.
Cost. O, they have lived long on the alms-
basket of words ! I marvel thy master hath not
eaten thee for a word ; for you art not so long
by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus : thou
art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.
Moth. Peace ; the peal begins. [tered?
Arm. Monsieur [to HOL.], are you not let-
Moth. Yes, yes; he teaches boys the horn-
book ; What is a, b, spelt backward with the
horn on his head.
Hoi. Ba, pueritta, with a horn added.
Moth. Ba, most silly sheep, with a horn.
You hear his learning.
Hoi. QtiiS) quiz, thou consonant?
Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you
repeat them ; or the fifth, if I.
Hoi. I will repeat them, a, e, i.
Moth. The sheep ; the other two concludes
it ; o, u.
Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediter-
raneum, a sweet touch, a quick venew of wit :
snip, snap, quick and home; it rejoiceth my
intellect : true wit. [which is wit-old.
Moth. Offered by a child to an old man;
Hoi. What is the figure? what is the figure?
Moth. Horns. [thy gig.
Hoi. Thou disputest like an infant : go whip
Moth. Lend me your horn to make one, and
I will whip about your infamy circum circa; a
gig of a cuckold's horn !
Cost. 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. [unguem.
Hoi. O, I smell false Latin; dunghill for
Arm, Arts-man, pr&ambula; we will be
210
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT V.
singled from the barbarous. Do you not edu-
cate youth at the charge-house on the top of
the mountain?
Hoi. Or mons, the hill. [tain.
Arm. At your sweet pleasure, for the moun-
HoL I do, sans question.
Arm. 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.
Hoi. The posterior of the day, most generous
sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for the
afternoon: the word is well culled, choice;
sweet and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure.
Arm. Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and
my familiar, I do assure you, very good friend :
For what is inward between us, let it pass : I
do beseech thee, remember thy courtesy : I be-
seech thee, apparel thy head; and among
other importunate and most serious designs,
and of great import indeed too ; but let that
pass ; for I must tell thee, it will please his grace,
by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor
shoulder; and with his royal finger, thus, dally
with my excrement, with my mustachio: but,
sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I re-
count 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 pa^s. The very all of all is, but,
sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, that the king
would have me present the princess, sweet chuck,
with some delightful ostentation, or show, or
pageant, or antic, or fire-work. Now, under-
standing 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.
Hoi. Sir, you shall present before her the nine
worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some
entertainment of time, some show in the pos-
terior of this day, to be rendered by our assist-
ance, die king's command, and this most
gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, be-
fore the princess; I say, none so fit as to
present the nine worthies.
Nath. Where will you find men worthy
enough to present them?
Hoi. Joshua, yourself; myself, or this gal-
lant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus ; this swain,
because of his great limb or joint, shall pass
Pompey the Great ; the page, Hercules.
Arm. Pardon, sir ; error : he is not quantity
enough for that worthy's thumb : he is not so
big as the end of his club.
Hoi. Shall I have audience? he shall pre-
sent 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 ihe grace to do it.
Arm. For the rest of the worthies?
Hoi. I will play three myself.
Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman !
Arm. Shall I tell you a thing?
Hoi. We attend.
Arm. We will have, if this fadge not, an
antic. I beseech you, follow.
Hoi. Via, goodman Dull ! thou hast spoken
no word all this while
Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir,
Hoi. Allans! we will employ thee.
Dull. I '11 make one in a dance, or so ; or I
will play on the tabor to the worthies, and
let them dance tne hay.
Hoi. Most dull, honest Dull ! to our sport,
away. [Exeunt.
Park,
^avilion.
SCENE II. Another part of the
Before the PRINCESS'S Pavilio
Enter the PRINCESS, KATHARINE, ROSALINE,
and MARIA.
Prin. Swfiet 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.
Ros. Madam, came nothing else along with
that? [in rhyme
Prin. Nothing but this? yes, as much love
As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper,
Writ on both sides the leaf, margent and all ;
That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name.
Ros. That was the way to make his godhead
wax;
For he hath been five thousand years a boy.
Kath. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.
Ros. You '11 ne'er be friends with him ; he
kill'd your sister. [heavy ;
Kath. He made her melancholy, sad, and
And so she died : had she been light, like you,
Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,
She might have been a grandam ere she died :
And so may you ; for a light heart lives long.
Ros. What 's your dark meaning, mouse, of
this light word?
Kath. A light condition in a beauty dark.
Ros. We need more light to find your mean-
ing out. [snuff ;
Kath. You '11 mar the light by taking it in
Therefore, I Ml darkly end the argument.
SCENE II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
211
Ros. Look what you do, you do it still i' the
dark. [wench.
Kath. So do not you; for you are a light
Ros. Indeed, I weigh not youj and there-
fore light.
Kath. You weigh me not ? O, that 's you
care not for me. [care.
Ros. Great reason ; for, Past cure is still past
Prin. Well bandied both ; a set of wit well
play'd.
But, Rosaline, you have a favour too:
Who sent it? and what is it?
Ros. 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 compar'd to twenty thousand fairs.
O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter !
Prin. Anything like?
Ros. Much in the letters; nothing in the praise.
Prin. Beauteous as ink ; a good conclusion.
Kath. Fair as a text B in a copy-book.
Ros. 'Ware pencils, ho ! let me not die your
debtor.
My rod dominical, my golden letter:
O that your face were not so full of O's !
Kath. A pox of that jest! and beshrew all
shrows! [from fair Dumain?
Prin. But, Katharine, what was sent to you
Kath. Madam, this glove.
Prin. Did he not send you twain?
Kath. Yes, madam ; and, moreover,
Some thousand verses of a faithful lover ;
A huge translation of hypocrisy,
Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity.
Mar. This, and these pearls, to me sent
Lpngaville ;
The letter is too long by half a mile. [heart
Prin. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in
The chain were longer and the letter short ?
Mar. Ay, or I would these hands might
never part.
Prin. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
Ros. They are worse fools to purchase mock-
ing so.
That same Biron I '11 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 portent-like would I o'ersway his state
That he should be my fool and I his fate.
Prin. 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.
Ros. The blood of youth burns not with such
excess
As gravity's revolt to wantonness.
Mar. 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. [face.
Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his
Enter BOYET.
Boyet. O, I am stabb'd with laughter!
Where's her grace?
Prin. Thy news, Boyet?
Boyet. Prepare, madam, prepare!
Arm, wenches, arm ! encounters mounted are
Against your peace : Love doth approach dis-
guis'd,
Armed in arguments ; you '11 be surpris'd :
Muster your wits : stand in your own defence ;
Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.
Prin. Saint Dennis to Saint Cupid ! What
are they [say
That charge their breath against us? say, scout,
Boyet. Under the cool shade of a sycamore
I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour ;
When, lo ! to interrupt my purpos'd rest,
Toward that shade I might behold addrest
The king and his companions : warily
1 stole into a neighbour thicket by,
And overheard what you shall overhear,
That, by and by, disguis'd they will be here.
Their herald is a pretty knavish page,
That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage :
Action and accent did they teach him there ;
Thus must thou speak and thus thy body bear\
And ever and anon they made a doubt
Presence majestical would put him out;
For, quoth the king, an angel s halt thou see;
Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.
The boy reply 'd, An angel is not evil;
I should have fear 1 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 hiselbow, thus, andfleer'd, andswore
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.
212
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT v.
That in this spleen ridiculous appears,
To check their folly, passion's solemn tears.
Prin. But what, but what, come they to
visit us? [thus,
Boyet. They do, they do ; and are apparel'd
Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I guess ;
Their purpose is to parle, to court, and dance ;
And every one his love-suit will advance
Unto his several mistress ; which they '11 know
By favours several which they did bestow.
Prin. And will they so? the gallants shall
be task'd :
For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd ;
And not a man of them shall have the grace,
Despite of suit, to see a lady's face.
Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear ;
And then the king will court thee for his dear ;
Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me
thine ;
So shall Biron take me for Rosaline.
And change your favours too ; so shall your loves
Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes.
Ros. Come on, then ; wear the favours most
in sight. [tent?
Kath. But, in this changing, what is your in-
Prin. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs :
They do it but in mocking merriment ;
And mock for mock is only my intent.
Their several counsels they unbosom shall
To loves mistook ; and so be mock'd withal
Upon the next occasion that we meet
With visages display'd to talk and greet.
Ros. But shall we dance if they desire us to 't ?
Prin. 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.
Prin. 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'er-
thrown ;
To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own :
So shall we stay, mocking intended ^Sme ;
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 the KING, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and
DUMAIN, in Russian habits and masked;
MOTH, Musicians, and Attendants.
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 hint.
That ever turn 'd their backs to mortal views!
Biron. Their eyes, villain, their eyes.
Moth. T/fat ever t^^rn' > d their eyes to mortal
views!
Out
Boyet. True ; out indeed. [vouchsafe
Moth. Out of your favours, heavenly spirits
Not to behold
Biron. 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 beameu eyes.
Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings
me out.
Biron. Is this your perfectness? begone, you
rogue. [Exit MOTH.
Ros. What would these strangers? Know
their minds, Boyet :
If they do speak our language, 'tis our will
That some plain man recount our purposes :
Know what they would.
Boyet. What would you with the princess?
Biron. Nothing but peace and gentle visita-
tion.
Ros. What would they, say they? [tion.
Boyet. Nothing but peace and gentle visita-
Ros. Why, that they have ; and bid them so
be gone. [gone.
Boyet. She says you havfc it, and you may be
King. Say to her we have measured many
miles
To tread a measure with her on this grass.
Boyet. They say that they have measured
many a mile
To tread a measure with you on this grass.
Ros. It is not so. Ask them how many inches
Is in one mile : if they have measur'd many,
The measure, then, of one is easily told.
Boyet. If to come hither you have measur'd
miles,
And many miles, the princess bids you tell
How many inches do fill up one mile. [step*.
tliron. Tell her we measure them by weary
Boyet. She hears herself.
Ros. 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.
Ros. My face is but a moon, and clouded toa
SCENE II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
213
King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such
clouds do ! [shine,
Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to
Those clouds removed, upon our wat'ry eyne.
Ros. O vain petitioner ! beg a greater matter ;
Thou now request's! but moonshine in the water.
King. Then, in our measure do but vouch-
safe one change :
Thou bid'st me beg ; this begging is not strange.
Ros. Play music, then : nay, you must do it
soon. [Music plays.
Not yet ; no dance : thus change I like the
moon.
King. Will you not dance? How come you
thus estrang'd?
Ros. You took the moon at fill 1; but now
she 's chang'd. [man.
King. Yet still she is the moon and I the
The music plays ; vouchsafe some motion to it.
Ros. Our ears vouchsafe it.
King. But your legs should do it.
Ros. Since you are strangers, and come here
by chance, [dance.
We'll not be nice; take hands; we will not
King. Why take we hands, then?
Ros. Only to part friends ;
Court'sy, sweet hearts; and so the measure
ends. [nice.
King. More measure of this measure ; be not
Ros. We can afford no more at such a price.
King. Prize you yourselves : what buys your
company?
Ros. Your absence only.
King. That can never be.
Ros. Then cannot we be bought: and so
adieu ;
Twice to your visor and half once to you !
King. If you deny to dance, let } s hold more
chat.
Ros. In private then.
King. I am best pleas'd with that.
[ They converse apart.
Biron. White-handed mistress, one sweet
word with thee. [three.
Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is
Biron. Nay, then, two treys, an if you
grow so nice, [dice !
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey; well run,
There 's half a dozen sweets.
Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu !
Since you can cog, I '11 play no more with you.
Biron. One word in secret.
Prin. Let it not be sweet.
Biron. Thou griev'st my gall.
Prin. Gall? bitter.
Therefore meet.
\ They converse apart.
Duni. Will you vouchsafe with me to cnange
a word?
Alar. Name it.
Duni. Fair lady,
Mar. Say you so? Fair lord,
Take that for your fair lady.
Duni. Please it you,
As much in private, and I '11 bid adieu.
[ They converse apart.
Kath. What, was your visard made without
a tongue?
Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask.
Kath. O for your reason ! quickly, sir ; I
long. [your mask,
Long. You have a double tongue within
And would afford my speechless visard half.
Kath. Veal, quoth the Dutchman; is not
veal a calf?
Long. A calf, fair lady !
Kath. No, a fair lord calf.
Long. Let 's part the word.
Kath. No, I '11 not be your half :
Take all, and wean it ; it may prove an ox.
Long. Look how you butt yourself in these
sharp mocks !
Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.
Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do
row.
ne word in private with you ere I die.
Kath. 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, [swifter things.
Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought,
Ros. Not one word more, my maids ; break
off, break off. [scoff!
Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure
King. Farewell, mad wenches; you have
simple wits.
[Exeunt KING, LORDS, Music, and Attendants.
Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Musco-
vites.
Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at?
Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet
breaths puffed out.
Ros. Well - liking wits they have ; gross,
gross; fat, fat.
Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly- poor flout !
Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-
night ?
Or ever, but in visards, show their faces?
This pert Biron was out of countenance quite.
214
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT v.
Ros. O, they were all in lamentable cases !
The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.
Prin. Bir6n did swear himself out of all suit.
Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his
sword : [mute.
No point, quoth I; my servant straight was
Kath. Lord Longaville said I came o'er his
heart ;
And trow you what he called me?
Prin. Qualm, perhaps.
Kath. Yes, in good faith.
Prin. Go, sickness as thou art !
Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain
statue-caps.
But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.
Prin. And quick Bir6n hath plighted faith
to me. [born.
Kath. And Longaville was for my service
Mar. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on
tree. [ear :
Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give
Immediately they will again be here
In their own shapes ; for it can never be
They will digest this harsh indignity.
Prin. Will they return?
Boyet. They will, they will, God knows,
And leap for joy, though they are lame with
blows ; [repair,
Therefore, change favours ; and, when they
Blow like sweet roses in this summer air.
Prin. How blow? how blow? speak to be
understood. -[bud:
Boyet. Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their
Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture
shown,
Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
Prin. Avaunt, perplexity ! What shall we do
If they return in their own shapes to woo?
Ros. Good madam, if by me you '11 be advis'd,
Let's mock thessi still, as well known as dis-
guis'd :
Let us Complain to them what fools were here,
Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear ;
And wonder what they were, and to what end
Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd,
And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
Should be presented at our tent to us. [hand.
Boyet. Ladies, withdraw ; the gallants are at
Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run over land.
[Exeunt PRIN., Ros., KATH.. W/MAR.
Re-enter the KING, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and
DUMAIN, in their proper habits.
King. Fair sir, God save you ! Where is the
princess ? [maj esty
Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your
Command me any service to her thither?
King. That she vouchsafe me audience for
one word.
Boyet. I will ; and so will she, I know, my
lord. {Exit.
Biron. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons
peas,
And utters it again when God doth please :
He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes, and wassels, meetings, markets, fairs ;
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve,
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve:
He can carve too, and lisp : why this is he
That kiss'd away his hand 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-tongu'd Boyet.
King. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my
heart,
That put Armado's page out of his part !
Biron. See where it comes! Behaviour, what
wert thou [now?
Till this man show'd thee? and what art thou
Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET;
ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, and At-
tendants.
King. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time
of day !
Prin. Fair, in all hail, is foul, as I conceive.
King. Construe my speeches better, if you
may.
Prin. Then wish me better, I will give you
leave.
King. We came to visit you ; and purpose now
To lead you to our court : vouchsafe it then.
Prin. This field shall hold me ; and so hold
your vow:
Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men.
King. Rebuke me not for that which you
provoke ;
The virtue of your eye must break my oath.
Prin. 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:
SCENE II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
So much I hate a breaking cause to DC
Of heavenly oaths, vow'd with integrity.
King. O, you have liv'd in desolation here,
Unseen, un visited, much to our shame.
Prin. Not so, my lord ; it is not so, I swear ;
We have had pastime here, and pleasant game;
A mess of Russians left us but of late.
King. How, madam ! Russians !
Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord ;
Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.
Ros. 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 here with four
In Russian habit ; here they stayM 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. [sweet,
Biron. This jest is dry to me. Fair, gentle
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 [my eye,
Ros. This proves you wise and rich, for in
Biron. I am a fool, and full of poverty.
Ros. 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.
Ros. All the fool mine?
Biron. I cannot give you less.
Ros. Which of the visards was it that you
wore?
Biron. Where? when? what visard? why de-
mand you this? [ous case
Ros. There, then, that visard ; that superflu-
That hid the worse and show'd the better face.
King. We are descried : they '11 mock us now
downright.
Dum. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.
Prin. Amaz'd, my lord? why looks your high-
ness sad?
Ros. Help, hold his brows ! he '11 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 ignor-
ance;
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit ;
And I will wish thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait.
O, never will I trust to speeches penn'd,
Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue ;
Nor never come in visard to my friend ;
Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's song :
Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,
Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation,
Figures pedantical ; these summer-flies
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation ;
I do forswear them : and I here protest,
By this white glove,- how white the hand,
God knows!
Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd
In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes :
And, to begin, wench, so God help me, la!
My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
Ros. Sans sans, I pray you.
Biron. Yet I have a trick
Of the old rage : bear with me, I am sick ;
I '11 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.
Prin. No, they are free that gave these tokens
to us. [undo us.
Biron. Our states are forfeit : seek not to
Ros. 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.
Ros. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.
Biron. Speak for yourselves ; my wit is at an
end. [transgression
King. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude
Some fair excuse.
Prin. The fairest is confession.
Were you not here but even now, disguis'd ?
King. Madam, I was.
Prin. And were you well advis'd?
King. I was, fair madam.
Prin. When you then were here,
What did you whisper in your lady's ear?
King. That more than all the world I did re-
spect her. [reject her.
Prin. When she shall challenge this you will
King. Upon mine honour, no.
in. Peace, peace, forbear;
Your oath once^ broke, you force not to forswear.
King. Despise me when I break this oath of
mine.
216
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT v.
Prin, I will : and therefore keep it : Rosa-
line,
What did the Russian whisper in your ear ?
Ros. 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.
Prin. God give thee joy of him ! the noble
lord
Most honourably doth uphold his word.
King. What mean you, madam ? by my life,
my troth,
I never swore this lady such an oath, [plain ;
Ros. By heaven you did ; and, to confirm it
You gave me this : but take it, sir, again.
King. My faith and this the princess I did
give;
I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.
Prin. Pardon me, sir; this jewel she did wear;
And Lord Bir6n, 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 : [zany,
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight,
some Dick, [trick
That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the
To make my lady laugh when she 's dispos'd,
Told our intents before : which once disclos'd,
The ladies did change favours ; and then we,
Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she.
Now, to our perjury to add more terror,
We are again forsworn, in will and error.
Much upon this it is : and might not you
[To BOYET.
Forestal our sport, to make us thus untrue ?
Do not you know my lady's foot by the squire,
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 allpw'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.
Cost. O Lord, sir, they would know
Whether the three worthies shall come in or no.
Biron. What, are there but three ?
Cost. No, sir ; but it is vara fine,
For every one pursents three.
Biron. And three times thrice is nine.
Cost. 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.
Cost. Under correction, sir, we know where-
until it doth amount. [for nine.
Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes
Cost. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should
get your living by reckoning, sir.
Biron. How much is it ?
Cost. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves,
the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth
amount ; for my 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 ?
Cost. 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.
Cost. We will turn it finely off, sir ; we will
take some care. [Exit COSTARD.
King. 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.
King. I say they shall not come. [now :
Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you
That sport best pleases that doth least know how;
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
Die in the zeal of them which it presents,
Their form confounded makes mostform in mirth,
When great things labouring perish in their birth.
Biron. A right description of our sport, my
lord.
Enter ARMADO.
Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expense
of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of
words. [ARMADO converses -with the KING,
and delivers him a paper.
Prin. Doth this man serve God ?
Biron. Why ask you ? [making.
Prin. He speaks not like a man of God s
Arm. That 's all one, my fair, sweet, honey
monarch : for, I protest, the schoolmaster is ex-
ceeding fantastical ; too, too vain ; too, too vain :
but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna della
SCENE II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
217
guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most
royal couplement ! [Exit ARMADO.
King. Here is like to be a good presence of
worthies. He presents Hector of Troy ; the
swain, Pompey the Great ; the parish curate,
Alexander ; Armado's page, Hercules ; the
pedant, Judas Maccaboeus.
And if these four worthies in their first show
thrive, [other five.
These four will change habits and present the
Biron. There is five in the first show.
King. You are deceived, 'tis not so.
Biron. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-
priest, the fool, and the boy; [again
Abate throw at novum ; and the whole world
Cannot prick out five such, take each one in his
vein. [comes amain.
King. The ship is under sail, and here she
[Seats brought for the KING, PRIN., &>c.
Pageant of the Nine Worthies.
Enter COSTARD, armed, for Pompey.
Cost. I Pompey am
Boyet. You lie, you are not he.
Cost. I Pompey am
Boyet. With libbard's head on knee.
Biron. Well said, old mocker; I must needs
be friends with thee. [Big,
Cost. I Pompey am, Pompey sur named the
Dum. The Great.
Cost. It is Great, sir ; Pompey stirnamed the
Great,
That oft infield, with targe and shield, did make
my foe to sweat ; [chance,
And travelling along this coast, I here am come by
And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass
of France. [had done.
If your ladyship would say, Thanks, Pompey, I
Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey.
Cost. 'Tis not so much worth ; but I hope I
was parfect : I made a little fault in Great.
Biron. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves
the best worthy.
Enter Sir NATHANIEL, armed, for Alexander.
Nath. When in the world I liifd, I was the
worlds commander ;
By east, west, north, and south I spread my con-
quering might :
My' scutcheon plain declares that lamAlisandcr.
Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it
stands too right.
Biron. Your nose smells no in this, most
tender-smelling knight.
The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed,
good Alexander.
Nath. When in the world I li??d, I was the
world's commander : [sander.
Boyet. Most true, 'tis right ; you were so, Ali-
Biroit. Pompey the Great,
Cost. Your servant, and Costard.
Biron. Take away the conqueror, take away
Alisander.
Cost. O, sir [to NATH.], you have overthrown
Alisander the conqueror ! You will be scraped
out of the painted cloth for this : your lion, that
holds his ptoll-ax 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. [S/rNATH. 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, insooth ; 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.
Prin. Stand aside, good Pompey.
Enter HOLOFERNES, armed, for Judas ; and
MOTH, armed, for Hercules.
Hoi. Great Hercules is presented by this imp,
Whose club kitfd Cerberus, that three-headed
canus ;
And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,
Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus:
Quoniam he seemeth in minority,
Ergo I come with this apology.
Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.
[MOTH retires.
Judas I am,
Dum. A Judas !
Hoi. Not Iscariot, sir,
Judas I am, yckped Maccabaus.
Dum. Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas.
Biron. A kissing traitor. How art thou
proved Judas?
Hoi. Judas I am,
Dum. The more shame for you, Judas.
Hoi. What mean you, sir ?
Boyet. To make Judas hang himself.
Hoi. Begin, sir ; you are my elder.
Biron. Well followed : Judas was hanged on
an elder.
Hoi. I will not be put out of countenance.
Biron. Because thou hast no face.
Hoi. What is this?
Boyet. A cittern head.
Dum. The head of a bodkin.
Biron. A death's face in a ring. [seen.
Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce
Boyet. The pummel of Caesar's faulchion.
Dum. The carvM-bone face on a flask.
218
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
LACT v.
Biron. St. George's half-cheek in a brooch.
Dwn. 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 coun-
tenance.
HoL You have put me out of countenance
Biron. False : we have given thee faces.
Hoi. But you have outfaced 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 1 nay, why dost thou
stay?
Ditm. For the latter end of his name.
Biron. For the ass to the Jude ; give it him:
Jud-as, away.
Hoi. This is not generous, not gentle, not
humble.
Boyet. A light for Monsieur Judas ! it grows
dark, he may stumble. [baited !
Prin. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been
Enter ARMADO, armed, for Hector.
Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles : here comes
Hector in arms.
Dunt. Though my mocks come home by me,
1 will now be merry. [this.
King. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of
Boyet. But is this Hector?
Dum. I think Hector was not so clean -
timbered.
Long. His leg is too big for Hector.
Dum. More calf, certain.
Boyet. No ; he is best indued in the small.
Biron. This cannot be Hector. [faces.
Dum. He 's a god or a painter, for he makes
Arm. The armipotent Mars, of lances the al-
mighty,
Gave Hector a gift,
Ditm. A gilt nutmeg.
Biron. A lemon.
Long. Stuck with cloves.
Dum. No, cloven.
Arm. Peace !
The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of I lion ; \_yea,
A man so breathed, that certain he would fight,
From morn till night, out of his pavilion.
2 am that flower,
Dum. That mint.
Long. That columbine.
Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.
Long. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs
against Hector.
Dum, Ay, and Hector 's a greyhound,
Arm. 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. Sweet royalty [to the
PRINCESS], bestow on me the sense of hearing.
[BiRON whispers COSTARD.
Prin. Speak, brave Hector : we are much de*
lighted.
Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace's slipper.
Boyet. Loves her by the foot.
Dum. He may not by the yard. \bal,
Arm. This Hector far surmounted Hanni-
Cost. The party is gone, fellow Hector ; she
is gone : she is two months on her way.
Arm. What meanest thou?
Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan,
the poor wench is cast away : she 's quick ; the
child brags in her belly already ; 'tis yours.
Arm. Dost thou infamonize me among poten-
tates? thou shalt die.
Cost. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaque-
netta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pom-
pey that is dead by him.
Dum. Most rare Pompey !
Boyet. Renowned Pompey!
Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great
Pompey ! Pompey the Huge !
Dum. Hector trembles.
Biron. Pompey is mov'd. More Ates, more
Ates ! stir them on ! stir them on !
Dum. Hector will challenge him.
Biron. Ay, if he have no more man's blood
in 's belly than will sup a flea.
Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee.
Cost. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern
man: I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I
pray you, let me borrow my arms again.
Dum. Room for the incensed worthies.
Cost. I '11 do it in my shirt.
Dum. Most resolute Pompey !
Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole
lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for
the combat? What mean you? you will lose
your reputation.
Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I
will not combat in my shirt.
Dum. You may not deny it : Pompey hath
made the challenge.
Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.
Biron. What reason have you for 't?
Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt;
I go wool ward for penance.
Boyet. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome
for want of linen ; since when, I '11 be sworn, he
wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's ; and
that 'a wears next his heart for a favour.
Enter MERCADE.
Mer. God save you, madam !
SCENE II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
219
Prin. Welcome, Mercade ;
But that thou interrupt'st our merriment.
Mer. I am sorry, madam ; for the news I
bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father,
Prin. Dead, for my life !
Mer. Even so ; my tale is told. [cloud.
hiron. Worthies, away; the scene begins to
Arm. 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 my-
self like a soldier. [Exeunt Worthies.
King. How fares your Majesty?
Prin. Boyet, prepare ; I will away to-night.
King. Madam, not so; I do beseech you,
stay. [lords,
Prin. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious
For all your fair endeavours ; and entreat
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe,
In your rich wisdom, to excuse or hide
The liberal opposition of our spirits ;
If over-boldly we have borne ourselves
In the converse of breath, your gentleness
Was gui ty of it. Farewell, worthy lord ;
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue :
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks
For my great suit so easily obtain'd. [form
King. The extreme parts of time extremely
All causes to the purpose of his speed ;
And often, at his very loose, decides
That which long process could not arbitrate :
And though the mourning brow of progeny
Forbid the smiling courtesy of love
The holy suit which fain it would convince,
Yet, since love's argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it
From what it purpos'd : since to wail friends lost
Is not by much so wholesome-profitable
As to rejoice at friends but newly found.
Prin. I understand you not my griefs are
dull. [of grief;
Biron, Honest plain words best pierce the ear
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 party-coated presence of loose love
Put on by us, if in your heavenly eyes
Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities,
Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewise yours : we to ourselves prove false,
By being once false, for ever to be true
To those that make us both fair ladies, you :
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,
Thus purifies itself and turns to grace, [love ;
Prin. We have receiv'd your letters, full of
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.
Dum. Our letters, madam, show'dmuch more
than jest.
Long. So did our looks.
Ros. We did not quote them so.
King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour,
Grant us your loves.
Prin. A time, methinks, too short
To make a world-without-end bargain in.
No, no, my lord, your grace is perjur'd much,
Full of dear guiltiness ; and therefore this,
If for my love as there is no such cause
You will do aught, this shall you do for me :
Your oath I will not trust ; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world ;
There stay until the twelve celestial signs
Have brought about their 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, challenge me by these deserts,
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,
I will be thine ; and, till that instant, shut
My woeful self up in a mournful house,
Raining the tears of lamentation
For the remembrance of my father's death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part,
Neither intitled in the other's heart.
King. If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,
The sudden hand of death close up mine eye !
Hence ever, then, my heart is in thy breast.
Biron. And what to me, my love? and what~
to me? [rank ;
Ros. You must be purged too ; your sins are
You are attaint with faults and perjury ;
Therefore, if you my favour mean to get,
22O
1 A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest,
But seek the weary beds of people sick.
" Dum. But what to me, my love ? but what
to me?
Kath. A wife ! A beard, fair health, and
honesty ;
With threefold love I wish you all these three.
Dum. O, shall I say I thank you, gentle
wife?
Kath. Not so, my lord ; a twelvemonth
and a day [say :
I '11 mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers
Come when the king doth to my lady come,
Then, if I have much love I '11 give you some.
Dum. I '11 serve thee true and faithfully till
then.
Kath. Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn
again.
Long. What says Maria?
Mar. At the twelvemonth's end
I '11 change my black gown for a faithful friend.
Long. I '11 stay with patience ; but the time
is long.
Mar. 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.
Ros. 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 endeavour 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.
Ros. 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,
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
[ACT v.
Deaf d with the clamours of their own dear
groans,
Will hear your idle scorns, continue them,
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 '11 jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.
Prin. Ay, sweet my lord ; and so I take my
leave. {To the KING.
King. No, madam : we will bring you on
your way. [play ;
Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old
Jack h&th not Jill : these ladies' courtesy
Might well have made out- sport a comedy.
King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth
and a day,
And then 'twill end.
Biron. That 's too long for a play.
Enter ARMADO.
Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,-
Prin. Was not that' Hector?
Dum. The worthy knight of Troy.
Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take
leave : I am a votary ; I have vowed to Jaquen-
etta 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.
King. Call them forth quickly, we will do so.
Arm. Holla ! approach.
Enter HOLOFERNES ; NATHANIEL, MOTH,
COSTARD, and others.
This side is Hiems, Winter this Ver, the
Spring j the one maintained by the owl, the
other by the cuckoo. Vcr, begin.
SONG.
i.
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 !
:&& !o \\iii
II.
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,
SCENE II.]
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
221
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings be
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 Irozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
To-who ;
Tu-whit, to-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 Marions nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
To-who ;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after
the songs of Apollo. You that way ; we this
way. [Exeunt.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
DUKE OF VENICE.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO. ) .,
PRINCE OF ARRAGON! } Smtors * PORTIA '
ANTONIO, the Merchant of Venice.
BASSANIO, his Friend.
SAL!RINO
bALARINO,
GRATIANO,
LORENZO, in love -with JESSICA.
SHYLOCK, a Jew.
TUBAL, a Jew, his Friend.
LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a Clown> Servant to
SHYLOCK.
Friends to ANTONIO and
OLD GOBBO, Father to LAUNCELOT.
SALERIO, a Messenger from Venice.
LEONARDO, Servant to BASSANIO.
BALTHAZAR,
STEPHANO,
\Servants to PORTIA.
PORTIA, a rich Heiress.
NERISSA, her Waiting-maid.
JESSICA, Daughter to SHYLOCK.
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of
Justice, Gaoler, Servants, and other Atten-
dants.
SCENE, Partly at VENICE, and partly at BELMONT, the Seat 0/ PORTIA, on the Continent.
ACT I.
SCENE I. VENICE. A Street.
Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO.
Ant. 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.
Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean ;
There, where your argosies, with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers
That curt'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Solan. 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.
Salar. My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run
But I should think of shallows and of flats
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the
thought
To think on this ; and shall I lack the thought
That such a thing bechanc'd would make me
sad?
But tell not me ; I know Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandize. [it,
Ant. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for
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 merchandize makes me not sad.
Solan. Why, then you are in love.
Ant. Fie, fie!
Solan. Not in love neither ? Then let 's say
you are sad
Because you are not merry : and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are
merry, [Janus,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed
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,
SCENE I.J
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
223
That they '11 not show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well ;
We leave you now with better company.
Salar. I would have stayM till I had made
you merry.
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it your own business calls on you,
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.
Salar. Good-morrow, my good lords.
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we
laugh? say, when?
You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?
Solar. We '11 make our leisures to attend on
yours. {Exeunt SALAR. and SOLAN.
Lor. 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.
Bass. I will not fail you.
Gra. You look not well, Signior Antonio ;
You have too much respect upon the world :
They lose it that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.
Ant. I hold the world but as the world,
Gratiano
A stage, where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.
Gra. 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 ; who, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn those
ears [fools.
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers
I '11 tell thee more of this another time :
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile;
I '11 end my exhortation after dinner. [time :
Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak. [moe,
Gra. Well, keep me company but two years
Thou shah not know the sound of thine own
tongue.
Ant. Farewell: I'llgrowatalkerforthisgear.
Gra. Thanks, i' faith; for silence is only
commendable [dible.
In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not ven-
\Exeunt GRA. and LOR.
Ant. Is that anything now?
Bass. 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. [same
Ant. Well ; tell me now, what lady is this
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?
Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate
By something showinf a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuance:
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
From such a noble rate ; but my chief care
Is to come fairly off from the great debts
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio,
I owe the most, in money and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburthen all my plots and purposes
How to get clear of all the debts I owe. [it *
Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know
And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assur'd
My purse, my person, my extremest means
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. [shaft,
Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
To find the other forth ; and by advent'ring 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 .ttf\
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, [time
Ant. You know me well, and herein spent but
To wind about my love with circumstance ;
224
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT i.
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 press'd unto it : therefore, speak.
Bass. 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 wind? blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors and her sum y 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.
my Antonio, had I but the means
To hold a rival place with one of them,
1 have a mind presages me such thrift
That I should questionless be fortunate, [sea;
Ant. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at
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.
;3YoI ni bns '{.yflora ni t j;ci e.'Ij uwo I.
SCENE II. BELMONT. A Room in PORTIA'S
House.
Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.
For. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is
a- weary of this great world.
Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your
miseries were in the same abundance as youi
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 happi-
ness, therefore, to be seated in the mean :
superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but
competency lives longer.
For. Good sentences, and well pronounced.
Ner. They would be better if well followed.
For. 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 over a cold
decree ; such a hare is madness, the youth, to
skip o'er the meshes of good council, 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?
Ner. Your lather 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 you shall rightly love. But what
warmth is there in your affection towards any
of these princely suitors that are already come?
For. I pray thee, over-name them ; and as
thou namest them, I will describe them; and
according to my description, level at my affec-
tion.
Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince.
For. 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 afraid my
lady his mother played false with a smith.
Ner. Then is there the County Palatine.
For. He doth nothing but frown; as who
should say, An if you will not have me, choose:
he hears merry talcs 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!
Ner. How say you by the French lord,
Monsieur Le Bon?
For. 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 and 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 1
would forgive him ; for if he love me to mad-
ness I shall never requite him.
Ner. What say you then to Falconbridgc,
the young baron of England?
For. 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
SCENE II.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
225
pennyworth in the English. He is a proper
man's picture ; but, alas ! who can converse
with a dumb show? How oddly he is suited !
I think, he bought his doublet in Italy, his
round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany,
and his behaviour everywhere.
Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord,
his neighbour?
For. 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 be-
came his surety, and sealed under for another.
Ner. How like you the young German, the
Duke of Saxony's nephew?
For. Very vilely in the morning when he is
sober ; and most vilely in the afternoon when
he is drunk ; when he is best he is a little worse
than a man ; and when he is worst, he is little
better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever
fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without
him.
Ner. 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.
For. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray
thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the
contrary casket : for, if the devil be within and
that temptation without, I know he will choose
it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be
married to a sponge.
Ner. 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.
For. 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.
Ner. 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?
For. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think,
so was he called.
Ner. True, madam ; he, of all the men that
ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best
deserving a fair lady.
For. I remember him well ; and I r*mmber
him worthy of thy praise.
Enter a Servant.
How now ! what news?
Serv. 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.
For. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so
good heart as I can bid the other four farewell,
I should be glad of his approach : if he have
the condition of a saint and the complexion of
a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than
wive me.
Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.
Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer,
another knocks at the door. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. VENICE. A Public Place.
Enter BASSANIO and SHYLOCK.
Shy. Three thousand ducats, well.
Bass. Ay, sir, for three months.
Shy. For three months, well.
Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio
shall be bound.
Shy. Antonio shall become bound, well.
Bass. May you stead me? Will you plea-
sure me? Shall I know your answer?
Shy. Three thousand ducats for three months,
and Antonio bound.
Bass. Your answer to that.
Shy. Antonio is a good man.
Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the
contrary?
Shy. Ho, no, no ; no, no ; my meaning, in
saying he is a good man, is to have you under-
stand 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.
Bass. Be assured you may.
Shy. I will be assured I may; and, that I
may be assured, I will bethink me. May I
speak with Antonio?
Bass. If it please you to dine with us.
Shy. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habi-
tation which your prophet, the Nazarite, con-
jured the devil into; I will buy with you, sell
with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so
H
220
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT r.
following; but I will not eat with you, drink
with you, nor pray with you. What news on
the Rialto? Who is he conies here?
Enter ANTONIO.
Bass. This is Signior Antonio.
Shy. [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 !
Bass. Shylock, do you hear?
Shy. 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 rne. But soft ! how many months
Do you desire? Rest you fair, good signior:
[ To ANTONIO.
Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor
borrow,
By taking nor by giving of excess,
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
I '11 break a custom. Is he yet possess'd
How much he would?
Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
Ant. And for three monthc. [me so.
Shy. I had forgot, three months ; you told
Well then, your bond; and, let me see,
But hear you :
Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow
Upon advantage.
Ant. I do never use it.
Shy. When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's
sheep,
This Jacob from our holy Abraham was
As his wise mother wrought in his behalf
The third possessor ; ay, he was the third,
Ant. And what of him ? did he take interest?
Shy. No, not take interest; not, as you
would say,
Directly interest : mark what Jacob did.
When Laban and himself were compromis'd
That all the eaniings which were streak'd and
pied [rank,
Should fall as Jacob's hire; the ewes, being
In end of autumn turned to the rams :
And when the work of generation was
Between these woolly breeders in the act,
The skilful shepherd 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 party-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.
Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob
serv'd for ;
A thing not in his power to bring to pass,
But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.
Was this inserted to make interest good?
Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?
Shy. I cannot tell ; I make it breed as fast :
But note me, signior.
Ant. 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 !
Shy. Three thousand ducats, 'tis a good
round sum. [rate.
Three months from twelve, then let me see the
Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden
to you?
Shy. 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,
Shylocky 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 spurted me such a day ; another time
You called me dog; and for these courtesies
/'// lend you thus much moneys.
Ant. 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
SCENE III.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
227
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.
Shy. 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 '11 not hear me :
This is kind I offer.
Bass. This were kindness.
Sky. 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. [bond,
Ant. Content, in faith : I Ml seal to such a
And say there is much kindness in the Jew.
Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for
me:
I'll rather dwell in my necessity. [it ;
Ant. Why fear not, man ; I will not forfeit
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.
Shy. O father Abraham, what these Chris-
tians are,
Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect
The thoughts of others 1 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.
Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.
Shy. 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.
Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew;
[Exit SHYLOCK.
This Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows
kind. [mind.
Bass. I like not fair terms and a villain's
Ant. Come on; in this there can be no
dismay ;
My ships come home a month before the day.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. BELMONT. A Room in PORTIA'S
House.
Flourish of Garnets. Enter the PRINCE OF
MOROCCO and his Train; PORTIA, NERISSA,
and other of her Attendants.
Mor. 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 fearM the valiant ; by my love, I swear,
The best-regarded virgins of our clime
Have lov'd it too : I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
For. 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 hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair
As any comer I have look'd on yet
For my affection.
Mor. 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 out-stare the sternest eyes that look,
Out-brave 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.
For. You must take your chance ;
And either not attempt to choose at all,
Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,
Never to speak to lady afterward
In way of marriage ; therefore be advis'd.
Mor. Nor will not; come, bring me unto
my chance.
For. First, forward to the temple: after
dinner
Your hazard shall be mad.
22$
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
CACT ii.
Mor. Good fortune then !
To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
[Cornets and exeunt.
SCENE II. VENICE. A Street.
--jfi jr "^ iVcruv-i. .
Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.
Laun. 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 Launce-
let 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, Launce-
lot, 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 him-
self. Certainly the Jew is the very devi. incar-
nation : and, in my conscience, my conscience
is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to
counsel me to stay with the Jew. . The fiend
gives the more friendly counsel: I will run,
fiend ; my heels are at your commandment ; I
will run.
Enter Old GOBBO, with a basket.
Gob. Master young man, you, I pray you,
which is the way to master Jew's?
Laun. [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.
Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you,
which is the way to Master Jew's?
Laun. 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.
Gob, 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?
Laun. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
[Aside.] Mark me now; now will I raise the
waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
Gob. 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.
Laun. Well, let his father be what 'a will,
we talk of young Master Launcelot. [sir.
Gob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot,
Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I
beseech you, talk you of young Master Launce-
lot? [ship-
Gob. Of Launcelot, an 't please your master-
Laun. 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.
Gob. Marry, God forbid! the boy was the
very staff of my age, my very prop.
Laun. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-
post, astaff or a prop? Do you know me, father?
Gob. 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?
Laun. Do you not know me, father?
Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know
you not.
Laun. 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 bles-
sing ; truth will come to light ; murder cannot
be hid long: a man's son may; but, in the end,
truth will out.
Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you
are not Launcelot, my boy.
Laun. 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.
Gob. I cannot think you are my son.
Laun. I know not what I shall think of thaf,
but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man ; and I am
sure Margery your wife is my mother.
Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed : I '11 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 thill-horse has
on his tail.
Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's
tail grows backward; I am sure he had more
SCENE II.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
229
itn. nu mm, lauici.
b. God bless your worship! [me?
55. Gramercy: wouldst thou aught with
hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last
saw him.
Gob. Lord, how art thou changed! How
dost thou and thy master agree ? I have brought
him a present. How 'gree you now?
Latin. 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.
Bass. 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.
Laun. To him, father.
Gob.
Bass.
Gob. Here 's my son, sir, a poor boy,
Lann. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's
man, that would, sir, as my father shall specify,
Gob. He hath a great infection, sir, as one
would say, to serve,
Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I
serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father
shall specify,
Gob. His master and he, saving your wor-
ship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins,
Latin. 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,
Gob. I have here a dish of doves that I would
bestow upon your worship ; and my suit is,
Laun. 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.
Bass. One speak for both. What would you?
Laun. Serve you, sir.
Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
Bass. 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.
Laun. 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.
Bass. 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
[To his Followers.
More guarded than his fellows' : see it done.
Laun. Father, in. I cannot get a service,
no: I have ne'er a tongue in my head.
Well ; [looking on his palni\ 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 '3 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 com-
ing in for one man 1 and then to 'scape drown-
ing 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 '11 take my leave of the Tew in the twinkling
of an eye. [Exeunt LAUN. and Old GOB.
Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on
this: [stowM,
These things being bought and orderly be-
Return in haste, for I dp feast to-night
My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go.
Leon. My best endeavours shall be done
herein.
.yuano! fin nfi&ua fi>:-.i ! U3ibA .swaX
Enter GRATIANO.
Gra. Where is your master?
Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. [Exit.
Gra. Signior Bassanio,
Bass. Gratiano!
Gra. I have a suit to you.
Bass. You have obtain'd it
Gra. You must not deny me: I must go
with you to Belmont. [Gratiano;
Bass. Why, then you must. But hear thee,
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 wUd be-
haviour,
I be misconstrued in the place I go to,
And lose my hopes.
Gra. 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 inmy pocket, look demurely,
230
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT ii.
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.
Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing.
Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall not
gage me
By what we do to-night.
Bass. 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.
Gra. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest ;
But we will visit you at supper-time.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. The same. A Room in SHY-
LOCK'S House.
Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT.
Jes. 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.
Laun. 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 somewhat drown my manly spirit ;
adieu ! [Exit.
Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot.
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me
To be asham'd to be my father's child !
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,
Become a Christian, and thy loving wife.
[Exit.
SCENE IV. The same. A Street.
Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and
SOLANIO.
Lor. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time ;
Disguise us at my lodging, and return
All in an hour.
Gra. We have not made good preparation.
Salar. We have not spoke us yet of torch -
bearers. [order'd ;
Solan. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly
And better, in my mind, not undertook.
Lor. 'Tis now but four o'clock ; we have two
hours
To furnish us ;
Enter LAUNCELOT, with a letter.
Friend Launcelot, what's the news?
Laun. An it shall please you to break up
this, it shall seem to signify.
Lor. Iknowthehand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;
And whiter than the paper it writ on
Is the fair hand that writ.
Gra. Love-news, in faith.
Laun. By your leave, sir.
Lor. Whither goest thou?
Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the
Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the
Christian. [Jessica
Lor. Hold here, take this : tell gentle
I will not fail her; speak it privately; go.
Gentlemen, [Exit LAUNCELOT.
Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?
I am provided of a torch-bearer.
Salar. Ay, marry, I '11 be gone about it straight.
Solan. And so will I.
Lor. Meet me and Gratiano
At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
Salar. 'Tis good we do so.
[Exeunt SALAR. and SOLAN.
Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica?
Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath
directed
How I shall take her from her father's house ;
What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with;
What page's suit she hath in readiness.
If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,
It will be for his gentle daughter's sake :
And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
Unless she do it under this excuse,
That she is issue to a faithless Jew.
Come, go with me ; peruse this as thou goest :
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.The same. Before SHYLOCK'S
House.
Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT.
Shy. Well, thou shalt see ; thy eyes shall be
thy judge,
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:
What, Jessica ! thou shalt not gormandize
As thou hast done with me ; What, Jessica !
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out ;
Why, Jessica, I say !
Laun. Why, Jessica ! [call.
Shy. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee
Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me I
could do nothing without bidding.
SCENE V.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
231
Enter JESSICA.
Jes. Call you? what is your will?
Sky. 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 '11 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.
Lattn. I beseech you, sir, go; my young
master doth expect your reproach.
Shy. So do I his.
Laun. And they have conspired together,
I will not say you shall see a masque; but if
you do, then it was not for nothing that my
nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday last at
six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year
on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the after-
noon.
Shy. What! are there masques? Hear you
me, Jessica :
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,
And the vile squeaking 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 case-
ments :
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.
Laun. I will go before, sir.
Mistress, look out at window for all this ;
There will come a Christian by
Will be worth a Jewess' eye. [Exit.
Shy. What says that fool of Hagar's off-
spring, ha? [nothing else.
Jes. His words were, Farewell, mistress ;
Shy. The patch is kind enough, but a huge
feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild cat : drones hive not with
me ;
Therefore I part with him ; and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in ;
Perhaps I will return immediately :
Do as I bid you ;
Shut doors after you : fast bind, fast find
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [Exit.
Jes. Farewell; and if my fortune be not
cross'd,
I have a father, you a daughter, last. [Extt.
SCENE VI. The same.
Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, mas/ted.
Gra. This is the pent-house under which
Lorenzo
Desir'd us to make stand.
Salar. His hour is almost past.
Gra. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
Salar. O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
To seal love's bonds new made, than they are
wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited ! [feast
Gra. That ever holds; who riseth from a
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 !
Solar. Here comes Lorenzo; more of this
hereafter.
Enter LORENZO.
Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for mj
long abode ;
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait :
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives
I '11 watch as long for you then. Approach ;
Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who 's within?
Enter JESSICA, above^ in boys clothes.
Jes. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
Albeit I '11 swear that I do know your tongue.
Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love.
Jes. Lorenzo, certain ; and my love indeed ;
For who love I so much? and now who knows
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
Lor. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness
that thou art. [pains.
Jes. Here, catch this casket ; it is worth the
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much asham'd of my exchange :
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit ;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
Tc see me thus transformed to a boy.
Lor. Descend, for you must be my torch -
bearer. [shames?
Jes. What! must I hold a candle to my
They in themselves, good sooth, are too, too
light.
232
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT ii.
Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love ;
And I should be obscur'd.
Lor. 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.
fes. I will make fast the doors, and gild my-
self
With some more ducats, and be with you
straight. [Exit, above.
Gra. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no
Jew.
Lor. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily :
For she is wise, if I can judge of her ;
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true ;
And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true.
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.
Enter JESSICA, below.
What, art thou come? On> gentlemen, away;
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
[Exit, with JES. and SALAR.
Enter ANTONIO.
Ant. Who 's there?
Gra. Signior Antonio I
Ant. Fie, fie"^ Gratiano! where are all the
rest?
'Tis nine o'clock: our friends all stay for
you:
No mask to-night : the wind is come about ;
Bassanio presently will go aboard :
I have sent twenty out to seek for you.
Gra. I am glad on 't ; I desire no more delight
Than to be under sail, and gone to-night.
\Exeunt.
SCENE VII. BELMONT. A Room in
PORTIA'S House.
Flourish of Cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the
PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their Trains.
For. Go draw aside the curtains, and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.
Now make your choice.
Mor. The first of gold, who this inscription
bears ; [desire.
Who chooseth me shall gain what many men
The second, silver, which this promise carries ;
Who. chooseth me shall get as mtich as he deserves.
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt;
IVho chooseth me must give and hazard all he
hath.
How shall I know if I do choose the right?
For. The one of them contains my picture,
prince ;
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
Mor. Some god direct my judgment ! Let
me see, .
I will survey the inscriptions back again :
What says this leaden casket? [hat fa
Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he
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 '11 then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.
What says the silver with her virgin hue?
Who choossth 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 lad}- :
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 grav'd in gold.
Who chooseth me shall gain -what many men
desire. [her :
Why, that's the lady: all the world desires
From the four corners of the earth they come,
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint.
The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now
For princes to come view fair Portia :
The wat'ry 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 dam-
nation
To think so base a thought : it were too gross
To rid her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think in silver she 's immur'd,
Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?
O sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem [land
Was set in worse than gold. They have in Eng-
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 !
For. There, take it, prince ; and if my form
lie there,
Then I am yours. [He opens the golden casket.
SCENE VIII.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE,
233
Mor. O hell ! what have we here ?
A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll ! I '11 read the writing.
All that glisters is not gold,
Often have you heard that told ;
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold ;
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd
Fare you well ; your suit is cold.
Cold indeed, and labour lost :
Then, farewell heat ; and, welcome frost.
Portia, adieu ! I have too griev'd a heart
To take a tedious leave : thus losers part.
[Exit with his Train.
For. A gentle riddance. Draw the cur-
tains, go.
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VIII. VENICE. A Street.
Enter SALARINO and SOLANIO.
Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail ;
With him is Gratiano gone along ;
And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.
Solan. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd
the duke,
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
Salar. 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 certify'd the duke
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
Solan. 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 du-
cats 1
Justice I 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 s tones , two rich and precious
stones,
Stolen by my daughter ! Justice ! findtht girl!
She hath the stones iipon her and the ducats!
Salar. Why, all the boys in Venice follow
him, [ducats.
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his
Solan. Let good Antonio look he keep his
day,
Or he shall pay for this.
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.
Solan. You were best to tell Antonio what
you hear ;
Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not the
earth.
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part :
Bassanio tola him he would make some speed
Of 'as return ; he answer'd Do not so ;
Shibber not business for my sake, Bassanio,
But stay the very riping of the time ; rfor
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 chief est thoughts
To courtship, and suck 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.
Solan. 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.
Salar. Do we so. [Exeunt.
SCENE IX. BELMONT. A Room in PORTIA'S
House.
i won
Enter NERISSA, with a Servant.
Ner. 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 PRTKCE OF
ARRAGON, PORTIA, and their Trains.
For. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble
prince.
If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd .
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.
Ar. 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.
234
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT in.
For. To these injunctions every one doth
swear
That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
Ar. And so have I address'd me. Fortune
now [lead.
To my heart's hope! Gold, silver, and base
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. [meant
What many men desire. That many may be
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 mttch as he deserves:
And well said too ; for who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honourable [snme
Without the stamp of merit ! Let none pre-
To wear an undeserved dignity.
O, that estates, degrees, and offices,
Were not deriv'd corruptly! and that clear
honour
Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer !
How many then should cover that stand bare !
How many be commanded that command !
How much low peasantry would then be
glean'd [honour
From the true seed of honour ! and how much
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.
For. Too long a pause for that which you
find there. [idiot
Ar. What 's here ? the portrait of a blinking
Presenting me a schedule ! I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia !
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings !
Who choosetk 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 ?
For. To offend and judge are distinct offices
And of opposed natures.
Ar.
What is here?
The fire seven limes 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 '11 keep my oath,
Patiently to bear my roth.
[Exit with his Train.
For. Thus hath the candle singed the moth.
O these deliberate fools ! when they do choose,
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.
Ner. The ancient saying is no heresy,
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
For. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Where is my lady?
For. Here; what would my lord?
Serv. 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 forespurrer comes before his lord.
For. 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 :n praising
him.
Come, come, Nerissa ; for I long to see
Quick Cupid's post, that comes so mannerly.
Ner. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be !
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I. VENICE. A Street.
Enter SoLANio and SALARINO.
Solan. Now, what news on the Rialto?
Salar. Why, yet it lives there unchecked,
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 carcases of many a tall ship lie buried,
SCENE I.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
335
as they say, if my gossip report be an honest
woman of her word.
Solan. I would she were as lying a gossip in
that as ever knapped ginger or made her neigh-
bours 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 !
Salar. Come, the full stop.
Solan. Ha, what sayest thou? Why the
end is, he hath lost a ship.
Salar. I would it might prove the end of his
losses !
Solan. 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 mer-
chants?
Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well
as you, of my daughter's flight.
Salar. That 's certain : I, for my part, knew
the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.
Solan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew
the bird was fledg'd ; and then it is the com-
plexion of them all to leave the dam.
Shy. She is damned for it.
Salar. That 's certain, if the devil may be her
judge.
Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel !
Solan. Out upon it, old carrion ! rebels it at
these years?
Shy. I say my daughter is my flesh and blood.
Salar. 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?
Shy. 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.
Salar. Why, I am sure if he forfeit thou wilt
not take his flesh. What 's that good for?
Shy. To bait fish withal : if it will feed no-
thing else it will feed my revenge. He hath
disgraced me and hindered me of 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, di-
mensions, sensesj affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, sub-
ject 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.
Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at
his house, and desires to speak with you both.
Salar. We have been up and down to seek
him.
Solan. Here comes another of the tribe; a
third cannot be matched unless the devil himself
turn Jew.
[Exeunt SOLAN., SALAR., aw^Serv.
Enter TUBAL.
Shy. How now, Tubal, what news from
Genoa? hast thou found my daughter?
Tub. I often came where I did hear of her,
but cannot find her.
Shy. Why there, there, there, there! a
diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in
Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our
nation till now ; I never felt it till now : two
thousand ducats in that; and other precious,
precious jewels. I would my daughter were
dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear!
would she were hearsed at my foot, and the
ducats in her coffin ! No news of them ? Why,
so : and I know not what 's spent in the search.
Why, thou loss upon loss ! the thief gone with
so much, and so much to find the thief; and no
satisfaction, no revenge : nor no ill luck stirring
but what lights o' my shoulders ; no sighs but o'
my breathing ; no tears but o'" my shedding.
Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too?
Antonio, as I heard in Genoa,
Shy. What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?
Tub. hath an argosy cast away coming from
Tripolis.
Shy. I thank God, I thank God. Is it true?
is it true?
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT in.
Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that
escaped the wreck.
Sky. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news,
good news: ha ! ha! Where? in Genoa?
Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard,
one night, fourscore ducats.
Sky. Thou stick' st a dagger in me : 1 shall
never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at
a sitting ! fourscore ducats !
Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditor's
in my company to Venice that swear he cannot
choose but break.
Shy. I am very glad of it : I '11 plague him ;
I '11 torture him : I am glad of it.
Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he
/lad of your daughter for a monkey.
Shy. 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.
Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone.
Shy. Nay, that 's true ; that 's very true. Go,
Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fort-
night before. I will have the heart of him if he
forfeit ; for, were he out of Venice, I can make
what merchandize I will. Go, go, Tubal, and
meet me at our synagogue : go, good Tubal ; at
our synagogue, Tubal. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. BELMONT. A Room in PORTIA'S
House. .,, . M0 i
Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO,
NERISSA, and Attendants.
Por. 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, butit isnot love,
I would not lose you : and you know yourself
Hate counsels not in such a quality :
But lest you should not understand me well,
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,
I would detain you here some month or two
Before you venture for me. I could teach you
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn ;
So will I never be ; so may you miss me :
But if you do, you '11 make me wish a sin,
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,
They have o'erlook'ci me and divided me ;
One half of me isyours, 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 peise the time,
To eke it, and to draw it out in length,
To stay you from election.
Bass. Let me choose ;
For, as I am, I live upon the rack.
Por. Upon the rack, Bassanio? then confess
What treason there is mingled with your love.
Bass. 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.
Por. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,
Where men, enforced, do speak anything.
Bass. Promise me life, and I '11 confess the
truth.
Por. Well, then, confess and live.
Bass. Confess and love
Had been the very sum of my confession :
happy torment, when my torturer
Doth teach me answers for deliverance !
But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
[Curtain drawn from before the caskets.
Por. Away, then. I am lock'd in one ot
them;
If you do love me you will find me out.-^X
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 [stream
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the
And wat'ry death-bed for him. He may win,
And what is music then? then music is
Even as the flourish when true subjects bow
To a new-crowned monarch : such it is
As are those dulcet sounds in break of day
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,
With no less presence but with much more love
Than young Alcides when he did redeem
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy
To the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice ;
The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,
With bleared visages, come forth to view
The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules !
Live thou, I live. With much, much more
dismay
1 view the fight than thou that mak'st the fray.
Music and the following Song whilst BASSANIO
comments on the caskets to himself.
Tell me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is 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, aong, be!L
SCENE II.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
237
Bass. So may the outward shows be least
themselves ;
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt
But, being season'd with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil ? In religion,
What damned error but some sober brow
Will bless it, and approve it with a text,
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
There is no vice so simple but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars ;
Who, inward search'd, have livers white as
milk !
And these assume but valour's excrement
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty
And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight
Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them lightest that wear most of it :
So are those crisped snaky golden locks,
Which make such wanton gam bols 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, [aught,
Which rather threat'nest than dost promise
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence,
And here choose I. Joy be the consequence !
For. How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd de-
spair,
And shudd'ring fear, and green-ey*d jealousy !
love, be moderate, allay thy ecstacy,
In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess ;
1 feel too much thy blessing ; make it less,
For fear I surfeit !
Bass. 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 j so sweet a bar [hairs
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her
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 [scroll,
Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the
The continent and summary of my fortune.
You that choose not by the view,
Chance as fair and choose as true !
Since this fortune falls to you,
Be content and seek no new.
If you be well 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:
[Kissing her,
I come by note, to give and to receive.
Like one of two contending in a prize,
That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,
Hearing applause and universal shout,
Giddy in spirit, still gazing, in a doubt
Whether those peals of praise be his or no,
So, thrice fair lady, stand I even so ;
As doubtful whether what I see be true,
Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.
For. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I
stand,
Such as I am : though for myself alone
I would not be ambitious in my wish
To wish myself much better ; yet for you
I would be trebled twenty times myself ;
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times
More rich ;
That only to stand high in your account
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account : but the full sum of me
Is sum of something, which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd :
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn ; and 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 j and even now, but now
This house, these servants, and this same my-
self
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.
238
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT in.
Bass. 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, [ring
Express'd, and not express'd. But when this
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence;
O, then, be bold to say Bassanio's dead.
Ner. 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 !
Gra. 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.
Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get
a wife.
Gra. I thank your lordship; you have get
me one.
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ;
You lov'd, I lov'd ; for intermission
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,
And so did mine too, as the matter falls.-
For wooing here until I sweat again,
And swearing till my very roof was dry
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,
I got a promise of this fair one here,
To have her love provided that your fortune
Achiev'd her mistress.
For. Is this true, Nerissa?
Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal.
Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?
Gra. Yes, faith, my lord.
Bass. Our feast shall be much honour'd in
your marriage.
Gra. We'll play with them, the first boy
for a thousand ducats.
Ner. What, and stake down?
Gra. 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, Solanio !
Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SOLANIO.
Bass. Lorenzo and Solanio, 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.
For. So do I, my lord ;
They are entirely welcome. [lord,
Lor. I thank your honour. For my part, my
My purpose was not to have seen you here ;
But meeting with Solanio by the way,
He did entreat me past all saying nay,
To come with him along.
Solan. I did, my lord,
And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio
Commends him to you.
[Gives BASSANIO a letter.
Bass. Ere I ope his letter,
I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.
Solan. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;
Nor well, unless in mind : his letter there
Will show you his estate.
[BASS, reads the letter.
Gra. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger ; bid her
welcome. [Venice ?
Your hand, Solanio: what's the news from
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.
SoHn. Would you had won the fleece that
he hath lost ! [same paper,
For. There are some shrewd contents in yond
That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek ;
Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the world
Could turn so much the constitution [worse ?
Of any constant man. What, worse and
With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself,
And I must freely have the half of anything
That this same paper brings you.
Bass. O sweet Portia,
Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words
That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady,
When I did first impart my love to you
I freely told you all the wealth I had
Ran in my veins I was a gentleman ;
And then I told you true : and yet, dear lady,
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see
How much I was a braggart. When I told you
My state was nothing, I should then have told
you
That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed,
I have engag'd myself to a dear friend,
Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy,
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady,
The paper as the body of my friend,
And every word in it a gaping wound,
Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Solanio?
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 -mar ring rocks?
SCENE II.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
239
Solan. 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.
Jes. 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.
Por. Is it your dear friend that is thus in
trouble?
Bass. 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.
Por. What sum owes he the Jew?
Bass. For me, three thousand ducats.
Por. 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.
Bass. [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 /, if I might but see you at my death: not-
withstanding, use your pleasure ; if your love
do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.
Por. O love, despatch all business, and be
gone.
Bass. 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.
SCENE III. VENICE. A Street.
Enter SHYLOCK, SALARINO, ANTONIO, and
Gaoler.
Shy. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of
mercy ;
This is the fool that lent out money gratis.
Gaoler, look to him.
Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock.
Shy. I '11 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.
Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak.
Shy. I'll have my bond; I will not hear
thee speak :
I'll have my bond ; and therefore speak no more.
I '11 not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool,
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
To Christian intercessors. Follow not ;
I '11 have no speaking : I will have my bond.
[Exit.
Salar. It is the most impenetrable cur
That ever kept with men.
Ant. Let him alone ;
I '11 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.
Salar. I am sure the duke
Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
Ant. The duke cannot deny the course of law ;
For the commodity that strangers have
With us in Venice, if it be denied,
Will much impeach the justice of the state ;
Since that the trade and profit of the city
Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go :
These griefs and losses have so 'bated me
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh
To-morrow to my bloody creditor.
Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not !
[Exeunt.
240
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT in.
SCENE IV. BELMONT. A Room in PORTIA'S
/A9f be. House.
Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA,
and BALTHAZAR.
Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your
presence,
You have a noble and a true conceit
Of god-like 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.
Por. 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,
Wnich 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 cruelty !
This comes too near the praising of myself;
Therefore, no more of it: hear other things.
Lorenzo, I commit into your hands
The husbandry and manage of my house
Until my lord's return : for mine own part,
I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow
To live in prayer and contemplation,
Only attended by Nerissa here,
Until her husband and my lord's return :
There is a monastery two miles off,
And there we will abide. I do desire you
Not to deny this imposition,
The which my love and some necessity
Now lays upon you.
Lor. Madam, with all my heart
I shall obey you in all fair commands.
Por. My people do already know my mind,
And will acknowledge you and Jessica
In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.
So fare you well till we shall meet again.
Lor. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on
you!
fes. I wish your ladyship all heart's content.
Por. I thank you for your wish, and am well
pleas'd
To wish it back on you : fare you well, Jessica.
[Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO.
Now, Balthazar,
As I have ever found thee honest, true,
So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,
And use thou all the endeavour of a man
In speed to Padua; see thou render thia-i sdT
Into my cousin's hand, Doctor Bellario ;
And, look, what notes and garments he doth
give thee
Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed
Unto the tranect, to the common ferry [words,
Which trades to Venice : waste no time in
But get thee gone ; I shall be there before thee.
Baltk. Madam, I go with all convenient
speed. [Exit.
Por. Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand
That you yet know not of: we '11 see our hus-
bands
Before they think of us. urO O j
Ner. Shall they see us?
Por. They shall, Nerissa ; but in such a habit
That they shall think we are accomplished
With that we lack. I '11 hold thee any wager,
When we are both accouter'd like young men,
I '11 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
In*o 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 '11 repent,
And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them:
And twenty of these puny lies I '11 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.
Ner. Why, shall we turn to men?
Por, Fie ! what a question 's that
If thou wert ne'er a lewd interpreter?
But come, I '11 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.
**. -X^IO'*
SCENE V.Tke same. A Garden.
Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.
Laun. Yes, truly ; for, look you, the sins of
the father are to be laid upon the children;
therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was
always plain with you, and so now I speak my
agitation of the matter : therefore, be of good
cheer; for, truly, I think you are damned.
There is but one hope in it that can do you any
good; and that is but a kind of bastard hope
neither.
SCENE V.j
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
241
Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee ?
Laun. Marry, you may partly hope that your
father got you not, that you are not the Jew's
daughter.
Jes. That were a kind of bastard hope, in-
deed; so the sins of my mother should be
visited upon me.
Laiin. 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.
Jes. I shall be saved by my husband ; he hath
made me a Christian.
Laun. Truly, the more to blame he : we were
Christians enow before ; e'en as many as could
well live, one by another. This making of
Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we
grow all to be pork eaters we shall not shortly
have a rasher on the coals for money.
Jes. I '11 tell my husband, Launcelot, what
you say ; here he comes.
Enter LORENZO.
jfjii ji- '..'.. * 173 v/ f.s v_sm tfu/
Lor. I shall grow jealous of you shortly,
Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners.
Jes. Nay, you need not fear for 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 convert-
ing Jews to Christians, you raise the price of
pork.
Lor. 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.
Latin. 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.
Lor. How every fool can play upon the
word ! I think the best grace of wit will shortly
turn into silence, and discourse grow commend-
able in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah ;
bid them prepare for dinner.
Laun. That is done, sir; they have all
stomachs.
Lor. Goodly lord, what a wit-snapper are
you ! then bid them prepare dinner.
Laun. That is done too, sir : only, cover is
the word.
Lor. Will you cover, then, sir?
Laun. Not so, sir, neither ; I know my duty.
Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occasion !
Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in
an instant? I pray thee, understand a plain
man in his plain meaning : go to thy fellows ;
bid them cover the table, serve in the meat,
and we will come in to dinner.
Laun. 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.
Lor. O dear discretion, how his words are
suited !
The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words ; and I do know
A many fools that stand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica?
And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,
How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?
Jes. 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, il 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.
Lor. Even such a husband
Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.
Jes. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.
Lot. I will anon; first let us go to dinner.
Jes. Nay, let me praise you while I have a
stomach.
Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk :
Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other
things
I shall digest it.
Jes. Well, I '11 set you forth. [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. VENICE, A Court of Justice.
Enter the DUKE, the Magnificoes : ANTONIO,
BASSANIO, GRAfiANo, SALARINO, SOLA-
NIO, and others.
\
Duke. What, is Antonio here?
Ant. Ready, so please your grace.
Duke. I am sorry for thee j thou art come to
answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.
Ant. I have heard
Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands ob-
durate.
242
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT iv.
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. [my lord.
Solan. He's ready at the door: he comes,
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 lose 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 ;
Enough 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.
Shy. 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 '11 ask me why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
Three thousand ducats : I '11 not answer that :
But say, it is my humour. Is it answered?
What if my house be troubled with a rat,
And I be pleas'd 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,
Master 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 swollen bagpipe, but of force
Must yield to such inevitable shame
As to offend, himself being offended :
So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?
Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my
answer. [love?
Bass. Do all men kill the thing they do not
Shy. Hates any man the thine he would not
kill?
Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first.
Shy. What ! wouldst thou have a serpent
sting thee twice? [the Jew :
Ant. I pray you, think you question with
You may as well go stand upon the beach
And bid the main-flood bait 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 fretted with the gusts of heaven ;
You may as well do anything most hard
As seek to soften that, than which what's
harder? [you*
His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech
Make no more offers, use no further means,
But, with all brief and plain conveniency,
Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.
Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is
six.
Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond.
Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy,
rend'ring none? [no wrong?
Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing
You have among you many a purchas'd slave,
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them. Shall I say to you,
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands? You will
answer,
The slaves are ours : So do I answer you ;
The pound of flesh which I demand of him
Is dearly bought, is 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.
SCENE I.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
243
Solan. My lord, here stays without
A messenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua. [senger.
Duke. Bring us the letters; call the mes-
Bass. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man,
courage yet ! [and all,
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones,
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
Ant. 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 lawyers clerk.
Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
Ner. From both, my lord : Bellario greets
your grace. [Presents a letter.
Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so
earnestly? [rupt there.
Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bank-
Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh
Jew,
Thou mak'st thy knife keen : but no metal can,
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the
keenness [thee?
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce
Shy. No ; none that thou hast wit enough to
make.
Gra. O, be thou damn'd, inexorable dog !
And for thy life let justice be accus'd.
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men : thy currish spirit
Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human
slaughter,
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,
Infus'd itself in thee ; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous.
Shy. 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?
Ner. He attendeth here hard by,
To know your answer, whether you '11 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 Balt-
hazar: I acquainted him with the cause in controversy
between the Jew and Antonio the merchant : we turned
o'er many books together : he is furnish d with my
opinion ; which, better'd with his own learning (the
greatness whereof I cannot enough commend), comes
with him, at my importunity to fill up your grace's re-
quest in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of year
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: came you from old
Bellario?
For. I did, my lord. [place.
Duke. You are welcome : take your
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court ?
For. I am informed throughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the
Jew? [forth.
Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand
For. Is your nair * Shylock ?
Shy. Shylock is my name.
For. Of a stiange 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?
[To ANTONIO.
Ant. Ay, so he says.
For. Do you confess the bond?
Ant. I do.
For. Then must the Jew be merciful.
Shy. On what compulsion must I? tell me
that.
For. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ;
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 ;
Bui mercy is above this scepter'd sway,
It is enthroned in the heart 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
244
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT IV.
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. [law,
Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
For. Is he not able to discharge the money?
Bass. 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 [you,
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech
Wrest once the law to your authority :
To do a great right do a little wrong,
And curb this cruel devil of his will. [Venice
For. It must not be; there is no power in
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.
Shy. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a
Daniel !
O wise young judge 1 how I do honour thee !
For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor; here
it is.
For. Shylock, there's thrice thy money
offered thee.
Shy. An oath, an oath ; I have an oath in
heaven :
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice.
For. Why, this bond is forfeit;
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut oft
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful !
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond.
Shy. 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.
Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
For. Why then, thus it is.
You must prepare your bosom for his knife :
Shy. O noble judge! O excel lent young man!
For. For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty,
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
Shy. 'Tis very true: O wise and upright
judge,
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
For. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
Shy. Ay, his breast :
So says the bond; doth it not, noble judge?
Nearest his heart : those are the very words.
For. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh
The flesh?
Shy. I have them ready.
For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on
your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
Shy. Is it so nominated in tne bond?
For. It is not so express'd ; but what of that?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
Shy. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond.
For. Come, merchant, have you anything to
say?
Ant. But little; I am arm'd and well pre-
par'd.
Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well !
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ;
For herein fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom : it is still her use
To let the wretched man out-live 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 lov'd you ; speak me fair in death ;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not 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 '11 pay it instantly with all my heart.
Bass. 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.
For. Your wife would give you little thanks
for that,
If she were by to hear you make the offer.
Gra. 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.
Ner. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ;
The wish would make else an unquiet house.
Shy. These be the Christian husbands: I
have a daughter;
Would any of the stock of Barrabas
SCENE I.]
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
245
Had been her husband, rather than a Christian !
[Aside.
We trifle time ; I pray thee, pursue sentence.
For. A pound of that same merchant's flesh
is thine ;
The court awards it and the law doth give it.
Shy. Most rightful judge ! [his breast ;
For. And you must cut this flesh from off
The law allows it and the court awards it.
Shy. Most learned judge! A sentence;
come, prepare. [else.
For. Tarry a little; there is something
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, if thou dost shed [goods
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice. [learned judge !
Gra. O upright judge! Mark, Jew; O
Shy. Is that the law?
For. Thyself shall see the act :
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd
Thou shall have justice, more than thou desir'st.
Gra. O learned judge! Mark, Jew; a
learned judge ! [thrice,
Shy. I take this offer then, pay the bond
And let the Christian go.
Bass. Here is the money.
For. Soft; [haste:
The Jew shall have all justice: soft; no
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
Gra. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned
judge ! [flesh.
For. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much
As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple : nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew !
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
For. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy for-
feiture.
Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go.
Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is.
For. He hath refus'd it in the open court ;
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
Gra. A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel !
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ?
For. Thou shalthave nothing but the forfeiture
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of it !
I '11 stay no longer question.
For. Tarry, Jew* !
The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
If it be prov'd 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 contriv'd against the very life
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
Gra. 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
charge. [spirit,
Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our
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.
For. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio.
Shy. 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.
For. What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
Gra. A halter gratis ; nothing else : for God's
sake.
Ant. 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.
For. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou
say?
Shy. I am content.
For. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
2 4 6
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT IV.
Shy. 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.
Gra. In christening, thou shalt 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.
For. I humbly do desire your grace of par-
don;
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, Magnificoes, and Train.
Bass. 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.
Ant. And stand indebted, over and above
In love and service to you evermore.
Por. 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.
Bass. 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.
Por. You press me far, and therefore I will
yield.
Givemeyourglovcs, 1*11 wear them foryoursake;
And, for your love, I '11 take this ring from you:
Do not draw back your hand ; I '11 take no
more;
And you in love shall not deny me this.
Bass. This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle;
I will not shame myself to give you this.
Por. I will have nothing else but only this ;
And now, methinks, I have a mind to it.
Bass. 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.
Por. 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.
Bass. 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.
Por. That 'scuse serves many men to save
their gifts.
An if your wife be not a mad woman,
And know how well I have deserv'd this ring,
She would not hold out enemy for ever,
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!
[Exeunt PORTIA and NERISSA.
Ant. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
Let his deservings, and my love withal,
Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment.
Bass. 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.
[Exeum
SCENE II. The same. A Street.
Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.
Por. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him
this deed,
And let him sign it ; we '11 away to-night,
And be a day before our husbands home.
This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.
Enter GRATIANO.
Gra. Fair sir, you are well overta'en :
My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice,
Hath sent you here this ring ; and doth entreat
Your company at dinner.
Por. 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.
Gra. That will I do.
Ner. Sir, I would speak with you :
I '11 see if I can get my husband's ring,
[To PORTIA.
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
Por. Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have
old swearing
That they did give the rings away to men ;
But we '11 outface them, and outswear them too.
Away, make haste ; thou know'st where I will
tarry.
Ner. Come, good sir, will you show me to
this house? [Exeunt.
SCKNfc I.]
THE MERCHANT OK VENICE.
247
ACT V.
SCENE I. BELMONT. . Pleasure grounds of
PORTIA'S House.
Enter LORENZO and JESSICA.
Lor. The moon shines bright ! In such a
night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise ; in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.
Jes. In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew,
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismay'd away.
Lor. In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav'd her love
To come again to Carthage.
Jes. In such a night
Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
That did renew old /Eson.
Lor. In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew
And, with an unthrift love, did run from Venice
As far as Belmont.
Jes. In such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne'er a true one.
Lor. In such a night
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
Jes. I would out-night you, did nobody come :
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
Enter STEPHANO.
Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
Steph. A friend.
Lor. A friend ! what friend ? your name, I
pray you, friend ?
Steph. 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.
Lor. Who comes with her?
Steph. None but a holy hermit and her maid.
I pray you, is my master yet return'd?
Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from
him.
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
And ceremoniously let us p'repare
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
Enter LAUNCELOT.
Laun. Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola, sola t
Lor. Who calls?
Laun. Sola! did you se Master Lorenzo
and Mistress Lorenzo ? sola, sola !
Ij>r. Leave hollaing, man : here.
Laun. Sola! where? where?
Lor. Here.
Laun. 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.
Lor. Sweet soul, let 's in, and there expect
their coming.
And yet no matter ; why should we go in ?
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,
Within the house, your mistress is at hand :
And bring your music forth into the air.
[Exit STEPHANO.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ;
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubims : (
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.
Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet
music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing
loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze
By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and
floods;
Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night.
2 4 8
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
[ACT v.
And his affections dark as Erebus :
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
Enter PORTIA and NERISSA, at a distance.
For. 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.
Ner. When the moon shone we did not see
the candle.
For. So doth the greater glory dim the less :
A substitute shines brightly as a king
Until a king be by ; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters. Music ! hark !
Ner. It is your music, madam, of the
house.
For. Nothing is good, I see, without respect ;
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by
day.
Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
For. 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.
Lor. That is the voice,
Or I am much deceived, of Portia.
For. He knows me, as the blind man knows
the cuckoo,
By the bad voice.
Lor. Dear lady, welcome home.
For. We have been praying for our husbands'
welfare,
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
Are they return'd?
Lor. Madam, they are not yet ;
But there is come a messenger before,
To signify their coming.
for. #u Go in, Nerissa, v ^ 7
Give order to my servants that they take
No note at all of our being absent hence ;
Nor you, Lorenzo j Jessica, nor you.
[A tucket sounds.
Lor. Your husband is at hand, I hear his
trumpet :
We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not.
For. 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.
Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes
If you would walk in absence of the sun.
For. 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 ; [lord.
But God sort all ! you are welcome home, my
Bass. I thank you, madam ; give welcome to
my friend.
This is the man ; this is Antonio,
To whom I am so infinitely bound. [him,
For. You should in all sense be much bound to
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
Ant. No more than I am well acquitted of.
For. Sir, you are very welcome to our house :
It must appear in other ways than words,
Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy.
[GRA. and NER. seem to talk apart.
Gra. 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.
For. A quarrel, ho, already? what's the
matter?
Gra. 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.
Ner. 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
,.&-= ted it.
Gra. He will, an if he live to be a man.
Ner. Ay, if a woman live to be a man.
Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a
, cc . 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.
For. 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
SCENE I.J
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
249
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. [off,
Bass. Why, I were best to cut my left hand
And swear I lost the ring defending it. [Aside.
Gra. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away
Unto the judge that begg'd it, and, indeed,
Deserv'd it too ; and then the boy, his clerk,
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd
mine:
And neither man nor master would take aught
But the two rings.
For. What ring gave you, my lord?
Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me.
Bass, 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.
For. Even so void is your false heart of truth.
By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed
Until I see the ring.
Ner. Nor I in yours
Till I again see mine.
Bass. 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 naught would be accepted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your dis-
pleasure.
For. 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 nad pleas'd to have defended it
With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty
To urge the thing held as a ceremony?
Nerissa teaches me what to believe ;
I '11 die for '*, but some woman had the ring.
Bass. No, by mine honour, madam, by my
soul,
No woman had it, but a civil doctor,
Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me,
And begg'd the ring ; the which I did deny him,
And suffer' d him to go displeas'd away ;
Even he that had held up the very life
Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet
lady?
I was enforc'd to send it after him ;
I was beset with shame and courtesy:
My honour would not let ingratitude
So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady ;
For by these blessed candles of the night,
Had you been there, I think you would have
begg'd
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.
For. Let not that doctor e'er come near my
house:
Since he hath got the jewel that I lovM,
And that which you did swear to keep for me,
I will become as liberal as you ;
I '11 not deny him anything I have,
No, not my body, nor my husband's bed :
Know him I shall, I am well sure of it :
Lie not a night from home; watch me like
Argus:
If you do not, if I be left alone,
Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own,
I '11 have that doctor for my bedfellow.
Ner. And I his clerk ; therefore be well ad-
vis'd
How you do leave me to mine own protection.
Gra. Well, do you so : let not me take him
then;
For, if I do, I '11 mar the young clerk's pen.
Ant. I am the unhappy subject of these
quarrels. [notwithstanding.
For. Sir, grieve not you ; you are welcome
Bass. 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,
For. Mark you but that f
In both my eyes he doubly sees himself :
In each eye one : swear by your double self,
And there 's an oath of credit.
Bass. Nay, but hear me :
Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear,
I never more will break an oath with thee.
Ant. 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.
For. Then you shall be his surety : give him
this;
And bid him keep it better than the other.
Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep
this ring. [doctor !
Bass. By heaven, it is the same I gave the
For. I had it of him : pardon me, Bassanio t
For by this ring the doctor lay with me.
Ner. 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.
Gra. Why, this is like the mending of high-
ways
In summer, where the ways are fair enough :
What ! are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it?
250
THE MERCHAMT OF VENICE.
[ACT V.
Por. Speak not so grossly. You are all
amaz'd :
Here is a letter, read it at your leisure ;
It comes from Padua, from Bellario :
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor ;
Nerissa there, her clerk : Lorenzo here
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you,
And but even 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 : ion '
You shall not know by what strange accident
I chanced on this letter.
Ant. I am dumb.
Bass. Were you the doctor; and I knew you
not? [cuckold?
Gra. Were you the clerk that is to make me
Ner. Ay, but the clerk that never means to
doit,
Unless he live until he be a man. [fellow ;
Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bed-
When I am absent, then lie with my wife.
Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life
and living ;
zifeafnrrf b3?,'viJu
rlA,,r^. ..,-.-, ,
"*(y\
rlJocf ]
For here I read for certain that my ships
Are safely come to road.
Por. How now, Lorenzo?
My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
Ner. Ay, and I '11 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.
Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
Of starved people.
Por. 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.
Gra. Let it be so : the first inter'gatory
That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,
Whether till the next night she had rathei
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 '11 fear no other thing
So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
[Exeunt.
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AS YOU LIKE IT.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
DUKE, Kving in exile.
FREDERICK, Brother to tlu DUKE, and Usurper
of his Dominions.
AMIENS, ) Lords attending upon the DUKE in
JAQUES, J his Banishment.
LE BEAU V a Courtier attending upon FRE-
DERICK.
CHARLES, his Wrestler.
OLIVER,
JAQUES, \ Sons o/SiR ROWLAND DE Bois.
ORLANDO,
ADAM, j
DENNIS, \
TOUCHSTONE, a Clown.
Servants to OLIVER,
SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a Vicar.
WILLIAM, a Cotmtry Fellow^ in love tmtA
AUDREY.
A Person representing- HYMEN.
ROSALIND, Daughter to the banished DUKE.
CELIA, Daughter to FREDERICK.
PHEBE, a Shepherdess.
AUDREY, a Country Wench.
Lords belonging to the two Dukes; Pages,
Foresters, and other Attendants.
The SCENE lies first near OLIVER'S House; afterwards partly in the Usurper's Court and
partly in the Forest of ARDEN.
ACT I.
SCENE I. An Orchard near OLIVER'S House.
Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.
Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon
this fashion, bequeathed me by will but poor
a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged
my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well :
and there begins my sadness. My brother
Jaques he keeps |t school, and report speaks
goldenly of his profit : for my part, he keeps
me rustically at home, or, to speak more pro-
perly, stays me here at home unkept : for call
you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth
that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His
horses are bred better; for, besides that they
are fair with their feeding, they are taught their
manage, and to that end riders dearly hired :
but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but
growth ; for the which his animals on his dung-
hills are as much bound to him as I. Besides
this nothing that he so plentifully gives me,
the something that nature gave me, his coun-
tenance seems to take from me: he lets me
feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a
brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my
gentility with my education. This is it, Adam,
that grieves me ; and the spirit of my father,
which I think is within me, begins to mutiny
against this servitude : I will no longer endure
it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to
avoid it
Adam. Yonder comes my master, your
brother.
Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear
how he will shake me up. [ADAM retires.
Enter OLIVER.
Oli. Now, sir! what make you here?
Orl. Nothing: I am not taught to make
anything.
Oli. What mar you then, sir?
Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar
that which God made, a poor unworthy brother
of yours, with idleness.
Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be
naught awhile.
Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husk?
with them? What prodigal portion have I
spent that I should come to such penury?
Oli. Know you where you are, sir?
Orl. O, sir, very well : here in your orchard.
Oli. Know you before whom, sir?
Orl. Ay, better than him I am before knows
me. I know you are my eldest brother: and
in the gentle condition of blood you should so
know me. The courtesy of nations allows you
my better, in that you are the first-born ; but
the same tradition takes not away my blood,
were there twenty brothers betwixt us : I have
as much of my father in me as you ; albeit, I
252
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT
confess, your coming before me is nearer to his
reverence.
Oli. What, boy!
Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you are
too young in this.
Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
Orl. I am no villain : I am the youngest
son of Sir Rowland de Bois : he was my father;
and he is thrice a villain that says such a father
begot villains. Wert thou not my brother I
would not take this hand from thy throat till
this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying
so : thou hast railed on thyself.
Adam. [Coming forward.} Sweet masters, be
patient ; for your father's remembrance, be at
accord.
OH. Let me go, I say.
Orl. I will not, till I please : you shall hear
me. My father charged you in his will to give
me good education : you have trained me like
a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all
gentleman- like qualities : the spirit of my father
grows strong in me, and I will no longer en-
dure it : therefore, allow me such exercises as
may become a gentleman, or give me the poor
al lottery my father left me by testament; with
that I will go buy my fortunes.
Oli. And what wilt thou do? beg, when that
is spent? Well, sir, get you in : I will not long
be troubled with you: you shall have some
part of your will : I pray you, leave me.
Orl. I will no further offend you than be-
comes me for my good.
Oli. Get you with him, you old dog.
Adam. Is old dog my reward? Most true,
I have lost my teeth in your service. God be
with my old master ! he would not have spoke
such a word. {Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM.
Oli. Is it even so? begin you to grow upon
me? I will physic your rankness, and yet give
no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis !
Enter DENNIS.
Den. Calls your worship?
Oli, Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler,
here to speak with me?
Den. So please you, he is here at the door,
and importunes access to you.
Oli. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS.] 'Twill
be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling
is.
'A trov he-old la flohJihaoo
Enter CHARLES. ^^
Cha. Good morrow to your v/orship.
Oli. Good Monsieur Charles ! what 's the
new news at the new court?
Cha. There 's no news at the court s sir, but
the old news ; that is, the old duke is banished
by his younger brother the new duke; and
three or four loving lords have put themselves
into voluntary exile with him, whose lands
and revenues enrich the new duke ; therefore
he gives them good leave to wander.
Oli. Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke's
daughter, be banished with her father?
Cha. O no; for the duke's daughter, her
cousin, so loves her, being ever from theii
cradles bred together, that she would have
followed her exile, or have died to stay behind
her. She is at the court, and no less beloved
of her uncle than his own daughter ; and never
two ladies loved as they do.
Oli. Where will the old duke live? -
Cha. They say he is already in the forest of
Arden, and a many merry men with him ; and
there they live like the old Robin Hood of
England: they say many young gentlemen
flock to him every day, and fleet the time care-
lessly, as they did in the golden world.
Oli. What, you wrestle to-morrow before
the new duke?
Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to ac-
quaint you with a matter. I am given, sir,
secretly to understand that your younger
brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come
in disguis'd against me to try a fall. To-
morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit ; and he
that escapes me without some broken limb shall
acquit him well. Your brother is but young
and tender; and, for your love, I would be
loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour,
if he come in: therefore, out of my love to
you, I came hither to acquaint you withal ; that
either you might stay him from his intendment,
or brook such disgrace well as he shall run
into; in that it is a thing of his own search,
and altogether against my will.
Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to
me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly
requite. I had myself notice of my brother's
purpose herein, and have by underhand means
laboured to dissuade him from it; but he is
resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is the
stubbornest young fellow of France; full of
ambition, an envious emulator of every man's
good parts, a secret and villanous contriver
against me his natural brother; therefore use
thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break
his neck as his finger. And thou wert best
look to 't ; for if thou dost him any slight dis-
grace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on
thee, he will practise against thee by poison,
entrap thee by some treacherous device, and
never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by
SCENE II.J
AS YOU LIKE IT.
253
some indirect means or other: for, I assure
thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is
not one so young and so villanous this day
living. I speak but brotherly of him; but
should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must
blush and weep, and thou must look pale and
wonder.
Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to
you. If he come to-morrow I '11 give him his
payment. If ever he go alone again I '11 never
wrestle for prize more: and so, God keep
your worship ! {Exit.
OH. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I
stir this gamester : I hope I shall see an end of
him ; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates
nothing more than he. Yet he 's gentle ; never
schooled and yet learned ; full of noble device ;
of all sorts enchantingly beloved ; and, indeed,
so much in the heart of the world, and especially
of my own people, who best know him, that I
am altogether misprised : but it shall not be so
long ; this wrestler shall clear all : nothing re-
mains but that I kindle the boy thither, which
now I '11 go about. [Exit.
^gojibifiwiol ?iti no frHo nw- f.i.1 , ho'. son no >'
SCENE II. A Lawn before the DUKE'S Palace.
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.
Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be
merry.
Ros. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I
am mistress of; and would you yet I were
merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget
a banished father, you must not learn me how
to remember any extraordinary pleasure.
Cel. Herein I see thou lovest me not with
the full weight that I love thee ; if my uncle,
thy banished father, had banished thy uncle,
the duke my father, so thou hadst been still
with me, I could have taught my love to take
thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the
truth of thy love to me were so righteously
tempered as mine is to thee.
Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my
estate, to rejoice in yours.
Cel, You know my father hath no child but
I, nor none is like to have ; and, truly, when
he dies thou shalt be his heir : for what he hath
taken away from thy father perforce, I will
render thee again in affection : by mine honour,
I will; and when I break that oath, let me
turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my
dear Rose, be merry.
Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise
sports : let me see ; what think you of falling in
love?
Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport
withal : but love no man in good earnest ; nor
no further in sport neither than with safety of a
pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.
Ros. What shall be our sport, then?
Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife
Fortunefrom her wheel, that her gifts may hence-
forth be bestowed equally.
Ros. I would we could do so ; for her bene-
fits are mightily mispiuced: and the bountiful
blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to
women.
Cel. 'Tis true : for those that she makes fair
she scarce makes honest; and those that she
makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.
Ros. Nay; now thou goest from fortune's
orifice to nature's : fortune reigns in gifts of the
world, not in the lineaments of nature.
Cel. No ; when nature hath made a fair crea-
ture may she not by fortune fall into the fire?
Though nature hath given us wit to flout at for-
tune, hath not fortune sent in this fool to cut off
the argument?
luK>M r tlKAttft&
hnter TOUCHSTONE.
Ros. Indeed, there is fortune too hard for
nature, when fortune makes nature's natural the
cutter off of nature's wit.
Cel. Peradventure this is not fortune's work
neither, but nature's, who perceiveth our natural
wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and
hath sent this natural for our whetstone : for
always the dulness of the fool is the whetstone
of the wits. How now, wit? whither wander
you?
Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your
father.
Cel. Were you made the messenger?
Touch. No, by mine honour ; but I was bid
to come for you.
Ros. Where learned you that oath, fool f
Touch. Of a certain knight that swore by his
honour they were good pancakes, and swore by
his honour the mustard was naught : now, I 'II
stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the
mustard was good : and yet was not the knight
forsworn.
Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of
your knowledge?
Ros. Ay, marry ; now unmuzzle your wisdom.
Touch. S land you both for tn now: stroke your
chins, and swear by your beards that I am a
knave.
Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art.
Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were:
but if you swear by that that is not, you are not
forsworn : no more was this knight, swearing by
his honour, for he never had any; or if he had.
254
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT i.
he had sworn it away before ever he saw those
pancakes or that mustard.
Cel. Pr'ythee, who is't that thou mean'st?
Touch. One that old Frederick, your father,
loves.
Cel. My father's love is enough to honour him
enough: speak no more of him: you'll be
whipp'd for taxation one of these days.
J^ouch. The more pity that fools may not speak
wisely what wise men do foolishly.
Cel. By my troth, thou say'st true : for since
the little wit that fools have was silenced, the
little foolery that wise men have makes a great
show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.
Ros. With his mouth full of news.
Cel. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed
their young.
Ros. Then shall we be news-crammed.
Cel. All the better; we shall be the more
marketable.
Enter LE BEAU.
Bonjoitr, Monsieur Le Beau. What 's the news ?
Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much
good sport.
Cel. Sport ! of what colour?
Le Beatt. What colour, madam? How shall
I answer you?
Ros. As wit and fortune will.
Touch. Or as the destinies decree.
Cel. Well said ; that was laid on with a trowel.
Touch. Nay, if I keep not my rank,
Ros. Thou loosest thy old smell.
Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies: I would have
told you of good wrestling, which you have lost
the sight of.
Ros. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning, and,
if it please your ladyships, you may see the end ;
for the best is yet to do ; and here, where you
are, they are coming to perform it.
Cel. Well, the beginning, that is dead and
buried.
Le Beau. There comes an old man and his
three sons,
Cel. I could match this beginning with an old
tale.
Le Beau. Three proper young men, of ex-
cellent growth and presence, with bills on their
necks,
Ros. Be it known unto all men by these pre-
sents,
Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled
with Charles, the duke's wrestler; which Charles
in a moment threw him, and broke three of his
ribs, that there is little hope of life in him : so
he served the second, and so the third. Yonder
they lie ; the poor old man, their father, making
such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders
take his part with weeping.
Ros. Alas!
Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that
the ladies have lost?
Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of.
Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day!
It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of
ribs was sport for ladies.
Cel. Or I, I promise thee.
Ros. But is there any else longs to see this
broken music in his sides? is there yet another
dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this
wrestling, cousin?
Le Beau. You must, if you stay here: for here
is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they
are ready to perform it.
Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us
now stay and see it.
Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords,
ORLANDO, CHARLES, and Attendants.
Duke F. Come on ; since the youth will not
be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.
Ros. Is yonder the man?
Le Beau. Even he, madam.
Cel. Alas, he is too young : yet he looks suc-
cessfully.
Duke F. How now, daughter, and cousin?
are you crept hither to see the wrestling?
Ros. Ay, my liege : so please you give us leave.
Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I
can tell you, there is such odds in the men. In
pity of the challenger's youth I would fain dis-
suade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak
to him, ladies ; see if you can move him.
Cel. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
Duke F. Do so ; I '11 not be by.
[DUKE F. goes apart.
Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the prin-
cesses call for you.
Orl. I attend them with all respect and duty.
Ros. Young man, have you challenged Charles
the wrestler?
Orl. No, fair princess ; he is the general chal-
lenger : I come but in, as others do, to try with
him the strength of my youth.
Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too
bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof
of this man's strength : if you saw yourself with
your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment,
the fear of your adventure would counsel you to
a more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your
own sake, to embrace your own safety, and give
over this attempt.
Ros. Do, young sir ; your reputation shall not
SCENE II.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
255
therefore be misprised : we will make it our suit
to the duke that the wrestling might not go for-
ward.
OrL I beseech you, punish me not with your
hard thoughts: wherein I confess me much guilty,
to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything.
But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with
me to my trial : wherein if I be foiled, there is
butoneshamed thatwasnever gracious; if killed,
but one dead that is willing to be so : I shall do
my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament
me: the world no injury, for in it I have nothing;
only in the world I fill up a place, which may
be better supplied when I have made it empty.
Ros. The little strength that I have, I would
it were with you.
Cd. And mine to eke out hers.
Ros. Fare you well. Pray heaven, I be de-
ceived in you !
Cel. Your heart's desires be with you.
Cha. Come, where is this young gallant that
is so desirous to lie with his mother earth?
Orl. Ready, sir ; but his will hath in it a more
modest working.
Duke F. You shall try but one fall.
Cha. No ; I warrant your grace, you shall not
entreat him to a second, that have so mightily
persuaded him from a first.
Orl. You mean to mock me after ; you should
not have mocked me before: but come your
ways.
Ros. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!
Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the
strong fellow by the leg.
[CHARLES and ORLANDO wrestle.
Ros. O excellent young man !
Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can
tell who should down.
[CHARLES is thrown. Shout.
Duke F. No more, no more.
Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet
well breathed.
Duke F. How dost thou, Charles?
Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord.
Duke F. Bear him away.
[CHARLES is borne out.
What is thy name, young man?
OrL Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of
Sir Rowland de Bois. u [man else.
Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to some
The world esteem'd thy father honourable,
But I did find him still mine enemy : [deed
Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this
Hadst thou descended from another house.
But fare thee well ; thou art a gallant youth ;
I would thou hadst told me of another father.
{Exeunt DUKE F., Train, and LE BEAU.
Cel. Were I my father, co2, would I do this ?
Orl, I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,
His youngest son ; and would not change that
calling
To be adopted heir to Frederick.
Ros. My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,
And all the world was of my father's mind :
Had I before known this young man his son,
I should have given him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventur'd.
Cel. Gentle cousin,
Let us go thank him, and encourage him :
My father's rough and envious disposition
Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd:
If you do keep your promises in love
But justly, as you have exceeded promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
Ros. Gentleman,
[Giving him a chain from her neck.
Wear this for me ; one out of suits with fortune,
That could give more, but that her hand lacks
means.
Shah we go, coz?
Cel. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orl. Can I not say, I thank you? My better
partsi solos [stands up
Are all thrown down ; and that which here
Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
Ros. He calls us back : my pride fell with my
fortunes :
I '11 ask him what he would. Did you call, sir?
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.
Cel. Will you go, coz?
Ros. Have with you. Fare you well.
[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.
Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon
my tongue?
I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference.
O poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown :
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.
Re-enter LE BEAU.
Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel
you
To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd
High commendation, true applause, and love,
Yet such is now the duke's condition,
That he misconstrues all that you have done.
The duke is humorous ; what he is, indeed,
More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.
Orl. I thank you, sir: and pray you, tellme this;
Which of the two was daughter of the duke
That here was at the wrestling? [manners ;
Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge by
But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter:
The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,
2 5 6
AS YOU LIKE XT.
[ACT 1.
And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,
To keep his daughter company; whose loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
But I can tell you that of late this duke
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,
Grounded upon no other argument
But that the people praise her for her virtues
And pity her for her good father's sake ;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
Will suddenly break forth. Sir, fare you well !
Hereafter, in a better world than this,
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.
Orl. I rest much bounden to you : fare you
well ! \_Exit LE BEAU.
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother :
But heavenly Rosalind ! {Exit.
SCENE III. A Room in the Palace.
Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.
Cel. Why, cousin; why, Rosalind ; Cupid
have mercy! Not a word?
Ros. Not one to throw at a dog.
Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be
cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me ;
come, lame me with reasons.
Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up;
when the one should be lamed with reasons and
the other mad without any.
Cel. But is all this for your father?
Ros. No, some of it is for my father's child.
0, how full of briers is this working-day world !
Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon
thee in holiday foolery ; if we walk not in the
trodden paths our very petticoats will catch them.
Ros. I could shake them off my coat : these
burs are in my heart.
Cel. Hem them away. [have him.
Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem and
Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
Ros. O, they take the part of a better
wrestler than myself.
Cel. O, a good wish upon you ! you will try
in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these
jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest :
is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall
into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's
youngest son ? [dearly.
Ros. The duke my father loved his father
Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should
love his son .dearly? By this kind of chase I
should hate him, for my father hated his father
dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
Ros. No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.
CeL Why should I not? doth he not deserve
well?
Ros. Let me love him for that ; and do you
love him because I do. Look, here comes the
duke.
Cel. With his eyes full of anger.
Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with Lords.
Duke F. Mistress, despatch you with you*
safest haste, ' : ;**;
And get you from our court.
Ros. Me, uncle?
DukeF. You, cousin:
Within these ten days if that thou be'st found
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.
Ros. I do beseech your grace,
Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me :
If with myself I hold intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires ;
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,
As I do trust I am not, then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your highness.
Duke F. Thus do all traitors ;
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself:
Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.
Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a
traitor :
Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter;
there 's enough. [dukedom ;
Ros. So was I when your highness took his
So wa I when your highness banish'd him:
Treason is not inherited, my lord :
Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What's that to me? my father was no traitor!
Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much
To think my poverty is treacherous.
Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak, [sake,
Duke F. Ay, Celia : we stay'd her for your
Else had she with her father rang'd along.
Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay r
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse :
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her : if she be a traitor,
Why so am I : we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, played, eat together?
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.
Duke F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her
smoothness,
Her very silence, and her patience
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name ;
And thou wilt show more bright and seem
more virtuous
When she is gone : then open not thy lips;
SCENE III.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
257
Firm and irrevocable is my doom
Which I have pass'd upon her ; she is banish'd.
Cel. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me,
my liege:
I cannot live out of her company. [yourself:
Duke F. You are a fool. You, niece, provide
If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness. of my word, you die.
[Exeunt DUKE F. and Lords.
Cel. O my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt thou
go?
Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine.
I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I
am.
Ros. I have more cause.
Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ;
TVythee, be cheerful: know'st thou not the
duke
Hath banish'd me, his daughter?
Ros. That he hath not.
Cel. No ! hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the
love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one :
Shall we be sunder'd? shall we part, sweet girl?
No ; let my father seek another heir.
Therefore devise with me how we may fly,
Whither to go, and what to bear with us :
And do not seek to take your change upon you,
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ;
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,
Say what thou canst, I '11 go along with thee.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?
Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
Ros. Alas ! what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cel. I '11 put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face ;
The like do you ; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.
Ros. Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar spear in my hand ; and, in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,
We '11 have a swashing and a martial outside,
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.
Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a
man? [own page,
Ros. I '11 have no worse a name than Jove's
And, therefore, look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call'd ? [state :
Cel. Something that hath a reference to my
No longer Celia, but Aliena.
Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal
The clownish fool out of your father's court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel?
Cel. He '11 go along o'er the wide world with
me;
Leave me alone to woo him. Let 's away,
And get our jewels and our wealth together ;
Devise the fittest time and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content
To liberty, and not to banishment. \Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden.
Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other Lords,
in the dress of Foresters.
Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in
exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these
woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference : as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,
This is no flattery : these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the nmning
brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.
Ami. Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness cf lortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style. [son ?
Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us veni-
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.
I Lord. Indeed, my lord,
Tha melancholy Jaques grieves at that ;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
To-day my lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood :
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord,
I
258
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT ii.
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase : and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke S. But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize the spectacle?
1 Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similies.
First, for his weeping into the needless stream ;
Poor deer, quoth he, thou matfst a testament
As worldlings do, wring thy sum of more
To that which had too much : then, being there
alone,
Left and abandoned of his velvet friends ;
' Tis right, quoth he ; thus misery doth part
The flux of company : anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him; Ay, quoth
Jaques,
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ;
* Tis just the fashion : wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life : swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what 's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
Duke S. And did you leave him in this con-
templation? [menting
2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com-
Upon the sobbing deer.
Duke S. Show me the place :
I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he 's full of matter.
2 Lord. I '11 bring you to him straight.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. A Room in the Palace.
Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and Attend-
ants.
Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw
them?
It cannot be : some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this.
1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her.
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed ; and in the morning early
They found the bed untreasur'd of their
mistress. [so oft
2 Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the princess* gentlewoman,
Confesses that she secretly o'erheard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles ;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.
Duke F. Send to his brother; fetch that
gallant hither: -.^i
If he be absent, bring his brother to me,
I '11 make him find him : do this suddenly;
And let not search and inquisition quail
To bring again these foolish runaways.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S House.
Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.
Or I. Who's there?
Adam. What! my young master? O, my
gentle master !
O, my sweet master 1 O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland ! why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and
valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony prizer of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours ; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it !
Orl. Why, what 's the matter?
Adam. O unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors ; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives :
Your brother, no, no brother ; yet the son
Yet not the son ; I will not call him son
Of him I was about to call his father,
Hath heard your praises; and this night he
means
To burn the lodging where you used to lie,
And you within it : if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off;
I overheard him and his practices.
This is no place; this house is but a butchery:
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. [me go?
Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not
here.
Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and
beg my food?
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do :
SCENE IV.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
259
Yet this I will not do, do how I can :
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred
crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown ;
Take that : and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ;
All this I give you. Let me be your servant ;
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty:
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;
I '11 do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities. [pears
Orl. O good old man ; how well in thee ap-
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed !
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion ;
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry:
But come thy ways, we '11 go along together;
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent
We '11 light upon some settled low content.
Adam. Master, go on ; and I will follow thee
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;
But at fourscore it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor.
[Exeunt.
SCENE TV. The Forest of Arden.
Enter ROSALIND in boy's clothes, CELIA
dressed like a shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE.
Ros. O Jupiter ! how weary are my spirits !
Touch. I care not for my spirits if my legs
were not weary.
Ros. ^ I could find in my heart to disgrace
my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman :
but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doub-
let and hose ought to show itself courageous to
petticoat: therefore, courage, good Aliena
CcL I pray you, bear with me ; I can go no
farther.
Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with
you than bear you : yet I should bear no cross
if I did bear you; for, I think, you have no
money in your purse.
Ros. Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden : the more
fool I ; when I was at home I was in a better
place ; but travellers must be content.
Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look
you, who comes here? a young man and an old
in solemn talk.
Enter CORIN and SILVIUS.
Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you
still. [love her !
Sit. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do
Cor. I partly guess ; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not
guess;
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow:
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
As sure I think did never man love so,
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O, thou didst then ne'er love so heartily:
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd :
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not lov'd :
Or if thou hast not broke from company
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!
[Exit SILVIUS.
Ros. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy
wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I
was in love I broke my sword upon a stone,
and bid him take that for coming a-night to
Jane Smile : and I remember the kissing of her
ballet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty
chapp'd hands had milk'd: and I remember
the wooing of a peascod instead of her ; from
whom I took two cods, and, giving her them
again, said with weeping tears, Wear these for
my sake. We that are true lovers run into
strange capers ; but as all is mortal in nature,
so is all nature in love mortal in folly. [of.
Ros. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 'ware
Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine
own wit till I break my shins against it
260
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT ii.
Ros. Jove, Jove ! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion. [stale with me.
Touch. And mine : but it grows something
Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man
If he for gold will give us any food:
I faint almost to death.
Touch. Holla, you clown !
Ros. Peace, fool ; he 's not thy kinsman.
Cor. Who calls?
Toiich. Your betters, sir.
Cor. Else are they very wretched.
Ros. Peace, I say.
Good even to you, friend.
Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
Ros. I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed :
Here 's a young maid with travel much op-
press'd,
And faints for succour.
Cor, Fair, sir, I pity her,
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her :
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality:
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed
Are now on sale ; and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on ; but what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and
pasture? [but erewhile,
Cor. That young swain that you saw here
That little cares for buying anything.
Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
Cel. And we will mend thy wages. I like
this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.
Cor. Assuredly the thing is to be sold :
Go with me : if you like, upon report,
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly.
[Exeunt.
rrorb
SCENE V. Another part of the Forest.
Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others.
SONG.
Ami. Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither ;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
Jaq. More, more, I pr'ythee, more.
Ami. It will make you melancholy, Mon-
sieur Jaques.
Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more.
I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a
weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more.
Ami. My voice is ragged ; I know I cannot
please you.
Jaq. I do not desire you to please me, I do
desire you to sing. Come, more: another
stanza: call you them stanzas?
Ami. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.
Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names ; they
owe me nothing. Will you sing? [myself.
Ami. More at your request than to please
Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I '11
thank you: but that they call compliment is
like the encounter of two dog-apes ; and when
a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have
given him a penny, and he renders me the
beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that
will not, hold your tongues.
Ami. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover
the while: the duke will drink under this tree:
he hath been all this day to look you.
Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid
him. He is too disputable for my company:
I think of as many matters as he ; but I give
heaven thanks, and make no boast of them.
Come, warble, come.
SONG.
Who doth ambition shun, [A II together here.
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither ;
Here shall he see
No enemy.
But winter and rough weather.
Jaq. I '11 give you a verse to this note, that
I made yesterday in despite of my invention.
Ami. And I '11 sing it
Jaq. Thus it goes :
If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to Ami.
Ami. What's that ducdame?
Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools
SCENE VI.j
AS YOU LIKE IT.
261
into a circle. I '11 go sleep, if I can ; if I can-
not. I '11 rail against all the first-born of Egypt.
Ami. And I '11 go seek the duke ; his ban-
quet is prepared. [Exeunt severally.
SCENE VI. Another part of the Forest.
Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.
Adam. Dear master, I can go no farther : O,
I die for food ! Here lie I down, and measure
out my grave. Farewell, kind master.
Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater
heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little;
cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest
yield anything savage, I will either be food for
it or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is
nearer death than thy powers. For my sake
be comfortable : hold death awhile at the arm's
end : I v/ill here be with thee presently ; and
if I bring thee not something to eat, I '11 give
thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I
come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well
said ! thou look'st cheerily: and I '11 be with
thee quickly. Yet thou liest in the bleak air:
come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and
thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if there
live anything in this desert. Cheerily, good
Adam ! [Exeunt.
SCENE VII. Another part of the Forest.
A 7 able set.
Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and others.
Duke S. I think he betransform'd into a beast;
For I can nowhere find him like a man.
I Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone
hence;
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Go, seek him ; tell him I would speak with him.
I Lord. He saves my labour by his own ap-
proach.
Enter JAQUES.
Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a
life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company?
What ! you look merrily.
Jaq. A fool, a fool ! 1 met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool ; a miserable world !
As I do live by food, I met a fool,
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
Good-morrow, fool, quoth I : No, sir, quoth he,
Call me not fool till heaven hath sent meforttine.
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, It is ten o'clock:
7'/'ius may we see, quoth he, how the world wags.
' Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ;
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven ;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot ;
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep contemplative ;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial. O noble fool !
A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear.
Duke S. What fool is this? [courtier,
Jaq. O worthy fool ! One that hath been a
And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms. O that I were a fool 1
I am ambitious for a motley coat.
Duke S. Thou shalt have one.
Jaq. It is my only suit,
Provided that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please; for so fools ha vet
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must
they so?
The why is plain as way to parish church :
He that a fool doth very wisely hit
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley ; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou
wouldst do.
Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chid-
ing sin :
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself ;
And all the embossed sores and headed evils
That thou with license of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.
Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the weary very means do ebb?
262
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT ii.
What woman in the city do I name
When that I say, The city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders?
Who can come in and say that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says his bravery is not on my cost,
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
His folly to the metal of my speech?
There then; how then? what then? Let me see
wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him : if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man. But who comes here?
Enter ORLANDO, with his sword arawn.
OrL Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet.
OrL Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy
distress :
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem'st so empty? [point
OrL You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred,
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;
He dies that touches any of this fruit
Till I and my affairs are answered.
Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason,
I must die.
Duke S. What would you have? your gentle-
ness shall force
More than your force move us to gentleness.
OrL I almost die for food, and let me have it.
Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to
our table. [you:
OrL Speak you so gftntly? Pardon me, I pray
I thought that all things had been savage here;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are
That in this desert inaccessible,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
If ever you have look'd on better days,
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,
If ever sat at any good man's feast,
If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be :
In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better
days,
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,
And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd :
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be niinister'd.
OrL Then but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man,
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love : till he be first suffic'd,
Oppress' d with two weak evils, age and hunger,
I will not touch a bit.
Duke S. Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.
OrL I thank ye ; and be bless'd for your good
comfort ! [Exit.
Duke S. Thou seest we are not all alone un-
happy;
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.
Jaq. All the world 's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players ;
They have their exits and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms ;
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the
justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ;
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion ;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM.
Dttke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable
burden,
And let him feed.
OrL I thank you most for him.
Adam. So had you need :
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
SCENE VII.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
263
DukeS. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble
you
As yet, to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.
AMIENS sings.
SONG.
i.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man s ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :
Then, heigh-ho, the holly '
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot \
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho 1 sing, heigh-ho ! &c.
Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Row-
land's son,
As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness
Most truly limn'd and living in your face,
Be truly welcome hither : I am the duke
That lov'd your father. The residue of your
fortune,
Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man,
Thou art right welcome as thy master is ;
Support him by the arm. Give me your hand,
And let me all your fortunes understand.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I. A Room in the Palace,
Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords,
and Attendants.
Duke F. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that
cannot be :
But were I not the better part made mercy,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it :
Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is :
Seek him with candle ; bring him dead or living
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory.
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth
Of what we think against thee.
Oli. O that your highness knew my heart in
this!
I never lov'd my brother in my life.
Duke F. More villain thou. Well, push him
out of doors,
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands:
Do this expediently, and turn him going.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. The Forest of Arden.
Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.
Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my
love ; [vey
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, sur-
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind ! these trees shall be my books,
And in their barks my thoughts I '11 character,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witness'd everywhere.
Run, run, Orlando : carve on every tree,
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
[Exit.
Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.
Cor. And how like you this shepherd's Iife 9
Master Touchstone?
Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself,
it is a good life ; but in respect that it is a shep-
herd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is
solitary, I like it very well ; but in respect that
it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in re-
spect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well
but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious.
As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour
well ; but as there is no more plenty in it, it
goes much against my stomach. Hast any
philosophy in thee, shepherd?
Cor. No more but that I know the more one
sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he
that wants money, means, and content, is with-
out three good friends; that the property of
rain is to wet, and fire to burn ; that good pas
ture makes fat sheep ; and that a great cause
of the night is lack of the sun ; that he that
hath learned no wit by nature nor art may com-
plain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull
kindred.
Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher.
Wast ever in court, shepherd?
Cor. No, truly.
Touch. Then thou art damned.
Cor. Nay, I hope,
Twch. Truly, thou art damned ; like an ill-
roasted egg, all on one side.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT in.
Cor. For not being at court? Your reason.
Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court
thou never saw'st good manners ; if thcu never
saw'st good manners, then thy manners must
be wicked j and wickedness is sin, and sin is
damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shep-
herd.
Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone : those that
are good manners at the court are as ridiculous
in the country as the behaviour of the country
is most mockable at the court. You told me
you salute not at the court, but you kiss your
hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if
courtiers were shepherds.
Touch. Instance, briefly; come, instance.
Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes ;
and their fells, you know, are greasy.
Touch. Why, do not your courtier's hands
sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as
wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow,
shallow: a better instance, I say; come.
Cor. Besides, our hands are hard.
Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner.
Shallow again: a more sounder instance j
come.
Cor. And they are often tarred over with
the surgery of our sheep; and would you have
us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfumed
with civet.
Touch. Most shallow man ! thou worms-
meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh, in-
deed ! Learn of the wise, and perpend : civet
is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly
flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.
Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me:
I '11 rest.
Touch. Wilt thou rest damned ? God help
thee, shallow man! God make incision in
thee! thou art raw.
Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that
I eat, get that I wear ; owe no man hate, envy
no man's happiness; glad of other men's good,
content with my harm ; and the greatest of my
pride is, to see my ewes graze and my lambs
suck.
Touch. That is another simple sin in you; to
bring the ewes and the rams together, and to
offer to get your living by the copulation of
cattle : to be bawd to a bell-wether ; and to
betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a
crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all
reasonable match. If thou be'st not damned
for this, the devil himself will have no shep-
herds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst
'scape.
Cor. Here comes young Master Ganymede,
my new mistress'?; brother.
Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper.
JRos. From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind,
Through all the world bears Rosalind.
All the pictures fairest lin'd
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind
But the fair of Rosalind.
Touch. I '11 rhyme you so eight years to-
gether, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping
hours excepted : It is the right butter-woman's
rank to market.
Ros. Out, fool !
Touch. For a taste :
If a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,-=
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind.
This is the very false gallop of verses: why do
you infect yourself with them?
Ros. Peace, you dull fool ! I found them on
a tree.
Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Ros. I '11 graff it with you, and then I shall
graff it with a medlar: then it will be the
earliest fruit in the country: for you'll be
rotten ere you be half ripe, and that 's the right
virtue of the medlar.
Touch. You have said; but whether wisely
or no, let the forest judge.
Enter CELI A, reading a paper.
Ros. Peace!
Here comes my sister, reading : stand aside !
Cel. Why should this a desert be?
For it is unpeopled ? No ;
Tongues I '11 hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show :
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage,
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age.
Some, of violated vows
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence* end,
Will I Rosalinda write,
Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore heaven nature charg'd
That one body should be fill'd
With all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd
SCENE II.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
265
Helen's cheek, but not her heart;
Cleopatra's majesty;
Atalanta's better part;
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd,
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.
Ros. O most gentle Jupiter ! what tedious
homily of love have you wearied your parish-
ioners withal, and never cried, Have patience,
CeL How now ! back, friends ; shepherd,
go off a little : go with him, sirrah.
Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an
honourable retreat ; though not with bag and
baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt CORIN and TOUCH.
CeL Didst thou hear these verses?
Ros. O yes, I heard them all, and more
too ; for some of them had in them more feet
than the verses would bear.
CeL That 's no matter ; the feet might bear
the verses.
Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could
not bear themselves without the verse, and
therefore stood lamely in the verse.
CeL But didst thou hear without wondering
how thy name should be hanged and carved
upon these trees?
Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the
wonder before you came ; for look here what I
found on a palm tree: I was never so be-
rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an
Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
CeL Trow you who hath done this?
Ros. Is it a man?
Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about
his neck. Change you colour?
Ros. I pray thee, who?
Cel. O lord, lord ! it is a hard matter for
friends to meet : but mountains may be re-
moved with earthquakes, and so encounter.
Ros. Nay, but who is it?
CeL Is it possible?
Ros. Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most peti-
tionary vehemence, tell me who it is.
Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most
wonderful wonderful ! and yet again wonderful,
and after that, out of all whooping!
Ros. Good my complexion! dost thou think,
though I am caparisoned like a man, I have
a doublet and hose in my disposition? One
inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery.
I pr'ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and
speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer,
that thou mightst pour this concealed man out
of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-
mouthed bottle; either too much at once or
none at all. I pr'ythee take the cork out of
thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
CeL So you may put a man in your belly.
Ros. Is he of God's making? What manner
of man? Is his head worth a hat or his chin
worth a beard?
Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.
Ros. Why, God will send more if the man
will be thankful : let me stay the growth of
his beard if thou delay me not the knowledge
of his chin.
CeL It is young Orlando, that tripped up the
wrestler's heels and your heart both in an in-
stant.
Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking : speak
sad brow and true maid.
CeL F faith, coz, 'tis he.
Ros. Orlando?
CeL Orlando.
Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my
doublet and hose? What did he when thou
saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he?
Wherein went he? What makes he here?
Did he ask for me ? Where remains he ? How
parted he with thee ? and when shalt thou see
him again? Answer me in one word.
CeL You must borrow me Gargantua's
mouth first: 'tis a word too great for any
mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to
these particulars is more than to answer in a
catechism.
Ros. But doth he know that I am in this
forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as'
freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
CeL It is as easy to count atomies as to re-
solve the propositions of a lover: but take a
taste of my finding him, and relish it with good
observance. I found him under a tree, like a
dropped acorn.
Res. It may well be called Jove's tree,
when it drops forth such fruit.
CeL Give me audience, good madam.
Ros. Proceed.
CeL There lay he, stretched along like a
wounded knight.
Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight,
it well becomes the ground.
CeL Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee;
it curvets unseasonably. He was furnished
like a hunter.
Ros. O, ominous ! he comes to kill my heart.
CeL I would sing my song without a bur-
den : thou bring'st me out of tune.
Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when
I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
266
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT in.
Cel. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not
here?
Ros. 'Tis he: slink by, and note him.
[CELIA and ROSALIND retire.
Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.
Jaq. I thank you for your company; but,
good faith, I had as lief have been myself
alone.
OrL And so had I; but yet, for fashion's sake,
I thank you too for your society. [as we can.
faq. God be with you: let's meet as little
OrL I do desire we may be better strangers.
Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with
writing love-songs in their barks.
OrL I pray you, mar no more of my verses
with reading them ill-favouredly.
Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name?
OrL Yes, just.
Jaq. I do not like her name.
OrL There was no thought of pleasing you
when she was christened.
Jaq. What stature is she of?
OrL Just as high as my heart.
Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have
you not been acquainted with goldsmiths'
wives, and conned them out of rings?
OrL Not so ; but I answer you right painted
cloth, from whence you have studied your
questions.
Jaq. You have a nimble wit : I think it was
made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down
with me? and we two will rail against our
mistress the world, and all our misery.
OrL I will chide no breather in the world
but myself, against whom I know most faults.
Jaq. The worst fault you have is to be in
love.
OrL 'Tis a fault I will not change for your
best virtue. I am weary of you.
Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool
when I found you.
OrL He is drowned in the brook ; look but
in, and you shall see him.
Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure.
OrL Which I take to be either a fool or a
cipher.
Jaq. I '11 tarry no longer with you : farewell,
good Signior Love.
OrL I am glad of your departure : adieu, good
Monsieur Melancholy.
[ZfcwVjAQ. CEL. and Ros. come forward.
Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey,
and under that habit play the knave with him.
Do you hear, forester ?
OrL Very well : what would you ?
Ros. I pray you, what is't o'clock?
OrL You should ask me what time o' day ;
there 's no clock in the forest.
Ros. Then there 's no true lover in the forest,
else sighing every minute and groaning every
hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well
as a clock.
OrL And why not the swift foot of time ? had
not that been as proper?
Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in
divers paces with divers persons. I will tell
you who time ambles withal, who time trots
withal, who time gallops withal, and who he
stands still withal.
OrL I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal?
Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid
between the contract of her marriage and the
day it is solemnized ; if the interim be but a
se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems
the length of seven years.
OrL Who ambles time withal?
Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin and a
rich man that hath not the gout : for the one
sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the
other lives merrily, because he feels no pain ;
the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful
learning ; the other knowing no burden of heavy
tedious penury. These time ambles withal.
OrL Who doth he gallop withal?
Ros. With a thief to the gallows ; for though
he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himselt
too soon there.
OrL Who stays it still withal?
Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they
sleep between term and term, and then they
perceive not how time moves.
OrL Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister ; here
in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a
petticoat.
OrL Are you native of this place?
Ros. As the coney, that you see dwell where
she is kindled.
OrL Your accent is something finer than you
could purchase in so removed a dwelling.
Ros. I have been told so of many : but in-
deed an old religious uncle of mine taught me
to speak, who was in his youth an inland man ;
one that knew courtship too well, for there he
fell in love. I have heard him read many
lectures against it; and I thank God I am not
a woman, to be touched with so many giddy
offences as he hath generally taxed their whole
sex withal.
OrL Can you remember any of the principal
evils that he laid to the charge of women ?
Rot. There were none principal ; they were
all like one another as halfpence are; every one
SCENE II.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
267
fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came
to match it.
Orl. I pr'ythee, recount some of them.
Ros. No ; I will not cast away my physic but
on those that are sick. There is a man haunts
the forest that abuses our young plants with
carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes
upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles ; all,
forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind : if I
could meet that fancymonger I would give him
some good counsel, for he seems to have the
quotidian of love upon him.
Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray
you, tell me your remedy.
Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon
you : he taught me how to know a man in love;
in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not
prisoner.
Orl. What were his marks ?
Ros. A lean cheek; which you have not: a
blue eye and sunken; which you have not: an
unquestionable spirit; which you have not: a
beard neglected; which you have not: but I
pardon you for that ; for simply your having in
beard is a younger brother'srevenue: then your
hose should be ungartered, your bonnet un-
banded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe un-
tied, and everything about you demonstrating
a careless desolation. But you are no such man;
you are rather point-device in your accoutre-
ments; as loving yourself than seeming the lover
of any other.
Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee
believe I love.
Ros. Me believe it ! you may as soon make
her that you love believe it ; which, I warrant,
she is apter to do than to confess she does: that
is one of the points in the which women still
give the lie to their consciences. But, in good
sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the
trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired ?
Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white
hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortun-
ate he.
Ros. But are you so much in love as your
rhymes speak ?
Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express
how much.
Ros. Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell
you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip
as madmen do : and the reason why they are
not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is
so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.
Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Orl. Did you ever cure any so ?
Ros. Yes, one ; and in this manner. He was
to imagine me his love, his mistress ; and I set
him every day to woo me : at which time would
I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effem-
inate, changeable, longing, end liking ; proud,
fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of
tears, full of smiles; for every passion something,
and for no passion truly anything, as boys and
women are for the most part cattle of this
colour : would now like him, now loath him ;
then entertain him, then forswear him ; now
weep for him, then spit at him ; that I drave
my suitor from his mad humour of love to a
loving humour of madness ; which was, to for-
swear the full stream of the world, and to live
in a nook nearly monastic. And thus I cured
him ; and this way will I take upon me to wash
your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that
there shall not be one spot of love in 't.
Orl. I would not be cured, youth.
Ros. I would cure you if you would but call
me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote
and woo me.
Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will :
tell me where it is.
Ros. Go with me to it, and I '11 show it you :
and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the
forest you live. Will you go ?
Orl. With all my heart, good youth.
Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind.
Come, sister, will you go ? [Exeunt.
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY ; JAQUES at
a distance observing them.
Touch. Come apace, good Audrey; I will
fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey?
am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature
content you ?
Aud. Your features ! Lord warrant us ! what
features?
Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats,
as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was
among the Goths.
Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited ! worse than
Jove in a thatch'd house. [Aside.
Touch. When a man's verses cannot be under-
stood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the
forward child understanding, it strikes a man
more dead than a great reckoning in a little
room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee
poetical.
Aud. I do not know what poetical is : is it
honest in deed and word? is it a true thing?
Touch. No, truly : for the truest poetry is the
most feigning ; and lovers are given to poetry ;
and what they swear in poetry may be said, as
lovers, they do feign.
268
AS VOU LIKE IT.
[ACT
Attd. Do you wish, then, that the gods had
made me poetical?
Touch. I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me
thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet I
might have some hope thou didst feign.
Aud. Would you not have me honest?
Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-
favoured ; for honesty coupled to beauty is to
have honey a sauce to sugar.
Jaq. A material fool ! [Aside.
Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I
pray the gods make me honest !
Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon
a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean
dish.
And. I am not a slut, though I thank the
gods I am foul.
Touch. Well , praised be the gods for thy foul-
ness ! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be
it as it may be, I will many thee : and to that
end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the
vicar of the next village ; who hath promised to
meet me in this place of the forest, and to
couple us.
faq. I would fain see this meeting. [Aside,
Aud. Well, the gods give us joy !
Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a
fearful heart, stagger in this attempt ; for here
we have no temple but the wood, no assembly
but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage !
As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is
said, Many a man knows no end of his goods :
right ; many a man has good horns and knows
no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his
wife; 'tis none of his own getting. Horns?
Ever to poor men alone ? No, no; the noblest
deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the
single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled
town is more worthier than a village, so is the
forehead of a married man more honourable
than the bare brow of a bachelor : and by how
much defence is better than no skill, by so much
is a horn more precious than to want. Here
comes Sir Oliver.
Enter Sir OLIVER MARTEXT.
Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will
you despatch us here under this tree, or shall
we go with you to your chapel? [woman ?
Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the
Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man.
Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the
marriage is not lawful.
Jaq. [Discovering himself.] Proceed, pro-
ceed ; I '11 give her.
Touch. Good even, good Master Whai-ye-
call't: how do you, sir? You are very well
met : God 'ild you for your last company : I
am very glad to see you : even a toy in hand
here, sir : nay ; pray be covered.
faq. Will you be married, motley?
Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse
his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath
his desires ; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock
would be nibbling.
Jaq. And will you, being a man of your
breeding, be married under a bush, like a
beggar? Get you to church and have a good
priest that can tell you what marriage is : this
fellow will but join you together as they join
wainscot : then one of you will prove a shrunk
panel, and like green timber, warp, warp.
Touch. I am not in the mind but I were
better to be married of him than of another : for
he is not like to mai'ry me well ; and not being
well married, it will be a good excuse for me
hereafter to leave my wife. [Aside.
Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel
thee.
Touch. Come, sweet Audrey;
We must be married or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good master Oliver ! Not,
O sweet Oliver;
O brave Oliver,
Leave me not behind thee ;
But,-
Wind away,
Begone I say,
I will not to wedding with thee.
[Exeunt JAQ. , TOUCH., and AUD.
Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter ; ne'er a fantastical
knave of them all shall flout me out of my call-
ing. [Exit.
SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest. Be-
fore a Cottage.
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.
Ros. Never talk to me; I will weep.
Cel. Do, I pr'ythee ; but yet have the grace
to consider that tears do not become a man.
Ros. But have I not cause to weep?
Cel. As good cause as one would desire; there-
fore weep.
Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry,
his kisses are Judas's own children.
Ros. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.
Cel. An excellent colour : your chestnut was
ever the only colour.
Ros. And his kissin is as full of sanctity as
the touch of holy bread.
Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of
Diana : a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not
SCENE V.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
269
more religiously ; the very ice of chastity is in
them.
Ros. But why did he swear he would come this
morning, and comes not ?
CeL Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
jRos. Do you think so ?
CeL Yes ; I think he is not a pickpurse nor
a horse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, I do
think him as concave as a covered goblet or a
worm-eaten nut.
Ros. Not true in love? [in.
CeL Yes, when he is in ; but I think he is not
Ros. You have heard him swear downright he
was.
CeL Was is not is : besides, the oath of a lover
is no stronger than the word of a tapster ; they
are both the confirmers of false reckonings. He
attendshere in the forest on the duke, your father.
Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much
question with him. He asked me of what par-
entage I was ; I told him, of as good as he ; so
he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of
fathers when there is such a man as Orlando ?
CeL O, that 's a brave man ! he writes brave
erses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths,
and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart
the heart of his lover ; as a puny tilter, that spurs
lis horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a
noble goose: but all 's brave that youth mounts
and folly guides. Who comes here?
Enter CoRIN.
Cor. Mistress and master, you have oft inquired
After the shepherd that complain'd of love,
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the Droud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.
CeL Well, and what of him?
Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play'd,
Between the pale complexion of true love
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.
Ros. O, come, let us remove :
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
say
Exeunt.
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall sa
I '11 prove a busy actor in their play. [E
SCENE V. Another part of the Forest.
Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.
SiL Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me ; do not,
Phebe:
Say that you love me not ; but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner,
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes
hard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a
distance.
V.'i. l\ ~A ,?cOT 1 > I .'; i . I JJcf
Phe. I would not be thy executioner :
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye :
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ;
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill
thee:
Now counterfeit to swoon ; why, now fall down ;
Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it ; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure [eyes,
Thy palm some moment keeps ; but now mine
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ;
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.
SiL O dear Phebe,
If ever, as that ever may be near,
You meet in some Iresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
Phe. But till that time
Come not thou near me ; and when that time
comes
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ;
As till that time I shall not pity thee.
Ros. [Advancing.] And why, I pray you? Who
might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have nc
beauty,
As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature's sale-work : Od's my little life,
I think she means to tangle my eyes too !
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it ;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow
her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
270
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT IV.
Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you
That make the world full of ill-favour 3 d children:
'Tis not her glass, but you that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show ner ;
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your
knees,
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love :
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can; you are not for all markets:
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer:
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd ; fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year to-
gether:
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
Ros. He 's fallen in love with her foulness, and
she '11 fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as
fast as she answers thee with frowning looks,
I '11 sauce her with bitter words. Why look you
so upon me ?
Phe. For no ill-will I bear you.
Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine :
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my
house,
'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.
Will you go, sister ? Shepherd, ply her hard.
Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud ; though all the world could
see,
None could be so abus'd in sight as he.
Come to our flock.
{Exeunt Ros., CEL., and COR.
Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of
might ;
Who ever lov'd that lorfd not at first sight ?
Sil. Sweet Phebe,-
Phe. Ha ! what say'st thou, Silvius?
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Pke. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be :
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my griet
Were both extermin'd. [bourly ?
Pke. Thou hast my love : is not that neigh-
Sil. I would have you.
Phe. Why, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee ;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love :
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure ; and I '11 employ thee too :
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil. So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps : lose now and then
A scatter'd smile, and that I '11 live upon.
Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to
me erewhile ?
Sil. Not very well ; but I have met him oft ;
And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds
That the old carlot once was master of. [him;
Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for
'Tis but a peevish boy : yet he talks well ;
But what care I for words ? yet words do well
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth: not very pretty: [him:
But, sure, he 's proud; and yet his pride becomes
He '11 make a proper man: the best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not tall; yet for his years he 's tall ;
His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip;
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the
difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd
him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him: but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him :
For what had he to do to chide at me ?
He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me :
I marvel why I answer 'd not again :
But that 's all one; ommittance is not quittance.
I '11 write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.
Phe. I '11 write it straight,
The matter 's in my head and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:
Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE \.-ForestofArden.
Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.
Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better
acquainted with the 2.
j?os. They say you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
Ros. Those that are in extremity of either are
abominable fellows, and betray themselves to
every modern censure worse than drunkards.
Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.
SCENE I.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
271
Ros. Why, then, 'tis good to be a post.
Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy,
which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is
fantastical ; nor the courtier's, which is proud;
nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the
lawyer's which is politic ; nor the lady's,
which is nice ; nor the lover's, which is all
these : but it is a melancholy of mine own, com-
pounded of many simples, extracted from many
objects : and, indeed, the sundry contemplation
of my travels, in which my often rumination
wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
Ros. A traveller ! By my faith, you have great
reason to be sad : I fear you have sold your own
lands to see other men's; then, to have seen much,
and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor
hands.
Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience.
Ros. And your experience makes you sad : I
had rather have a fool to make me merry than
experience to make me sad ; and to travel for it
too.
Enter ORLANDO.
Or I. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk
in blank verse.
Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller : look you
lisp and wear strange suits ; disable all the bene-
fits of your own country ; be out of love with
your nativity, and almost chide God for making
you that countenance you are ; or I will scarce
think you have swam in a gondola. \Exit
TAQUES.] Why, how now, Orlando! where
have you been all this while ? You a lover !
An you serve me such another trick, never come
in my sight more.
Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour
of my promise.
Ros. Break an hour's promise in love! He that
will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and
break but a part of a thousandth part of a minute
in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that
Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but
I warrant him heart-whole.
Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no
more in my sight : I had as lief be woo'd of a
snail.
Orl. Of a snail !
Ros. Ay, of a snail} for though he comes
slowly, he carries his house on his head; a
better jointure, I think, than you can make a
woman : besides, he brings his destiny with him.
Orl. What's that?
Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are
feun to be beholden to your wives for : but he
comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the
slander of his wife.
Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker ; and my Rosa-
lind is virtuous.
Ros. And I am your Rosalind.
Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he
hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
Ros. Come, woo me, woo me ; for now I am
in a holiday humour, and like enough to con-
sent. What would you say to me now, an I
were your very very Rosalind?
Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.
Ros. Nay, you were better speak first ; and
when you were gravelled for lack of matter,
you might take occasion to kiss. Very good
orators, when they are out, they will spit ; and
for lovers lacking, God warn us! matter,
the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
Orl. How if the kiss be denied?
Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and
there begins new matter.
Orl. Who could be out, being before his be'
loved mistress?
Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your
mistress ; or I should think my honesty ranker
than my wit.
Orl. What, of my suit?
Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of
your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because
I would be talking of her. [you.
Ros. Well, in her person, I say, I will not have
Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die.
Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor
world is almost six thousand years ola, and in
all this time there was not any man died in his
own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus
had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club ;
yet he did what he could to die before ; and he
is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he
would have lived many a fair year, though Hero
had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot
midsummer-night; for, good youth, he went
but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and,
being taken with the cramp, was drowned ; and
the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was
Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies ; men
have died from time to time, and worms have
eaten them, but not for love.
Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of
this mind ; for, I protest, her frown might kill
me.
Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But
come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more
coming-on disposition ; and ask me what you
will, I will grant it.
OrL Then love me, Rosalind.
272
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT iv.
Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays and Satur-
days, and all.
OrL And wilt thou have me?
Ros. Ay, and twenty such.
OrL What say'st thou?
Ros. Are you not good?
OrL I hope so.
Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much of
a good thing? Come, sister, you shall be the
priest, and marry us. Give me your hand,
Orlando : What do you say, sister?
OrL Pray thee, marry us.
Cel. I cannot say the words.
Ros. You must begin, Will you, Or-
lando ',
Cel. Go to : Will you, Orlando, have to
wife this Rosalind?
OrL I will.
Ros. Ay, but when?
OrL Why, now; as fast as she can marry us.
Ros. Then you must say, / take thee, Rosa-
lind, for wife.
OrL I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Ros. I might ask you for your commission ;
but, I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband:
there's a girl goes before the priest; and,
certainly, a woman's thoughts run before her
actions.
OrL So do all thoughts ; they are winged.
Ros. Now tell me how long you would have
her, after you have possessed her.
OrL For ever and a day.
Ros. Say a day, without the ever. No, no,
Orlando: men are April when they woo,
Decemoer when they wed: maids are May
when they are maids, but the sky changes when
they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee
than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen ; more
clamorous than a parrot against rain; more
new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my
desires than a monkey : I will weep for nothing,
like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that
when you are disposed to be merry ; I will
laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art in-
clined to sleep.
OrL But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros. By my life, she will do as I do.
OrL O, but she is wise.
Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to
do this: the wiser, the way warder: make the
doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at
the casement ; shut that, and it will out at the
keyhole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke
out at the chimney.
OrL A man that had a wife with such a wit,
he might say, Wit, -whither wilt?
Ros. Nay, you might keep that check for it,
till you met your wife's wit going to your neigh-
bour's bed. [that?
OrL And what wit could wit have to excuse
Ros. Marry, to say, she came to seek you
there. You shall never take her without her
answer, unless you take her without her tongue.
O, that woman that cannot make her fault her
husband's occasion, let her never nurse her
child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
OrL For these two hours, Rosalind, I will
leave thee. [hours !
Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two
OrL I must attend the duke at dinner: by
two o'clock I will be with thee again.
Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I
knew what you would prove ; my friends told
me as much, and I thought no less: that
flattering tongue of yours won me: 'tis but
one cast away, and so, come, death! Two
o'clock is your hour?
OrL Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and
so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that
are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your
promise, or come one minute behind your hour,
I will think you the most pathetical break-
promise, and the most hollow lover, and the
most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that
may be chosen out of the gross band of the un-
faithful : therefore beware my censure, and keep
your promise.
OrL With no less religion than if thou wert
indeed my Rosalind: so, adieu!
Ros. Well, time is the old justice that ex-
amines all such offenders, and let time try:
adieu! \Exit ORLANDO.
Cel. You have simply misus'd our sex in
your love-prate: we must have your doublet
and hose plucked over your head, and show
the world what the bird hath done to her own
nest.
Ros. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz,
that thou didst know how many fathom deep I
am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my
affection hath an unknown bottom, like the
bay of Portugal.
Cel. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as
you pour affection in, it runs out.
Ros. No; that same wicked bastard of
Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of
spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally
boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his
own are out, let him be judge how deep I am
in love: I '11 tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out
of the sight of Orlando : I '11 go find a shadow,
and sigh till he come.
Cel. And I'll sleep, {Exeunt.
SCENE II.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
273
SCENE II. Another part of the Forest.
Enter JAQUES and Lords, in the habit of
Foresters.
Jaq. Which is he that killed the deer ?
1 Lord. Sir, it was I.
Jaq. Let 's present him to the duke, like a
Roman conqueror ; and it would do well to set
the deer's horns upon his head for a branch of
victory. Have you no song, forester, for this
purpose ?
2 Lord. Yes, sir.
Jaq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in
tune, so it make noise enough.
SONG.
1. What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
2. His leather skin and horns to wear.
i. Then sing him home:
[ The rest shall bear this burden.
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;
It was a crest ere thou wast born.
1. Thy father's father wore it;
2. And thy father bore it:
All. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest.
Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.
Ros. How say you now? Is it not past two
o'clock ? And here much Orlando !
Cel. I warrant you, with pure love and
troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and
arrows, and is gone forth to sleep. Look,
who comes here.
Enter SlLVlUS.
Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth ;
My gentle Phebe bid me give you this :
{Giving a letter.
I know not the contents ; but, as I guess
By the stern brow and waspish action
Which she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor : pardon me,
I am but as a guiltless messenger. [letter,
Ros. Patience herself would startle at this
And play the swaggerer ; bear this, bear all :
She says I am not fair ; that I lack manners ;
She calls me proud, and that she could not
love me,
Were man as rare as Phoenix. Od's my will !
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt-
Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,
This is a letter of your own device.
Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents:
Phebe did write it.
Ros. Come, come, you are a fool,
And turn'd into the extremity of love.
I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,
A freestone-colour'd hand: I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her
hands ;
She has a huswife's hand: but that 's no matter :
I say she never did invent this letter:
This is a man's invention, and his hand.
Sil. Sure, it is hers.
Ros. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style ;
A style for challengers : why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian : woman's gentle brain
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance. Will you hear the
letter?
Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet;
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.
Ros. She Phebes me : mark how the tyrant
writes. [Reads.'}
Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,
That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?
Can a woman rail thus?
Sil. Call you this railing ?
Ros. Why, thy godhead laid apart,
Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing ?
Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could do no vengeance to me.
Meaning me a beast.
If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect?
Whiles you chid me I did love ;
How then might your prayers move ?
He that brings this love to thee
Little knows this love in me :
And by him seal up thy mind ;
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will .he faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make ;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then 1 '11 study how to die.
Sil. Call you this chiding ?
Cel. Alas, poor shepherd!
Ros. Do you pity him ? no, he deserves no
pity. Wilt thou love such a woman? What,
to make thee an instrument, and play false
strains upon thee ! Not to be endured ! Well,
go your way to her, for I see love hath made
thee a tame snake, and say this to her; that
if she love me, I charge her to love thee: if she
will not, I will never have her, unless thou en-
treat for her. If you be a true lover, hence,
and not a word; for here comes more company.
[Exit SILVIUS.
_ i ,*-J .'.v>
Enter OLIVER.
Oli. Good-morrow, fair ones: pray you, if
you know
274
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT iv.
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neigh-
bour bottom :
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
.Left on your right hand, brings you to the place.
But at this hour the house doth keep itself;
There 's none within.
OK. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description ;
Such garments, and such years. The boy is fair ,
Of female favoiir^ and bestows hivtself
Like a ripe sister : the woman low.
And browner than her brother. Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are.
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both ;
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin: are you he?
Ros. I am : what must we understand by
this?
Oli. Some of my shame ; if you will know of
me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkerchief was stain'd.
Cel. I pray you, tell it.
Oli. When last the young Orlando parted
from you,
He left a promise to return again
Within an hour ; and, pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befell ! he threw his eye aside,
And, mark, what object did present itself!
Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with
age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who, with her head, nimble in threats, ap-
proach'd
The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly,
Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush : under which bush's shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like
watch, ['tis
When that the sleeping man should stir; for
The royal disposition of that beast
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead :
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same
brother ;
And he did render him the most unnatural
That liv'd 'mongst men.
Oli. And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural. [there,
Ros. But, to Orlando: did he leave him
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?
Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and pur-
pos'd so ;
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him ; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awak'd.
Cel. Are you his brother?
Ros. Was it you he rescued?
Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to
kill him?
Oli. 'Twas I ; but 'tis not I : I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Ros. But, for the bloody napkin?
Oli. By and by.
When from the first to last, betwixt us two,
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,
As, how I came into that desert place;
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother's love,
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled ; and now he
fainted,
And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound,
And, after some small space, being strong at
heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise, and to give this napkin,
Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd-youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ! sweet
Ganymede ! [ROSALIND faints.
Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on
blood.
Cel. There is more in it: Cousin Gany-
mede!
Oli. Look, he recovers.
Ros. I would I were at home.
Cel. We '11 lead you thither :
I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
Oli. Be of good cheer, youth : you a man ?
You lack a man's heart.
Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body
would think this was well counterfeited. I pray
you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited.
Heigh-ho!
Oli. This was not counterfeit \ there is too
SCENE III.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
275
great testimony in your complexion that it was
a passion of earnest.
Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you.
OH. Well, then, take a good heart, and
counterfeit to be a man.
ffos. So I do : but, i' faith, I should have
been a woman by right.
CeL Come, you look paler and paler : pray
you, draw homewards. Good sir, go with us.
OIL That will I, for I must bear answer back
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
Ros. I shall devise something: but, I pray
you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will
you go? [Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I. The Forest of Arden.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.
Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey;
patience, gentle Audrey.
And. Faith, the priest was good enough, for
all the old gentleman's saying.
Touch. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a
mosf vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a
youth here in the forest lays claim to you.
Aud. Ay, I know who 'tis : he hath no in-
terest in me in the world : here comes the man
you mean.
Enter WILLIAM.
Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a
clown : By my troth, we that have good wits
have much to answer for ; we shall be flouting ;
we cannot hold.
Will. Good even, Audrey.
Aud. God ye good even, William.
Will. And good even to you, sir.
Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover
thy head, cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee, be
covered. How old are you, friend?
Will. Five-and-twenty, sir.
Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William?
Will. William, sir.
Touch. A fair name. Wast born i' the forest
here?
Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. [rich?
Touch. Thank God ; a good answer. Art
Will. Faith, sir, so-so.
Touch. So-so is good, very good, very excel-
lent good : and yet it is not ; it is but so-so.
Art thou wise?
Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
Touch. Why, thou say'st well. I do now re-
member a saying ; The fool doth think he is wise,
but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire
to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put
it into his mouth ; meaning thereby that grapes
were made to eat and lips to open. You do
love this maid ?
Will. I do, sir.
Totich. Give me your hand. Art thou learned ?
Will. No, sir.
Touch. Then learn this of me : to have is
to have ; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink,
being poured out of a cup into a glass, by filling
the one doth empty the other ; for all your
writers do consent that ipse is he ; now, you are
not ipse^ for I am he.
Will. Which he, sir?
Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman.
Therefore, you clown, abandon, which is in
the vulgar, leave, the society, which in the
boorish is company, of this female, which in
the common is woman, which together is
abandon the society of this female ; or, clown,
thou perishest ; or, to tay better understanding,
diest ; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away,
translate thy life into death, thy liberty into
bondage : I will deal in poison with thee, or in
bastinado, or in steel ; I will bandy with thee
in faction ; I will o'er-run thee with policy ; I
will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways ; there-
fore tremble, and depart.
Aud. Do, good William.
Will. God rest you merry, sir. [Exit.
Enter CORIN.
Cor. Our master and mistress seek you ;
come away, away I
Touch. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey ; I at-
tend, I attend. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Another part of the Forest.
Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER.
Orl. Is 't possible that, on so little acquaint-
ance, you should like her? that, but seeing,
you should love her? and, loving, woo? and,
wooing, she should grant? and will you per-
se ver to enjoy her ?
Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it in ques-
tion, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance,
my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting;
but say with me, I love Aliena ; say, with hei;
that she loves me ; consent with both, that we
may enjoy each other : it shall be to your good;
for my father's house, and all the revenue that
was old Sir Rowland's, will I estate upon you,
and here live and die a shepherd.
Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding
be to-morrow : thither will I invite the duke
2 7 6
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT v.
and all his contented followers. Go you and
prepare Aliena ; for, look you, here comes my
Rosalind.
Enter ROSALIND.
Ros. God save you, brother.
OIL And you, fair sister. [Exit.
Ros. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me
to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf.
Orl. It is my arm.
Ros, I thought thy heart had been wounded
with the claws of a lion.
Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a
lady.
Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counter-
feited to swoon when he show'd me your hand-
kercher.
Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that.
Ros. O, I know where you are : nay, 'tis
true : there was never anything so sudden but
the fight of two rams and Caesar's thrasonical
brag of / came, saw, and overcame : for your
brother and my sister no sooner met, but they
looked ; no sooner looked, but they loved ; no
sooner loved, but they sighed ; nc sooner signed,
but they asked one another the reason; no
sooner knew the reason, but they sought the
remedy : and in these degrees have they made
a. pair of stairs to marriage, which they will
climb incontinent, or else be incontinent be-
fore marriage : they are in the very wrath of
love, and they will together : clubs cannot part
them.
Orl. They shall be married to-morrow ; and
I will bid the duke to the nuptial. But O, how
bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through
another man's eyes ! By so much the more shall
I to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness,
by how much I shall think my brother happy
in having what he wishes for.
Ros. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve
your turn for Rosalind?
Orl. I can live no longer by thinking.
Ros. I will weary you, then, no longer with
idle talking. Know of me, then, for now I
speak to some purpose, that I know you are a
gentleman of good conceit : I speak not this that
you should bear a good opinion of my know-
ledge, insomuch I say I know you are ; neither
do I labour for a greater esteem than may in
some little measure draw a belief from you, to
do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe,
then, if you please, that I can do strange things :
I have, since I was three year old, conversed
with a magician, most profound in his art, and
yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so
near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when
your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry
her : I know into what straits of fortune she is
driven ; and it is not impossible to me, if it ap-
pear not inconvenient to you, to set her before
your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and
without any danger.
Orl. Speak'st thou in sober meanings?
Ros. By my life, I do ; which I tender dearly,
though I say I am a magician. Therefore, put
you in your best array, bid your friends ; for if
you will be married to-morrow, you shall ; and
to Rosalind, if you will. Look, here comes a
lover cf mine, and a lover of hers.
Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.
Phe. Youth, you have done me much un-
gentleness,
To show the letter that I writ to you.
Ros. I care not, if I have : it is my study
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you :
You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd ;
Look upon him, love him ; he worships you.
Phe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis
to love.
Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and
tears;
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And I for Ganymede.
Orl. And I for Rosalind.
Ros. And I for no woman.
Sil. It is to be all made of faith and service ;-
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And I for Ganymede.
Orl. And I for Rosalind.
Ros. And I for no woman.
Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes ;
All adoration, duty, and obedience,
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance ;
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And so am I for Ganymede.
Orl. And so am I for Rosalind.
Ros. And so am I for no woman.
Phe. If this be so, why blame you me to
love you? \_To ROSALIND.
Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to
love you ? .[To PHEBE.
Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to
love you?
Ros. Why do you speak too, Why blame
you me to love you?
Orl. To her that is not here, nor doth not
hear.
Ros. Pray you, no more of this ; 'tis like the
howling of Irish wolves against the moon.' I
will help you [to SILVIUS] if I can: I would
SCENE III.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
277
love you [to PHEBE] if I could. To-morrow
meet me all together. I will marry you [to
PHEBE] if ever I marry woman, and I '11 be
married to-morrow: I will satisfy you [to OR-
LANDO] if ever I satisfied man, and you shall
be married to-morrow : I will content you [to
SILVIUS] if what pleases you contents you, and
you shall be married to-morrow. As you [to
ORLANDO] love Rosalind, meet ; as you [to
SILVIUS] love Phebe, meet ; and as I love no
woman, I '11 meet. So, fare you well; I have
left you commands.
Sil. I '11 not fail, if I live.
Phe. Nor I.
Or/. Nor I.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. Another part of the Forest.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.
Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey;
to-morrow will we be married.
And. I do desire it with all my heart ; and
I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be
a woman of the world. Here come two of the
banished duke's pages.
Enter two Pages.
1 Page. Well met, honest gentleman.
Touch. By my troth, well met. Come sit,
sit, and a song.
2 Page. We are for you : sit i' the middle.
I Page. Shall we clap into't roundly, with-
out hawking, or spitting, or saying we are
hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad
voice ?
. 2 Page, r faith, i' faith ; and both in a tune,
like two gipsies on a horse.
SONG.
i.
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o ! er the green corn-field did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hty ding a ding, ding :
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
In the spring time, &c.
This_ carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino.
How that a life was but a flower
In the spring time, &c.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crowned with the prime
In the spring time, &c.
Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, though
there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the
note was very untimeable.
I Page. You are deceived, sir; we kept
time, we lost not our time.
Touch. By my troth, yes ; I count it but
time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be
with you ; and God mend your voices ! Come,
Audrey. [Exeunt.
-j?amt ri.Ulo sloiiO *;' ni Iwirv.JO
I)-fii'-.-.j fvjij ;'' ror a -{ J" va>\
SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest.
Enter DUKE Senior^ AMIENS, JAQUES, OR-
LANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA.
Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that
the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised?
Ori. I sometimes do believe and sometimes
do not ; [fear.
As those that fear they hope, and know they
Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE.
Ros. Patience once more, whiles our com-
pact is urg'd :
You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
[To the DUKE.
You will bestow her on Orlando here?
Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to
give with her.
Ros. And you say you will have her, when
I brinor her? [To ORLANDO.
Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms
king.
Ros. You say you '11 marry me if I be willing?
[To PHEBE.
Phe. That will I, should I die the hour after.
Ros. But if you do refuse to marry me,
You '11 give yourself to this most faithful shep-
herd ?
Phe. So is the bargain.
Ros. You say that you'll have Phebe, if she
will? [To SILVIUS.
Sil. Though to have her and death were
both one thing.
Ros. I have promis'd to make all this matter
even.
Keep you your word, O duke, to give your
daughter ;
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter ;
Keep you your word, Phebe, that you'll
marry me ;
278
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT v.
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd :
Keep your word, Silvius, that you '11 marry her
If she refuse me : and from hence I go,
To make these doubts all even.
[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.
Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd-boy
Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.
Or!. My lord, the first time that I ever saw
him,
Methought he was a brother to your daughter :
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.
Jaq. There is, sure, another flood toward,
and these couples are coming to the ark. Here
comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in
all tongues are called fools.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.
Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all !
Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This
is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so
often met in the forest : he hath been a courtier,
he swears.
Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put
me to my purgation. I have trod a measure ;
I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with
my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have
undone three tailors ; I have had four quarrels,
and like to have fought one.
Jaq. And how was that ta'en up?
Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel
was upon the seventh cause.
Jaq. How seventh cause? Good my lord,
like this fellow.
Duke S. I like him very well.
Touch. God 'ild you, sir ; I desire you of the
like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of
the country copulatives, to swear and to for-
swear ; according as marriage binds and blood
breaks: A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured
thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of
mine, sir, to take that that no man else will :
rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor-
house ; as your pearl in your foul oyster.
Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and
sententious.
Touch. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and
such dulcet diseases.
Jaq. But, for the seventh cause; how did
you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?
Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed ;
bear your body more seeming, Audrey : as
thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of a certain
courtier's beard ; he sent me word, if I said his
beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it
was : this is called the Retort courteous. If I
sent him word again, it was not well cut, he
would send me word he cut it to please himself:
this is called the Quip modest. If again, it was
not well cut, he disabled my judgment : this is
called the Reply churlish. If again, it was not
well cut, he would answer, I spake not true :
this is called the Reproof valiant. If again, it
was not well cut, he would say, I lie: this is
called the Countercheck quarrelsome: and so,
to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct.
Jaq. And how oft did you say his beard was
not well cut?
Touch. I durst go no farther than the Lie
circumstantial^ nor he durst not give me the
Lie direct ; and so we measured swords and
parted.
Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the de-
grees of the lie?
Touch. O, sir, we quarrel in print by the
book, as you have books for good manners : I
will name you the degrees. The first, the Re-
tort courteous; the second, the Quip modest:
the third, the Reply churlish ; the fourth, the
Reproof valiant ; the fifth, the Countercheck
quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with circum-
stance ; the seventh, the Lie direct. All these
you may avoid but the lie direct ; and you may
avoid that too with an If. I knew when seven
justices could not take up a quarrel ; but when
the parties were met themselves, one of them
thought but of an 7f, as If you said so, then 2
said so; and they shook hands, and swore
brothers. Your If\s the only peace-maker:
much virtue in If.
Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he 's
as good at anything, and yet a fool.
Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-
horse, and under the presentation of that he
shoots his wit.
Enter HYMEN, hading ROSALIND in woman's
clothes; and CELIA.
Still Music.
Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven,
When earthly things made even
Atone together.
Good duke, receive thy daughter :
Hymen from heaven brought her,
Yea, brought her hither.
That thou mightst join her hand with his,
Whose heart within her bosom is.
Ros. To you I give myself, for I air yours.
[To DUKE S.
To you I give myself, for I am yours.
[To ORLANDO.
SCENE IV.]
AS YOU LIKE IT.
279
Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are
my daughter.
OrL If there be truth in sight, you are my
Rosalind.
Phe. If sight and shape be true,
Why, then, my love, adieu !
Ros. I '11 have no father, if you be not he :
[To DUKE S.
i '11 have no husband, if you be not he :
[To ORLANDO.
Nor e'er wed woman, if you be not she.
[To PHEBE.
Hym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion :
'Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events :
Here 's eight that must take hands,
To join in Hymen's bands,
If truth holds true contents.
You and you no cross shall part :
[To ORLANDO and ROSALIND.
You and you are heart in heart :
[To OLIVER and CELIA.
You to his love must accord, [ To PHEBE.
Or have a woman to your lord :
You and you are sure together,
[To TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.
As the winter to foul weather.
Whiles a wedlock -hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning,
That reason wonder may diminish,
How thus we met, and these things finish.
SONG.
Wedding is great Juno's crown ;
P blessed bond of board and bed !
'Tis Hymen peoples every town ;
High wedlock, then, be honoured ;
Honour, high honour and renown,
To Hymen, god of every town 1
Duke S. O my dear niece, welcome thou art
to me!
Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.
Phe. I will not eat my word, now thou art
mine;
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
[To SILVIUS.
Enter JAQUES DE Bois.
Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word
or two ;
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly :
J)uke Frederick, hearing how that every day
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power ; which were on
foot,
In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here, and put him to the sword :
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came ;
Where, meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise and from the world ;
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,
And all their lands restored to them again
That were with him exil'd. This to be true
I do engage my life.
Duke S. Welcome, young man :
Thou offer' st fairly to thy brother's wedding :
To one, his lands withheld ; and to the other,
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot :
And after, every of this happy number,
That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with
us,
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,
And fall into our rustic revelry :
Play, music ! and you, brides and bridegrooms
all,
With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures
fall.
faq. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you
rightly,
The duke hath put on a religious life,
And thrown into neglect the pompous court?
Jaq. de B. He hath.
Jaq. To him will I : out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learn* d.
You to your former honour I bequeath ;
[To DUKE S.
Your patience and your virtue well deserves
it:
You [to ORLANDO] to a love that your true
faith doth merit :
You [to OLIVER] to your land, and love, and
great allies:
You [to SILVIUS] to a long and well-deserved
bed:
And you [to TOUCHSTONE] to wrangling; for
thy loving voyage
Is but for two months victual'd. So to your
pleasures ;
I am for other than for dancing measures.
Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq. To see no pastime I : what you would
have
I '11 stay to know at your abandon'd cave.
[Exit.
Duke S. Proceed, proceed: we will begin
these rites,
As we do trust they '11 end, in true delights.
[A dance
280
AS YOU LIKE IT.
[ACT v.
EPILOGUE.
tfos. It is not the fashion to see the lady the
epilogue ; but it is no more unhandsome than
to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that
good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good
play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine
they do use good bushes ; and good plays prove
the better by the help of good epilogues. What
a case am I in, then, that am neither a good
epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the
behalf of a good play ! I am not furnished like
a beggar : therefore to beg will not become me:
my way is to conjure you ; and I '11 begin with
the women. I charge you, O women, for the
love you bear to men, to like as much of this
play as please you : and I charge you, O men,
for the love you bear to women, as I perceive
by your simpering, none of you hates them, -
that between you and the women the play may
please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as
many of you as had beards that pleased me,
complexions that liked me, and breaths that I
defied not . and, I am sure, as many as have
good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths,
will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy,
bid me farewell. [Exeunt.
aw J .icft itud ?.l
I cllUoKslq
n-siif istffjQ *ot ma 1
A .v*\
-:;di ra I
Midi Mil
i . ^;;
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
KING OF FRANCE.
DUKE OF FLORENCE.
BERTRAM, Count of Rousillon.
LAFEU, an old Lord.
PAROLLES, a follower ?/ BERTRAM.
Several young French Lords, that serve with
BERTRAY in the Florentine War.
Steward, ) Serva nts to the COUNTESS OF Rou-
MHO*
COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, Mother to BER
TRAM
HELENA, a Gentlewoman protected by tht
COUNTESS.
An old Widow of Florence.
DIANA, Daughter to the Widow.
VIOLENTA, 1 Neighbours and F
MARIANA, f Widow.
Lords a-ttending on the KING ; Officers ,
Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.
SCENE, Partly in FRANCE, and partly in TUSCANY.
ACT I.
SCENE I. ROUSILLON. A Room in the
COUNTESS'S Palace.
Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS OF ROUSIL-
LON, HELENA, and LAFEU, in mounting.
Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury
a second husband.
Ber. And I, in going, madam, weep o'er my
father's death anew: but I must attend his
majesty's command, to whom I am now in
ward, evermore in subjection.
Laf. You shall find of the king a husband,
madam ; you, sir, a father : he that so gener-
ally is at all times good, must of necessity hold
his virtue to you ; whose worthiness would stir
it up where it wanted, rather than lack it
where there is such abundance.
Count. What hope is there of his majesty's
amendment ?
Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians,
madam ; under whose practices he hath perse-
cuted time with hope ; and finds no other ad-
vantage in the process but only the losing of
hope by time.
Count. This young gentlewoman had a
father O, that had! how sad a passage 'tis !
whose skill was almost as great as his honesty ;
had it stretched so far, would have made nature
immortal, and death should have play for lack
of work. Would, for the king's sake, he were
living ! I think it would be \he death of the
king's disease.
Laf. How called you the man you speak of,
madam?
Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession,
and it was his great right to be so, Gerard de
Narbon.
Laf. He was excellent, indeed, madam : the
king very lately spoke of him admiringly and
mourningly : he was skilful enough to have
lived still, if knowledge could be set up against
mortality.
Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king lan-
guishes of?
Laf. A fistula, my lord.
Ber. I heard not of it before.
Laf. I would it were not notorious. Was
this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de
Narbon?
Count. His sole child, my lord; and be-
queathed to my overlooking. I have those
hopes of her good that her education promises :
her dispositions she inherits, which make fair
gifts fairer ; for where an unclean mind carries
virtuous qualities, there commendations go with
pity, they are virtues and traitors too : in her
they are the better for their simpleness; she
derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.
Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from
her tears.
Count. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can
season her praise in. The remembrance of her
father never approaches her heart but the tyr-
anny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from
her cheek. No more of this, Helena, go to,
no more ; lest it be rather thought you affect a
sorrow than to have.
Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed ; but I have
it too.
Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of
282
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT r.
the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the
living.
Count. If the living be enemy to the grief,
the excess makes it soon mortal.
Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Laf. How understand we that?
Count Be thou blest, Bertram ! and succeed
thy father
In manners, as in shape ! thy blood and virtue
Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness
Share with thy birthright ! Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to none : be able for thine enemy
Rather in power than use ; and keep thy friend
Under thy own life's key: be check'd f or silence,
But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more
will, [down,
That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck
Fall on thy head ! Farewell. My lord,
'Tis an unseason'd courtier ; good my lord,
Advise him.
Laf. He cannot want the best
That shall attend his love.
Count. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Ber-
tram. [Exit COUNTESS.
Ber. The best wishes that can be "orged in
your thoughts \to HELENA] be servants to you !
Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress,
and make much of her.
Laf. Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold
the credit of your father.
[Exeunt BER. and LAF.
Hel. O, were that all ! I think not on my
father; [more
And these great tears grace his remembrance
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him ; my imagination
Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.
I am undone : there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. J Twas pretty, though a
plague,
To see him every hour ; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table, heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour :
But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here?
One that goes with him: I love him for his
sake;
And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him
That they take place when virtue's steely bone,'?
Look bleak i' the cold wind : withal, full oft
we see
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
Enter PAROLLES.
Par. Save you, fair queen !
Hel. And you, monarch !
Par. No.
Hel. And no.
Par. Are you meditating on virginity?
Hel, Ay. You have some stain of soldier in
you : let me ask you a question. Man is enemy
to virginity j how may we barricado it against
him?
Par. Keep him out.
Hel. But he assails ; and our virginity, though
valiant in the defence, yet is weak : unfold to
us some warlike resistance.
Par. There is none: man, sitting down be-
fore you, will undermine you, and blow you up.
Hel. Bless our poor virginity from under-
miners and blowers-up! Is there no military
policy how virgins might blow up men?
Par. Virginity being blown down, man will
quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him
down again, with the breach yourselves made,
you lose your city. It is not politic in the
commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity.
Loss of virginity is rational increase ; and there
was never virgin got till virginity was first lost.
That you were made of is metal to make virgins.
Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times
found ; by being ever kept, it is ever lost : 'tis
too cold a companion ; away with it !
Hel. I will stand for 't a little, though there-
fore I die a virgin.
Par. There's little can be said in't; 'tis
against the rule of nature. To speak on the
part of virginity is to accuse your mothers;
which is most infallible disobedience. He that
hangs himself is a virgin : virginity murders
itself; and should be buried in highways, out
of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress
against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much
like a cheese ; consumes itself to the very par-
ing, and so dies with feeding his own stomach
Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made
of self-love ; which is the most inhibited sin in
the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose
but lose by 't : out with 't ! within ten years it
will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase ;
and the principal itself not much the worse :
away with it !
Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her
own liking?
SCENE I.J
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
283
Par. Let me see : marry, ill, to like him that
ne'er it likes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the
gloss with lying ; the longer kept, the less worth :
off with 't while 'tis vendible : answer the time
of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears
her cap out of fashion; richly suited, but un-
suitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-
pick which wear not now. Your date is better
in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.
And your virginity, your old virginity, is like
one of our French withered pears ; it looks ill,
it eats drily ; marry, 'tis a withered pear ; it was
formerly better ; marry, yet 'tis a withered pear.
Will you anything with it?
Hel. Not my virginity yet.
There shall your master have a thousand loves,
A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,
A phoenix, captain, and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear :
His humble ambition, proud humility,
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster ; with a world
Of pretty, fond, adoptious Christendoms,
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he
I know not what he shall: God send him
well !
The court 's a learning-place ; and he is one,
Par. What one, i' faith?
Hel. That I wish well. 'Tis pity
Par. What'spi^y?
Hel. That wishing well had not a body in 't
Which might be felt ; that we, the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
Might with effects of them follow our friends,
And show what we alone must think ; which
never
Returns us thanks.
Enter a Page.
Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for
you. [Exit Page.
Par. Little Helen, farewell : if I can re-
member thee, I will think of thee at court.
Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under
a charitable star.
Par. Under Mars, I.
Hel. I especially think, under Mars.
Par. Why under Mars?
Hel. The wars have so kept you under that
you must needs be born under Mars.
Par. When he was predominant.
Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
Par. Why think you so? [fight.
Hel. You go so much backward when you
Par. That 's for advantage.
Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes
the safety : but the composition that your valour
and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing,
and I like the wear well.
Par. I am so full of businesses I cannot answer
thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier ; in
the which my instruction shall serve to natural-
ize thee> so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's
counsel, and understand what advice shall
thrust upon thee ; else thou diest in thine un-
thankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee
away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say
thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember
thy friends : get thee a good husband, and use
him as he uses thee : so, farewell. [Exit.
Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky
Gives us free scope ; only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.
What power is it which mounts my love so
high
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
To join like likes, and kiss like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose
What hath been cannot be : who ever strove
To show her merit that did miss her love?
The king's disease, my project may deceive
me,
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
-PARIS. A Room in the KING'S
Palace.
Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF
FRANCE, with Letters ; Lords and others
attending.
King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the
ears;
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.
I Lord. So 'tis reported, sir.
King. Nay, 'tis most credible; we here re-
ceive it
A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,
With caution that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid ; wherein our dearest friend
Prejudicates the business, and would seem
To have us make denial.
I Lord. His love and wisdom,
Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest credence.
King. He hath arm'd our answer,
And Florence is denied before he comes:
Yet, foi our gentlemen that mean to see
284
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT I.
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
To stand on either part.
2 Lord. It well may serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing and exploit.
King. What 's he comes here ?
Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.
I Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good
lord,
Young Bertram.
King. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face ;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral
parts
Mayst thou inherit too ! Welcome to Paris.
Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's.
King. I would I had that corporal soundness
now,
As when thy father and myself in friendship
First tried our soldiership ! He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest : he lasted long ;
But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father. In his youth
He had the wit which I can well observe
To-day in our young lords ; but they may jest
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,
Ere they can hide their levity in honour
So like a courtier : contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness ; if they were,
His equal had awak'd them ; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and at this time
His tongue obey'd his hand : who were be'.ow
him
He us'd as creatures of another place ;
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times; [now
Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them
But goers backward.
Ber. His good remembrance, sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb ;
So in approof lives not his epitaph
As in your royal speech. [always say,
King. Would I were with him ! He would
Methinks I hear him now ; his plausive words
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there, and to bear, Let me not live,
Thus his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out, Let me not live, quoth he,
After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits j whose apprehensive senses
All bttt new things disdain; whose judgments
are \stancies
Mere fathers of their garments ; whose con-
Expire before their fashions : This he wish'd:
I, after him, do after him wish too,
Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,
I quickly were dissolv'd from my hive,
To give some labourers room.
2 Lord. You are lov'd, sir :
They that least lend it you shall lack you first.
King. I fill a place, I know't. How long
is't, count,
Since the physician at your father's died?
He was much fam'd.
Ber. Some six months since, my lord.
King. If he were living I would try him yet;
Lend me an arm ; the rest have worn me out
With several applications : nature and sickness
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count ;
My son 's no dearer.
Ber. Thank your majesty.
\Exeunt. Flotirish.
SCENE III. ROUSILLON. A Room in thi
Palace.
Enter COUNTESS, Steward, and Clown.
Count. I will now hear : what say you of this
gentlewoman?
Ste-v. Madam, the care I have had to even
your content, I wish might be found in the
calendar of my past endeavours; for then we
wound our modesty, and make foul the clear-
ness of our deservings, when of ourselves we
publish them.
Count. What does this knave here? Gel
you gone, sirrah : the complaints I have heard
of you I do not at all believe ; 'tis my slowness
that I do not ; for I know you lack not folly ta
commit them, and have ability enough to make
such knaveries yours.
Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am
a poor fellow.
Count. Well, sir.
Clo. No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am
poor; though many of the rich are damned:
but if I may have your ladyship's good will to
go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do
as we may.
Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
Clo. I do beg your good will in this case.
Count. In what case?
Clo. In Isbel's case and mine own. Service
is no heritage : and I think I shall never have
the blessing of God till I have issue of my body;
for they say bairns are blessings. [marry.
Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt
SCENE III.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,
285
Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it: I
am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs
go that the devil drives.
Count. Is this all your worship's reason?
Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy
reasons, such as they are.
Count. May the world know them ?
Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature,
as you and all flesh and blood are; and, in-
deed, I do marry that I may repent.
Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wicked-
ness.
Clo. I am out of friends, madam ; and I hope
to have friends for my wife's sake.
Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
Clo. You are shallow, madam, in greal
friends : for the knaves come to do that for me
which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land
spares my team, and gives me leave to inn the
crop : if I be his cuckold, he 's my drudge : he
that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my
flesh and blood ; he that cherishes my flesh
and blood loves my flesh and blood ; he that
loves my flesh and blood is my friend ; ergo,
he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men
could be contented to be what they are, there
were no fear in marriage ; for young Charbon
the puritan and old Poysam the papist, how-
some'er their hearts are severed in religion,
their heads are both one ; they may joll homs
together like any deer i' the herd.
Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and
calumnious knave?
Clo. A prophet I, madam ; and I speak the
truth the next way:
For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true shall find ;
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind.
Count. Get you gone, sir ; I '11 talk with you
more anon.
Stew. May it please you, madam, that he
bid Helen come to you ; of her I am to speak.
Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would
speak with her ; Helen I mean.
Clo. [Singmg.]Vfa& this fair face the cause, quoth
she,
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond,
Was this Kin? Priam's joy?
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave this sentence then :
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There 's yet one good ia ten.
Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt
the song, sirrah.
Clo. One good woman in ten, madam, which
is a purifying o' the song: would God would
serve the world so all the year ! we 5 d find no
fault with the tithe-woman if I were the parson:
one in ten, quoth a' ! an we might have a good
woman born but for every blazing star, or at an
earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a
man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one.
Count. You 'II be gone, sir knave, and do as
I command you !
Clo. That man should be at woman's com-
mand, and yet no hurt done ! Though honesty
be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt ; it will
wear the surplice of humility over the black
gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth:
the business is for Helen to come hither.
[Exit.
Count. Well, now.
Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentle-
woman entirely.
Count. Faith, I do: her father bequeathed
her to me ; and she herself, without other ad-
vantage, may lawfully make title to as much
love as she finds : there is more owing her than
is paid ; and more shall be paid her than she '11
demand.
Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her
than I think she wished me: alone she was,
and did communicate to herself her own words
to her own ears ; she thought, I dare vow for
her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her
matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she
said, was no goddess, that had put such differ-
ence betwixt their two estates ; Love no god,
that would not extend his might only where
qualities were level : Diana no queen of virgins,
that would suffer her poor knight surprise, with-
out rescue in the first assault, cr ransom after-
ward. This she delivered in the most bitter
touch of sorrow that e'er I heard virgin ex-
claim in : which I held my duty speedily to ac-
quaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that
may happen, it concerns you Something to know
it.
Count. You have discharged this honestly;
keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed
me of this before, which hung so tottering in
the balance that I could neither believe nor
misdoubt. Pray you, leave me: stall this in
your bosom ; and I thank you for your honest
care : I will speak with you further anon.
[Exit Steward.
Count. Even so it was with me when I was
young : [thorn
If ever we are nature's, these are ours ; this
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong ;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born,-
286
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT I.
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impress'd in
youth :
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults : or then we thought them
none.
Enter HELENA.
Her eye is sick on 't ; I observe her now.
Hel. What is your pleasure, madam?
Count. You know, Helen,
I am a mother to you.
Hel. Mine honourable mistress.
Count. Nay, a mother:
Why not a mother? When I said a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent: what's in
mother,
That you start at it? I say I am your mother;
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were emwombed mine. 'Tis often seen
Adoption strives with nature ; and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds :
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care :
God's mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood
To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,
That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd iris, rounds thine eye?
Why, that you are my daughter?
Hel. That I am not.
Count. I say, I am your mother.
Hel. Pardon, madam;
The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother :
I am from humble, he from honour'd name ;
No note upon my parents, his all noble ;
My master, my dear lord he is ; and I
His servant live, and will his vassal die :
He nvist not be my brother.
Count. Nor I your mother ?
Hel. You are my mother, madam; would
you were,
So that my lord your son were not my brother,
Indeed my mother! or were you both our
mothers,
I care no more for than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister. Can't no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my
daughter-in-law : [mother
God shield you mean it not! daughter and
So strive upon your pulse. What ! pale again?
My fear hath catch' d your fondness : now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis
gross
You love my son ; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say thou dost not : therefore tell me true ;
But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, one to the other ; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy be 1 aviours,
That in their kind they speak it ; only sin
And heDish obstinacy tie thy tongue, [so?
That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue ;
If it be not, forswear 't : howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.
Hel. Good madam, pardon me !
Count. Do you love my son?
Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress !
Count. Love you my son?
Hel. Do not you love him, madam?
Count. Go not about ; my love hath in 't a
bond, [disclose
Whereof the world takes note: come, come,
The state of your affection ; for your passions
Have to the full appeach'd.
Hel. Then I confess,
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
I love your son :
My friends were poor, but honest ; so 's my love :
Be not offended ; for it hurts not him
That he is lov'd of me : I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit ;
Nor would I have him till I do deserve him ;
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope ;
Yet in this captious and intenible sieve
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still : thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest
madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
For loving where you do; but, if yourself,
Whose aged honours cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever, in so true a frame of liking,
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love ; O, then, give pity
To her whose state is such that cannot choose
But lend and give where she is sure to lose ;
That seeks not to find that her search implies.
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies !
Count. Had you not lately an intent, spea
truly,
To go to Paris?
Hel. Madam, I had.
Count. Wherefore? tell true.
Hel. I will tell truth ; by grace itself I swear.
You know my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading
SCENE III.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
287
And manifest experience had collected
For general sovereignty ; and that he will'd me
In heedfulest reservation to bestow them,
As notes whose faculties inclusive were
More than they were in note : amongst the rest
There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,
To cure the desperate languishings whereof
The king is render'd lost.
Count. This was your motive
For Paris, was it? speak. [this;
HeL My lord your son made me to think of
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
Had from the conversation of my thoughts
Haply been absent then.
Count. But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your supposed aid,
He would receive it? He and his physicians
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,
They, that they cannot help: how shall they
credit
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off
The danger to itself?
HeL There 's something in 't
More than my father's skill, which was the
greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would
your honour
But give me leave to try success, I 'd venture
The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure
ty such a day and hour.
Count. Dost thou believe 't?
HeL Ay, madam, knowingly.
Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my
leave, and love,
Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings
To those of mine in court : I '11 stay at home,
And pray God's blessings into thy attempt :
Be gone to-morrow ; and be sure of this,
"Vhat I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. PARIS. A Room in the KING'S
Palace.
Flourish. Enter KING, with young Lords
taking leave for the Florentine war; BER-
TRAM, PAROLLES, and Attendants.
King. Farewell, young lord; these warlike
prin ciples [fare wel 1 :
Do not throw from you: and you, my lord,
Share the advice betwixt you ; if both gain all,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received,
And is enough for both.
1 Lord. It is our hope, sir,
After well-enter'd soldiers, to return
And find your grace in health.
King. No, no, it cannot be ; and yet my heart
Will not confess he owes the malady
That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;
Whether I live or die, be you the sons
Of worthy Frenchmen ; let higher Italy,
Those bated that inherit but the fall
Of the last monarchy, see that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it ; when
The bravest questant shrinks, find what you
seek,
That fame may cry you loud : I say, farewell.
2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your
majesty !
King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;
They say our French lack language to deny,
If they demand : beware of being captives
Before you serve.
Both. Our hearts receive your warnings.
King. Farewell. Come hither to me.
[The KING retires to a couch.
1 Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay
behind us !
Par. 'Tis not his fault ; the spark
2 Lord. O, tis brave wars!
Par. Most admirable: I have seen those
wars. [with,
Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil
Too young, and the next year -, and 'tis too early.
Par. An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal
away bravely. [smock,
Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a
Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,
Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn
But one to dance with ! By heaven, I '11 steal
away.
1 Lord. There 's honour in the theft.
Par. Commit it, count.
2 Lord. I am your accessary; and so fare-
well, [tured body.
Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tor-
1 Lord. Farewell, captain.
2 Lord. Sweet Monsieur Parolles!
Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are
kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good
metals. You shall find in the regiment of the
Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an
emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it
was this very sword entrenched it : say to him
I live ; and observe his reports for me.
2 Lord. We shall, noble captain.
Par. Mars dote on you for his novices 1
[Exeunt Lords.] What will ye do?
Ber. Stay ; the king
Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the
288
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT n.
noble lords ; you have restrained yourself with-
in the list of too cold an adieu: be more ex-
pressive to them ; for they wear themselves in
the cap of the time ; there do muster true gait,
eat, speak, and move under the influence of the
most received star ; and though the devil lead
the measure, such are to be followed: after
them, and take a more dilated farewell.
Ber. And I will do so.
Par. Worthy fellows ; and like to prove most
sinewy sword-men.
\Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLLES.
Enter LAFEU.
Laf. Pardon, my lord \kneeling\ for me
and for my tidings.
King. I '11 fee thee to stand up.
Laf. Then here's a man stands that has
bought his pardon. [mercy ;
I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me
And that, at my bidding, you could so stand up.
King. I would I had; so I had broke thy
pate,
And ask'd thee rnercy for 't.
Laf. Good faith, across ;
But, my good lord, 'tis thus : Will you be cured
Of your infirmity?
King. No.
Laf. O, will you eat
No grapes, my royal fox? yes, but you will
My noble grapes, and if my royal fox
Could reach them : I have seen a medicine
That 's able to breathe life into a stone,
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary
With spritely fire and motion j whose simple
touch
Is powerful to araise King Pipin, nay,
To give great Charlemain a pen in his hand
And write to her a love-line.
King. What her is that?
Laf. Why, doctor she: my lord, there 's one
arriv'd, [honour,
If you will see her, now, by my faith and
If seriously I may convey my thoughts
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke
With one that in her sex, her years, profession,
Wisdom, and constancy hath amaz'd me more
Than I dare blame my weakness : will you see
her, [ness?
For that is her demand, and know her busi-
That done, laugh well at me.
King. Now, good Lafeu,
Bring in the admiration ; that we with thee
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine
By wondering how thou took'st it.
Laf. Nay, I '11 fit you,
And not be all day neither, \Exit LAFEU.
King. Thus he his special nothing ever pro-
logues.
Re-enter LAFEU with HELENA.
Laf. Nay, come your ways.
King. This haste hath wings indeed.
Laf. Nay, come your ways ;
This is his majesty : say your mind to him :
A traitor you do look like ; but such traitors
His majesty seldom fears : I am Ciessid's uncle,
That dare leave two together: fare you well.
(.Exit.
King. Now, fair one, does your business
follow us? [was
Hel. Ay, my good lord. Gerard cle Narbon
My father ; in what he did profess well found.
King. I knew him.
Hel. The rather will I spare my praises to-
wards him.
Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death
Many receipts he gave me ; chiefly one,
Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,
And of his old experience the only darling,
He bade me store up as a triple eye, [so
Safer than mine own two, more dear : I have
And, hearing your high majesty is touch'd
With that malignant cause wherein the honour
Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,
I come to tender it, and my appliance,
With all bound humbleness.
King. We thank you, maiden;
But may not be so credulous of cure,
When our most learned doctors leave us, and
The congregated college have concluded
That labouring art can never ransom nature
From her inaidable estate, I say we must not
So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,
To prostitute our past-cure malady
To empirics ; or, to dissever so
Our great self and our credit, to esteem
A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.
Hel. My duty, then, shall pay me for rny
pains:
I will no more enforce mine office on you ;
Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts
A modest one to bear me back again.
King. I cannot give thee less, to be call'd
grateful. [I give
Thou thought'st to help me ; and such thanks
As one near death to those that wish him live:
But what at full I know, thou know'st no part;
I knowing all my peril, thott no art.
Hel. What I can do can do no hurt to try,
Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.
He that of greatest works is finisher
Oft does them by the weakest minister :
So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown.
SCENE I.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
When judges have been babes. Great floods
have flown
From simple sources ; and great seas have dried
When miracles have by the greatest been denied.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises ; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
King. I must not hear thee : fare thee well,
kind maid;
Thy pains, not used, must by thyself be paid :
Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward.
Hel. Inspired merit so by breath is barred :
It is not so with Him that all things knows,
As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows :
But most it is presumption in us when
The help of heaven we count the act of men.
Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent :
Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.
I am not an impostor, that proclaim
Myself against the level of mine aim ;
But know I think, and think I know most sure,
My art is not past power nor you past cure.
King. Art thou so confident? Within what
space
Hop'st thou my cure?
Hel. The greatest grace lending grace,
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ;
Ere twice in murk and occidental damp
Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp;
Or four-and-twenty times the pilot's glass
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass ;
What is infirm from your sound parts shall
fly,
Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.
King. Upon thy certainty and confidence,
What dar'st thou venture?
Hel. Tax of impudence,
A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame,
Traduc'a by odious ballads ; my maiden's name
Sear'd otherwise ; ne worse of worst extended,
With vilest torture let my life be ended.
King. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit
doth speak ;
His powerful sound within an organ weak :
And what impossibility would slay
In common sense, sense saves another way.
Thy life is dear ; for all that life can rate
Worth name of life in thee hath estimate:
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all
That happiness in prime can happy call ;
Thou this to hazard needs must intimate
Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate.
Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try :
That ministers thine own death if I die.
Hel. If I break time, or flinch in property
Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die ;
'
And well deserv'd. Not helping, death's my
fee;
But, if I help, what do you promise me?
King. Make thy demand.
Hel. But will you make it even?
King. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of
heaven. [hand,
Hel. Then shall thou give me, with thy kingly
What husband in thy power I will command:
Exempted be from me the arrogance
To choose from forth the royal blood of France,
My low and humble name to propagate
With any branch or image of thy state :
But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know
Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.
King. Here is my hand; the premises ob-
serv'd,
Thy will by my performance shall be serv'd ;
So make the choice of thy own time, for I,
Thy resolv'd patient, on thee still rely.
More should I question thee, and more I
must,
Though more to know could not be more to
trust,
From whence thou cam'st, how tended on.
But rest -
Unquestion'd welcome and undoubted blest.
Give me some help here, he ! If thou proceed
As high as ,*rord, my deed shall match thy deed.
[Flourish. Exeunt.
SCENE II. ROUSILLON. A Room in the
COUNTESS'S Palace.
Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN.
Count. Come on, sir ; I shall now put yon to
the height of your breeding.
Clo. I will show myself highly fed and lowly
taught : I know my business is but to the court.
Count. To the court ! why, what place make
you special, when you put off that with such
contempt? But to the court !
Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man
any manners, he may easily put it off at court :
he that cannot make a leg, put off 's cap, kiss
his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg,
hands, lip, nor cap; and, indeed, such a
fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court:
but, for me, I have an answer will serve all
men.
Count. Marry, that 's a bountiful answer that
fits all questions.
Clo. It is like a barber's chair, that fits all
buttocks, the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock,
the brawn -buttock, or any buttock .
Count, Will your answer serve fit to all ques-
tions?
290
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT II.
Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an
attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta
punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger, as a
pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a morris for May-
day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his
horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave,
as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth; nay, as the
pudding to his skin.
Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such
fitness for all questions?
Clo. From below your duke to beneath your
constable, it will fit any question.
Count. It must be an answer of most mon-
strous size that must fit all demands.
Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the
learned should speak truth of it : here it is, and
all that belongs to't. Ask me if I am a
courtier : it shall do you no harm to learn.
Count. To be young again, if we could : I
will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser
by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a
courtier?
Clo. O Lord, sir ! There 's a simple putting
off; more, more, a hundred of them.
Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that
Joves you. [me.
Clo. O Lord, si* ! Thick, thick ; spare not
Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this
homely meat.
Clo. O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to't, I
warrant you.
Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I
think.
Clo. O Lord, sir ! spare not me.
Count. Do you cry, O Lord, sir! at your
whipping, and spare not me? Indeed, your O
Lord, sir! is very sequent to your whipping :
you would answer very well to a whipping, if
you were but bound to 't.
Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my
Lord, sir! I see things may serve long, but
not serve ever.
Count. I play the noble housewife with the
time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool.
Clo. O Lord, sir ! Why, there 't serves well
again.
Count. An end, sir, to your business. Give
Helen this,
And urge her to a present answer back :
Commend me to my kinsmen and my son :
This is not much.
Clo. Not much commendation to them.
Count. Not much employment for you : you
understand me?
Clo. Most fruitfully : I am there before my
lgs.
Count. Haste you again. [Exeunt severally.
SCENE III. PARIS. A Room in the KING'S
Palace.
Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.
Laf. They say miracles are past ; and we have
our philosophical persons to make modern and
familiar things supernatural and causeless.
Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, en-
sconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge
when we should submit ourselves to an unknown
fear.
Par. Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder
that hath shot out in our latter times.
Ber. And so 'tis.
Laf. To be relinquish'd of the artists,
Par. So I say ; both of Galen and Paracelsus.
Laf. Of all the learned and authentic fel-
lows,
Par. Right; so I say.
Laf. That gave him out incurable, -
Par. Why, there 'tis ; so say I too.
Laf. Not to be helped,
Par. Right ; as 'twere a man assured of a,
Laf. Uncertain life and sure death. [said.
Par. Just; you say well: so would I have
Laf. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the
world.
Par. It is indeed : if you will have it in show-
ing, you shall read it in, What do you call
there?
Laf. A showing of a heavenly effect in an
earthly actor. [same.
Par. That 's it I would have said ; the very
Laf. Why, your dolphin is not lustier : 'fore
me, I speak in respect,
Par. Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange ; that
is the brief and the tedious of it ; and he is of a
most facinorous spirit that will not acknowledge
it to be the,
Laf. Very hand of heaven.
Par. Ay; so I say.
Laf. In a most weak,
Par. And debile minister, great power, great
transcendence: which should, indeed, give us
a further use to be made than alone the recovery
of the king, as to be,
Laf. Generally thankful.
Par. I would have said it; you say well.
Here comes the king.
Enter KING, HELENA, and Attendants.
Laf. Lustic, as the Dutchman says : I '11 like
a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my
head : why, he 's able to lead her a coranto.
Par. Mort du Vinaigrel is not this Helen?
Laf. 'Fore God, I think so.
SCENE II!.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,
291
King: Go, call before me all the lords in
court. \Exit an Attendant.
Sit, my preserver, by thy patient's side ;
And with this healthful hand, whose banish'd
sense
Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receive
The confirmation of my promis'd gift,
Which but attends thy naming.
Enter several Lords.
Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful
parcel
Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,
O'er whom both sovereign power and father's
voice
I have to use : thy frank election make ;
Thou hast power to choose, and they none to
forsake. [mistress
Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous
Fall, when love please! marry, to each, but
one!
Laf. I 'd give bay Curtal, and his furniture,
My mouth no more were broken than these boys',
And writ as little beard.
King. Peruse them well :
Not one of those hut had a noble father.
Hel. Gentlemen,
Heaven hath, through me, restor'd the king to
health. [you.
AIL We understand it, and thank heaven for
Hel. I am a simple maid, and therein
wealthiest
That I protest I simply am a maid.
Please it, your majesty, I have done already :
The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me
We blush that thou shouldst choose ; but> be re-
fus'd,
Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;
We '// ner come there again.
King. Make choice ; and, see,
Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.
Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,
And to imperial Love, that god most high,
Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my
suit?
1 Lord. And grant it.
Hel. Thanks, sir ; all the rest is mute.
Laf. I had rather be in this choice than throw
ames-ace for my life. [eyes,
Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your fair
Before I speak, too threateningly replies:
Love make your fortunes twenty times above
Her that so wishes, and her humble love !
2 Lord. No better, if you please.
Hel. My wish receive,
Which great Love grant ! and so I take my
leave.
Laf Do all they deny her? An they were
sons of mine I 'd have them whipped ; or I
would send them to the Turk to make eunuchs
of.
Hel. [To third Lord.] Be not afraid that I
your hand should take ;
I '11 never do you wrong for your own sake :
Blessing upon your vows ! and in your bed
Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed !
Laf These boys are boys of ice ; they Ml none
have her : sure, they are bastards to the English ;
the French ne'er got them. [good
Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too
To make yourself a son out of my blood.
4 Lord. Fair one, I think not so.
Laf. There's one grape yet, I am sure thy
father drank wine. But if thou beest not an ass,
I am a youth of fourteen ; I have known thee
already.
Hel. [To BERTRAM.] I dare not say I take
you ; but I give
Me and my service, ever whilst I live,
Into your guiding power. This is the man.
King. Why, then, young Bertram, take her ;
she 's thy wife. [highness,
Ber. My wife, my liege ! I shall beseech your
In such a business give me leave to use
The help of mine own eyes.
King. Know'st thou not, Bertram,
What she has done for me?
Ber. Yes, my good lord;
But never hope to know why I should marry
her. [my sickly bed.
King. Thou know'st she has rais'd me from
Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me
down
Must answer for your raising ? I know her well ;
She had her breeding at my father's charge :
A poor physician's daughter my wife ! Disdain
Rather corrupt me ever ! [the which
King. 'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her,
I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,
Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,
Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off
In differences so ttighty. If she be
All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik'st,
A poor physician's daughter, thou dislik'st
Of virtue for the name : but do not so :
From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
The place is dignified by the doer's deed :
Where great additions swell 's, and virtue none,
It is a dropsied honour : good alone
Is good without a name ; vileness is so :
The property by what it is should go,
Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair ;
In these to nature she 's immediate heir ;
And these breed honour: that is honour's scorn
292
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT ii.
Which challenges itself as honour's born,
And is not like the sire : honours thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our fore-goers : the mere word 's a slave,
Debauch'd on every tomb ; on every grave
A lying trophy ; and as oft is dumb
Wftere dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Of honour 5 d bones indeed. What should be
said?
If thou canst like this creature as a maid,
I can create the rest : virtue and she
Is her own dower ; honour and wealth from me.
Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do't.
King. Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst
strive to choose. [am glad :
Hel. That you are well restor'd, my lord, I
Let the rest go. [defeat,
King. My honour 's at the stake ; which to
I must produce my power. Here, take her
hand,
Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift ;
That dost in vile misprision shackle up
My love and her desert ; that canst not dream
We, poising us in her defective scale,
Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not
know
It is in us to plant thine honour where
We please to have it grow. Check thy con-
tempt :
Obey our will, which travails in thy good :
Believe not thy disdain, but presently
Do thine own fortunes that obedient right
Which both thy duty owesand our power claims
Or I will throw thee from my care for ever,
Into the staggers and the careless lapse [hate
Of youth and ignorance ; both my revenge and
Loosing upon thee in the name of justice,
Without all terms of pity. Speak! thine
answer !
Ber. Pardon, my gracious lord ; for I submit
My fancy to your eyes : when I consider
What great creation, and "What dole of honour
Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which
late
Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now
The praised of the king ; who, so ennobled,
Is as 'twere born so.
King. Take her by the hand,
And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise
A counterpoise ; if not to thy estate,
A balance more replete.
Ber. I take her hand.
King. Good fortune and the favou*of the king
Smile upon this contract ; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,
And be performed to-night : the solemn feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her,
Thy love 's to me religious ; else, does err.
[Exeunt KING, BER., HEL., Lords,
and Attendants.
Laf. Do you hear, monsieur? a word with
you.
Par, Your pleasure, sir?
Laf. Your lord and master did well to make
his recantation.
Par. Recantation ! My lord ! my master !
Laf. Ay; is it not a language I speak?
Par. A most harsh one, and not to be under-
stood without bloody succeeding. My master !
Laf. Are you companion to the Count
Rousillon? [is man.
Par. To any count ; to all counts ; to what
Laf. To what is count's man : count's master
is of another style.
Par. You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you,
you are too old.
Laf, I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man;
to which title age cannot bring thee.
Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.
Laf I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to
be a pretty wise fellow ; thou didst make toler-
able vent of thy travel ; it might pass : yet the
scarfs and the bannerets about thee did mani-
foldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel
of too great a burden. I have now found thee ;
when I lose thee again I care not : yet art thou
good for nothing but taking up ; and that thou
art scarce worth.
Par. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity
upon thee,
Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger,
lest thou hasten thy trial ; which if Lord have
mercy on thee for a hen ! So, my good window
of lattice, fare thee well : thy casement I need
not open, for" I look through thee. Give me
thy hand. [indignity.
Par. My lord, you give me most egregious
Laf. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art
worthy of it.
Par. I have not, my lord, deserved it.
Laf. Yes, good faith, every dram of it : and
I will not bate thee a scruple.
Par. Well, I shall be wiser.
Laf. E'en as soon as thou canst, for thou hast
to pull at a smack o' the contrary. If ever thou
beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt
find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I
have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee,
or rather my knowledge, that I may say, in the
default, he is a man I know.
Par. My lord, you do me most insupportable
vexation.
Laf. I would it were hell-pains for thy sake,
SCENE III. j
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
293
and my poor doing eternal : for doing I am past ;
as I will by thee, in what motion age will give
me leave. [Exit.
Par. Well, thou hast a son shall take this
disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord I
Well, I must be patient ; there is no fettering
of authority. I '11 beat him, by my life, if I can
meet him with any convenience, an he were
double and double a lord. I '11 have no more
pity of his age than I would have of I '11 beat
him, an if I could but meet him again.
Re-enter LAFEU.
Laf. Sirrah, your lord and master 's married ;
there 's news for you ; you have a new mistress.
Par. I most unfeignedly beseech your lord-
ship to make some reservation of your wrongs :
he is my good lord : whom I serve above is xny
master.
Laf. Who? God?
Par. Ay, sir.
Laf. The devil it is that 's thy master. Why
dost thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion?
dost make hose of thy sleeves? do other servants
so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where
thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were
but two hours younger I 'd beat thee : methink'st
thou art a general offence, and every man should
beat thee. I think thou wast created for men
to breathe themselves upon thee.
Par. This is hard and undeserved measure,
my lord.
Laf. Go to, sir ; you were beaten in Italy for
picking a kernel out of a pomegranate ; you are
a vagabond, and no true traveller : you are more
saucy with lords and honourable personages than
the heraldry of your birth and virtue gives you
commission. You are not worth another word,
else I 'd call you knave. I leave you. [Exit.
Par. Good, very good ; it is so then. Good,
very good ; let it be concealed awhile.
Enter BERTRAM.
Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever !
Par. What is the matter, sweet heart?
Ber. Although before the solemn priest I
have sworn,
I will not bed her.
Par. What, what, sweet heart?
Ber. O my Parolles, they have married me !
I '11 to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more
merits
The tread of a man's foot : to the wars !
Ber. There 's letters from my mother ; what
the import is
I know not yet,
1
Par. Ay, that would be known. To the wars,
my ix>y, to the wars 1
He wears his honour in a box unseen
That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home,
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions !
France is a stable; we, that dwell in 't, jades;
Therefore, to the war ! [house,
Ber. It shall be so; I'll send her to my
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled; write to the king
That which I durst not speak : his present gift
Shall furnish me to these Italian fields
Where noble fellows strike : war is no strife
To the dark house and the detested wife.
Par. Will this caprichio hold in thee, art
sure? [me.
Ber. Go with me to my chamber and advise
I '11 send her straight away : to-morrow
I '11 to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
Par. Why, these balls bound ; there 's noise
in it. 'Tis hard ;
A young man married is a man that 's marr'd :
Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go:
The king has done you wrong: but, hush! 'tis
so. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV. The same. Atwther Room in the
same.
Enter HELENA and Clown.
Hel. My mother greets me kindly: is she
well?
Clo. She is not well; but yet she has her
health: she's very merry; but yet she is not
well : but thanks be given, she 's very well, and
wants nothing i' the world; but yet she is not
well.
Hel. If she be very well, what does she ail,
that she 's not very well?
Clo. Truly, she 's very well indeed, but for
two things.
Hel. What two things?
Clo. One, that she 's not in heaven, whither
God send her quickly ! the other, that she 's in
earth, from whence God send her quickly !
Enter PAROLLES.
Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady !
HeL I hope, sir, I have your good will to
have mine own good fortunes.
Par. You had my prayers to lead them on ;
and to keep them on, have them still. O, my
knave, how does my old lady?
Clo. So that you had her wrinkles and I her
money, I would she did as you say.
294
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT II.
Par. Why, I say nothing.
Clo. Marry, you are the wiser man ; for many
a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing :
to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing,
and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your
title ; which is within a very little of nothing.
Par. Away ! thou 'rt a knave.
Clo. You should have said, sir, before a
knave thou art a knave ; that is, before me thou
art a knave : this had been truth, sir.
Par. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have
found thee.
Clo. Did you find me in yourself, sir? or
were you taught to find me? The search, sir,
was profitable ; and much fool may you find in
you, even to the world's pleasure and the in-
crease of laughter.
Par. A good knave, i' faith, and well fed.
Madam, my lord will go away to-night :
A very serious business calls on him.
The great prerogative antS right of love,
Which, as your due, time claims, he does ac-
knowledge ;
But puts it off to a compell'd restraint ;
Whose want and whose delay is strew'd with
sweets ;
Which they distil now in the curbed time,
To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy,
And pleasure drown the brim.
Hel. What's his will else?
Par. That you will take your instant leave o'
the king, [ing,
And make this haste as your own good proceed-
Strengthen'd with what apology you think
May make it probable need.
Hel. What more commands he?
Par. That, having this obtain'd, you pre-
sently
Attend his further pleasure.
Hel. In everything I wait upon his will.
Par. I shall report it so.
Hel. I pray you. Come, sirrah.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V. Another Room in the same.
Enter LAFEU and BERTRAM.
Laf. But I hope your lordship thinks not him
a soldier. [proof.
Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant ap-
Laf. You have it from his own deliverance.
Ber. And by other warranted testimony.
Laf. Then my dial goes not true : I took this
lark for a bunting.
Ber. I do assure you, my lord, he is very
great in knowledge, and accordingly valiant.
Laf. I have, then, sinned against his experi-
ence and transgressed against his valour ; and
my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot
yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes :
I pray you, make us friends ; I will pursue the
amity.
Enter PAROLLES.
Par. These things shall be done, sir.
\To BER.
Laf. Pray you, sir, who 's his tailor?
Par. Sir!
Laf. O, I know him well, I, sir ; he, sir. is
a good workman, a very good tailor.
Ber. Is she gone to the king? [Aside to PAR.
Par. She is.
Ber. Will she away to-night?
Par. As you '11 have her. [treasure,
Ber. I have writ my letters, casketed my
Given order for our horses ; and to-night,
When I should take possession of the bride,
End ere I do begin.
Laf. A good traveller is something at the
latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three-
thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thou-
sand nothings with, should be once heard and
thrice beaten. God save you, captain.
Ber. Is there any unkindness between my
lord and you, monsieur?
Par. I know not how I have deserved to run
into my lord's displeasure.
Laf. You have made shift to run into 't, boots
and spurs and all, like him that leaped into the
custard ; and out of it you '11 run again, rather
than suffer question for your residence, [lord.
Ber. It may be you have mistaken him, my
Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him
at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord ; and
believe this of me, there can be no kernel in
this light nut ; the soul of this man is his clothes :
trust him not in matter of heavy consequence ;
I have kept of them tame, and know their
natures. Farewell, monsieur: I have spoken
better of you than you have or will deserve at
my hand ; but we must do good against evil.
[Exit.
Par. An idle lord, I swear.
Ber. I think so.
Par. Why, do you not know him? [speech
Ber. Yes, I do know him well ; and common
Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.
Enter HELENA.
Hel. I have, sir, as I was commanded from
you, [leave
Spoke with the king, and have procured his
For present parting ; only, he desires
Some private speech with you.
SCENE V. I
ALL'S WELL THAT END'S WELL.
295
Ber. I shall obey his will.
You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,
Which holds not colour with the time, nor does
The ministration and required office
On my particular. Prepared I was not
For such a business j therefore am I found
So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat
you
That presently you take your way for home,
And rather muse than ask why I entreat you :
For my respects are better than they seem ;
And my appointments have in them a need
Greater than shows itself at the first view
To you that know them not. This to my
mother : [ Giving a letter.
'Twill be two days ere I shall see you ; so
I leave you to your wisdom.
Hel. Sir, I can nothing say
But that I am your most obedient servant.
Ber. Come, come, no more of that.
Hel. And ever shall
With true observance seek to eke out that
Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd
To equal my great fortune.
Ber. Let that go :
My haste is very great. Farewell ; hie home.
Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon.
Ber. Well, what would you say?
Hel. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe ;
Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is ; [steal
But, like a timorous thief, most fain would
What law does vouch mine own.
Ber. What would you have?
Hel. Something ; and scarce so much : no-
thing, indeed. [faith, yes;
I would not tell you what I would, my lord :
Strangers and foes do sunder and not kiss.
Ber. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to
horse. [my lord.
Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good
Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur?
Farewell, ' [Exit HELENA.
Go thou toward home, where I will never come
Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the
drum:
Away, and for our flight.
Par. Bravely, coragio ! {Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I. FLORENCE. A Room in the
DUKE'S Palace.
Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE,
attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.
Duke. So that, from point to point, now
have you heard
Th** fundamental reasons of this war ;
W T hose great decision hath much blood let forth,
And more thirsts after.
I Lord. Holy seems the quarrel
Upon your grace's part ; black and fearful
On the opposer. [France
Ditke. Therefore we marvel much our cousin
Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom
Against our borrowing prayers.
1 Lord. Good my lord,
The reasons of our state I cannot yield,
But like a common and an outward man
That the great figure of a council frames
By self-unable motion : therefore dare not
Say what I think of it, since I have found
Myself in my uncertain grounds to fail
As often as I guess'd.
Duke. Be it his pleasure.
2 Lord. But I am sure the younger of our
nature,
That surfeit on their ease, will day by day
Come here for physic.
Duke. Welcome shall they be;
And all the honours that can fly from us
Shall on them settle. You know your places
well;
When better fall, for your avails they fell :
To-morrow to the field. {Flourish. Exeunt.
SCENE II. ROUSILLON. A Room in the
COUNTESS'S Palace.
Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN.
Count. It hath happened all as I would have
had it, save that he comes not along with her.
Clo. By my troth, I take my young lord to
be a very melancholy man.
Count. By what observance, I pray you?
. Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot and
sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions
and sing; pick his teeth -and sing. I know a
man that had this trick of melancholy sold a
goodly manor for a song.
Count. Let me see what he writes, and when
he means to come. {Opening a letter.
Clo. I have no mind to Isbel, since I was at
court: our old ling and our Isbels o' the
country are nothing like your old ling and your
Isbels o' the court : the brains of my Cupid 's
knocked out; and I begin to love, as an old
man loves money, with no stomach.
Count. What have we here?
Clo. E'en that you have there. {Exit.
Count. {Reads .] / have sent you a daughter-
in-law: she hath recovered the king and undone
me. I have wedded her y not bedded her ; and
sworn to make the not eternal* You shall hear
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT III.
/ am run away: know it before the report come.
If there be breadth enough in the world I will
hold a long distance. My duty to you.
Your unfortunate son,
BERTRAM.
This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,
To fly the favour? Qf so good a king ;
To pluck his indignation on thy head
By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous
For the contempt of empire.
Re-enter Clown.
Clo. O madam > yonder is heavy news within,
between two soldiers and my young lady.
Count. What is the matter?
Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news,
some comfort ; your son will not be killed so
soon as I thought he would.
Count. Why should he be killed?
Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I
hear he does : the danger is in standing to 't ;
that 's the loss of men, though it be the getting
of children. Here they come will tell you
more : for my part, I only hear your son was
run away. [Exit.
Enter HELENA and two Gentlemen.
1 Gent. Save you, good madam.
Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.
2 Gent. Do not say so. [gentlemen,
Count. Think upon patience. Pray you,
I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief
That the first face of neither, on the start,
Can woman me unto 't. Where is my son, I
pray you? [of Florence :
2 Gent. Madam, he 's gone to serve the duke
We met him thitherward ; for thence we came,
And, after some despatch in hand at court,
Thither we bend again. [passport.
Hel. Look on his letter, madam ; here 's my
[Reads. 1 When thou canst get the ring upon my
finger, which never shall come off, and show
me a child begotten of thy body that I am
father to, then call me husband; but in such
a then / write a never.
This is a dreadful sentence.
Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?
1 Gent. Ay, madam;
And, for the contents' sake, are sorry for our
pains.
Count. I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer;
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
Thou robb'st me of a moiety. He was my son :
But I do wash his name out of my blood,
And thou art all my child. Towards Florence
is he?
2 Gent. Ay, madam.
Count. And to be a soldier?
2 Gent. Such is his noble purpose : and, be-
lieve 't,
The duke will lay upon him all the honour
That good convenience claims.
Count. Return you thither?
i Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing
of speed.
If el. [Reads.] Till I have no wife \ T have no-
thing in France.
'Tis bitter.
Count. Find you that there?
Hel. Ay, madam.
I Gent. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand.
haply,
Which his heart was not consenting to.
Count. Nothing in France until he have no
wife!
There 's nothing here that is too good for him
But only she ; and she deserves a lord
That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with
him?
I Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have sometime known.
Count. Parolles, was't not?
I Gent. Ay, my good lady, he.
Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of
wickedness.
My son corrupts a well -derived nature
With his inducement.
1 Gent. Indeed, good lady,
The fellow has a deal of that too much,
Which iolds him much to have.
Count. You are welcome, gentlemen,
I will entreat you, when you see my son,
To tell him that his sword can never win
The honour that he loses : more I '11 entreat you
Written to bear along.
2 Gent. We serve you, madam,
In that and all your worthiest affairs, [tesies.
Count. Not so, but as we change our cour-
Will you draw near?
[Exeunt COUNT, and Gentlemen.
Hel. Till I have no wife, I have nothing in
France.
Nothing in France until he has no wife !
Thou shalthave none, Rousillon, none in France;
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is 't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war? and is it I [thou
That drive thee from the sportive court, where
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire.
Fly with false aim : move the still-peering air,
SCENE III.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
297
That sings with piercing ; do not touch my lord!
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to it ;
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected : better 'twere
I met the ravin lion when he roar'd
With sharp constraint of hunger ; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No ; come thou home,
Rousillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all. I will be gone :
My being here it is that holds thee hence i
Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all : I will be gone,
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To consolate thine ear. Come, night ; end, day!
For with the dark, poor thief, I '11 steal away.
{Exit.
SCENE III. FLORENCE. Before the DUKE'S
Palace.
Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE,
"BERTRAM, PAROLLES, Lords, Officers,
Soldiers, and others.
Duke. The general of our horse thou art;
and we,
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.
Ber. Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength ; but yet
We '11 strive to bear it, for your worthy sake,
To the extreme edge of hazard.
Duke. Then go thou forth ;
And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,
As thy auspicious mistress !
Ber. This very day,
Great Mars, I put myself into thy file ;
Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum, hater of love. {Exeunt.
SCENE IV. ROUSILLON. A Room in the
COUNTESS'S Palace.
Enter COUNTESS and Steward.
Count. Alas ! and would you take the letter
of her? [done,
Might you not know she would do as she has
By sending me a letter? Read it again.
Stew. [Reads.] I am St. Jaques* pilgrim ,
thither gone:
Ambitious love hath so in me offended
That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,
With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course ofwa*
My dearest maste/ t your dear son, may hie:
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far
His name with zealous fc/votir sanctify:
His taken labours bid him me forgive;
I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,
Where death and danger dog the heels cj
worth:
He is too good and fair for death and me;
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.
Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her
mildest words !
Rinaldp, you did never lack advice so much
As letting her pass so ; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus she hath prevented.
Stew. Pardon me, madam:
If I had given you this at over-night, [writes,
She might have been o'erta'en; and yet she
Pursuit would be but vain.
Count. What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to
hear,
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife :
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light: my greatest
grief,
Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.
Despatch the most convenient messenger:
When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone
He will return ; and hope I may that she,
Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,
Led hither by pure love : which of them both
Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense
To make distinction: provide this messen-
ger:
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak ;
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me
speak. [Exeunt.
SCENE V. Without the Walls of FLORENCE,
Enter an old Widow of Florence, DIANA, Vio-
LENTA, MARIANA, and other Citizens.
Wid. Nay, come; for if they do approach
the city we shall lose all the sight.
Dia. They say the French count has done
most honourable service.
Wid. It is reported that he has taken their
greatest commander; and that with his own
hand he slew the duke's brother. [A tucket
afar off .} We have lost our labour; they are
2 9 8
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT III.
gone a contrary way : hark ! you may know by
their trumpets.
Mar. Come, let's return again, and suffice
ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana,
take heed of this French earl : the honour of a
maid is her name ; and no legacy is so rich as
honesty.
Wid. I have told my neighbour how you have
been solicited by a gentleman his companion.
Mar. I know that knave; hang him! one
Parolles : a filthy officer he is in those sugges-
tions for the young earl. Beware of them,
Diana; their promises, enticements, oaths,
tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not
the things they go under : many a maid hath
been seduced by them; and the misery is,
example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of
maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade suc-
cession, but that they are limed with the twigs
that threaten them. I hope I need not to ad-
vise you further ; but I hope your own grace
will keep you where you are, though there
were no further danger known but the modesty
which is so lost.
Dia. You shall not need to fear me.
Wid. I hope so. Look, here comes a pil-
grim : I know she will lie at my house : thither
they send one another; I '11 question her.
Enter HELENA in the dress of a pilgrim.
God save you, pilgrim ! Whither are you bound ?
Hel. To Saint Jaques-le-Grand.
Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?
Wid. At the Saint Francis here, beside the
port.
Hel. Is this the way?
Wid. Ay, marry, is it. Hark you! They
come this way. [A march afar off.
If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,
But till the troops come by,
I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd ;
The rather for I think I know your hostess
As ample as myself.
Hel. Is it yourself?
Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim.
Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your
leisure.
Wid. You came, I think, from France?
Hel. I did so.
Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of
yours
That has done worthy service.
Hel. His name, I pray you.
Dia. The Count Rousillon : know you such
a one? [of him:
Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly
His face I know not.
Dia. Whatsoe'er he is,
He's bravely taken here. He stole from
France,
As 'tis reported, for the king had married him
Against his liking: think you it is so?
Hel. Ay, surely, mere the truth; I know
his lady. [count
Dia. There is a gentleman that serves the
Reports but coarsely of her.
Hel. What's his name?
Dia. Monsieur Parolles.
Hel. O, I believe with him,
In argument of praise, or to the worth
Of the great count himself, she is too mean
To have her name repeated ; all her deserving
Is a reserved honesty, and that
I have not heard examin'd.
Dia. Alas, poor lady I
'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife
Of a detesting lord.
Wid. Ay, right; good creature, whereso-
e'er she is
Her heart weighs sadly : this young maid
might do her
A shrewd turn if she pleas'd.
Hel. How do you mean?
May be, the amorous count solicits her
In the unlawful purpose.
Wid. He does, indeed;
And brokes with all that can in such a suit
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid ;
But she is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard
In honestest defence.
Mar. The gods forbid else !
Wid. So, now they come :
Enter, with a drum and colours, a party of the
Florentine army, BERTRAM, and PAROLLES.
That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son ;
That, Escalus.
Hel. Which is the Frenchman?
Dia. He ;
That with the plume : 'tis a most gallant fellow.
I would he lov'd his wife: if he were honester
He were much goodlier : is 't not a handsome
fentleman ?
ike him well. [same knave
Dia. 'Tis pity he is not honest? yond's that
That leads him to these places ; were I his lady
I 'd poison that vile rascal.
Hel. Which is he ?
Dia. The jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is
he melancholy?
Hel. Perchance he 's hurt i' the battle.
Par. Lose our drum ! well.
Mar. He 's shrewdly vexed at something :
look, he has spied us.
SCENE VI.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
299
Wid. Marry, hang you !
Mar. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier !
\Exeunt BER., PAR., Officers, and Soldiers.
Wid. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I
will bring you
Where you shall host : of enjoin'd penitents
There 3 s four or five, to great Saint Jacques
bound,
Already at my house.
Hel. I humbly thank you :
Please it this matron and this gentle maid
To eat with us to-night ; the charge and thanking
Shall be for me : and, to requite you further,
I will bestow some precepts on this virgin,
Worthy the note.
Both. We '11 take vour offer kindly.
[Exeunt.
SCENE \\.~-Camp before FLORENCE.
Enter BERTRAM, and the two French Lords.
1 Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to 't ;
let him have his way.
2 Lord. If your lordship find him not a hild-
ing, hold me no more in your respect.
I Lord. On my life, my lord, a bubble.
Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in
him?
1 Lord. Believe it, my lord, in mine own
direct knowledge, without any malice, but to
speak of him as my kinsman, he 's a most not-
able coward, an infinite and endless liar, an
hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one
good quality worthy your lordship's entertain-
ment.
2 Lord. It were fit you knew him ; lest, re-
posing too far in his virtue, which he hath not,
he might, at some great and trusty business, in
a main danger, fail you.
Ber. I would I knew in what particular
action to try him.
2 Lord. None better than to let him fetch off
his drum, which you hear him so confidently
undertake to do.
i Lord. I, with a troop of Florentines, will
suddenly surprise him ; such I will have, whom
I am sure he knows not from the enemy : we
will bind and hoodwink him so that he shall
suppose no other but that he is carried into the
leaguer of the adversaries when we bring him
to our tents. Be but your lordship present at
his examination : if he do not, for the promise
of his life, and in the highest compulsion of
base fear, offer to betray you, and deliver all
the intelligence in his power against you, and
that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon
oath, never trust my judgment in anything.
2 Lord. O, for the love of laughter, let him
fetch off his drum ; he says he has a stratagem
for '"t : when your lordship sees the bottom of
his success in 't, and to what metal this counter-
feit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him
not John Drum's entertainment, your inclining
cannot be removed. Here he comes.
1 Lord. O, for the love of laughter, hinder
not the humour of his design : let him fetch off
his drum in any hand.
Enter PAROLLES.
Ber. How now, monsieur? this drum sticks
sorely in your disposition.
2 Lord. A pox on 't ; let it go ; 'tis but a
drum.
Par. But a drum! Is't but a drum? A
drum so lost ! There was an excellent com-
mand ! to charge in with our horse upon our
own wings, and to rend our own soldiers.
2 Lord. That was not to be blamed in the
command of the service ; it was a disaster oi
war that Csesar himself could not have pre-
vented, if he had been there to command.
Ber. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our
success : some dishonour we haa in the loss ol
that drum; but it is not to be recovered..
Par. It might have been recovered.
Ber. It might, but it is not now.
Par. It is to be recovered: but that the
merit of service is seldom attributed to the trur
and exact performer, I would have that drum
or another, or hie jacet.
Ber. Why, if you have a stomach to 't, mon-
sieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem
can bring this instrument of honour again into
his native quarter, be magnanimous in the en-
terprise, and go on ; I will grace the attempt
for a worthy exploit ; if you speed well in it,
the duke shall both speak of it, and extend to
you what further becomes his greatness, even
to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.
Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will under-
take it.
Ber. But you must not now slumber in it.
Par. I '11 about it this evening : and I will
presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage
myself in my certa ity, put myself into my
mortal preparation, and, by midnight, look to
hear further from me.
Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his grace
you are gone about it?
Par. I know not what the success will be,
my lord, but the attempt I vow.
Ber. I know thou art valiant; and, to the
possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for
thee. Farewell.
300
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT iv.
Par. I love not many words. [Exit.
1 Lord. No more than a fish loves water.
Is not this a strange fellow, my lord? that so
confidently seems to undertake this business,
which he knows is not to be done ; damns him-
self to do, and dares better be damned than to
do't.
2 Lord. You do not know him, my lord , as
we do : certain it is that he will steal himself
into a man's favour, and for a week escape a
great deal of discoveries ; but when you find
him out, you have him ever after.
Ber. Why, do you think he will make no
deed at all of this, that so seriously he does
address himself unto?
1 Lord. None in the world ; but return with
an invention, and clap upon you two or three
probable lies : but we have almost embossed
him, you shall see his fall to-night : for indeed
he is not for your lordship's respect.
2 Lord. We '11 make you some sport with
the fox ere we case him. He was first smoked
by the old Lord Lafeu : when his disguise and
he is parted, tell me wnat a sprat you shall find
him ; which you shall see this very night.
i Lord. I must go look my twigs ; he shall
be caught.
Ber. Your brother, he shall go along with me.
1 Lord. As 't please your lordship : I '11 leave
you. [Exit.
Ber. Now will I lead you to the house, and
show you
The lass I spoke of.
2 Lord. But you say she's honest.
Ber. That 's all the fault : I spoke with her
but once, [her,
And found her wondrous cold ; but I sent to
By this same coxcomb that we have i' the wind,
Tokens and letters which she did re-send ;
And this is all I have done. She's a fair
creature ;
Will you go see her?
2 Lord. With all my heart, my lord.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII. FLORENCE. A Room in the
Widow's House.
Enter HELENA and Widow.
Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she,
I know not how I shall assure you further,
But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.
Wid* Though my estate be fallen, I was
well born,
Nothing acquainted with these businesses ;
And would not put my reputation now
In any staining act.
Hel. Nor would I wish you.
First give me trust, the count he is my husband,
And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken
Is so from word to word ; and then you cannot,
By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,
Err in bestowing it.
Wid. I should believe you ;
For you have show'd me that which well
approves
You 're great in fortune.
Hel. Take this purse of gold,
And let me buy your friendly help thus far,
Which I will over-pay, and pay again,
When I have found it. The count he wooes
your daughter,
Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,
Resolv'd to carry her : let her, in fine, consent,
As we '11 direct her how 'tis best to bear it,
Now his important blood will naught deny
That she '11 demand : a ring the county wears,
That downward hath succeeded in his house
From son to son, some four or five descents
Since the first father wore it : this ring he holds
In most rich choice ; yet, in his idle fire,
To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,
Howe'er repented after.
Wid. Now I see
The bottom of your purpose.
Hel. You see it lawful then : it is no more
But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,
Desires this ring ; appoints him an encounter ;
In fine, delivers me to fill the time,
Herself most chastely absent ; after this,
To marry her, I '11 add three thousand crowns
To what is past already.
Wid. I have yielded:
Instruct my daughter how she shall persevei,
That time and place, with this deceit so lawful,
May prove coherent. Every night he comes
With musics of all sorts, and songs compos'd
To her unworthiness : it nothing steads us
To chide him from our eaves ; for he persists,
As if his life lay on 't.
Hel. Why, then, to-night
Let us assay our plot ; which, if it speed,
Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,
And lawful meaning in a lawful act ;
Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact :
But let 's about it. [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Without the FLORENTINE Camp.
Enter first Lord, with five or six Soldiers in
ambush.
I Lord. He can come no other way but by
this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him
SCENE I.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
301
speak what terrible language you will ; though
you understand it not yourselves, no matter;
for we must not seem to understand him, un-
less some one among us, whom we must pro-
duce for an interpreter.
i Sold. Good captain, let me be the inter-
preter.
i Lord. Art not acquainted with him? knows
he not thy voice?
I Sold. No, sir, I warrant you.
I Lord. But what linsey-woolsey hast thou
to speak to us again?
I Sold. Even such as you speak to me.
I Lord. He must think us some band of
strangers i' the adversary's entertainment.
Now he hath a smack of all neighbouring lan-
guages; therefore we must every one be a man
of his own fancy, not to know what we speak
to one another; so we seem to know, is to
know straight our purpose : chough's language,
gabble enough, and good enough. As for you,
interpreter, you must seem very politic. But
couch, ho! here he comes; to beguile two
hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear
the lies he forges.
iiiJtoUJryi --/
Enter PAROLLES.
Par. Ten o'clock : within these three hours
'twill be time enough to go home. What shall
I say I have done? It must be a very plausive
invention that carries it : they begin to smoke
me: and disgraces have of late knocked too
often at my door. I find my tongue is too
foolhardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars
before it, and of his creatures, not daring the
reports of my tongue.
I Lord. This is the first truth that e'er thine
own tongue was guilty of. [Aside.
Par. What the devil should move me to
undertake the recovery of this drum ; being not
ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I
had no such purpose? I must give myself some
hurts, and say I got them in exploit : yet slight
ones will not carry it : they will say, Came you
off with so little? and great ones I dare not
five. Wherefore, what *s the instance? Tongue,
must put you into a butter-woman's mouth,
and buy myself another of Bajazet's mule, if
you prattle me into these perils.
I Lord. Is it possible he should know what
he is, and be that he is ? [Aside.
Par. I would the cutting of my garments
would serve the turn, or the breaking of my
Spanish sword.
I Lord. We cannot afford you so. [Azidi.
Par. Or the baring of my beard; and to say
it was in stratagem.
I Lord. 'T would not do. [Aside.
Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was
stripped.
i Lord. Hardly serve. [Aside.
Par. Though I swore I leaped from the
window of the citadel,
I Lord. How deep? [Aside.
Par. Thirty fathom.
i Lord. Three great oaths would scarce
make that be believed. [Aside.
Par. I would I had any drum of the enemy's j
I would swear I recovered it.
I Lord. You shall hear one anon. [Aside.
Par. A dram now of the enemy's !
[Alarum within.
I Lord. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.
All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo,
cargo.
Par. O ! ransom, ransom : Do not hide
mine eyes. [ They seize and blindfold him.
1 Sold. Boskos throimildo boskos.
Par. I know you are the Musko's regiment,
And I shall lose my life for want of language :
If there be here German- or Dane, low Dutch,
Italian, or French, let him speak to me ;
I will discover that which shall undo
The Florentine.
2 Sold. Boskos vauvado :
I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue :
Kerelybonto : Sir,
Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards
Are at thy bosom.
Par. ' Oh !
I Sold. O, pray, pray, pray.
Manka revania dulche.
I Lord. Oscorbi dulchos volivorco.
i Sold. The general is content to spare thee
yet;
And, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee
on
To gather from thee : haply thou mayst inform
Something to save thy Hie.
Par. O, let me live,
And all the secrets of our camp I '11 show,
Their force, their purposes : nay, I '11 speak that
Which you will wonder at.
I Sold. But wilt thou faithfully?
Par. If I do not, damn me.
I Sold. Acordo linta.
Come on ; thou art granted space.
[Exit, with PAROLLES guarded.
1 Lord. Go, tell the Count Rousillon and
my brother
We have caught the woodcock, and will keep
him muffled
Till we do hear from them.
2 Sold. Captain, I will
3 02
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT iv.
1 Lord. He will betray us all unto our-
selves ;
Inform 'em that.
2 Sold. So I will, sir.
I Lord. Till then I '11 keep him dark, and
safely lock'd. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. FLORENCE. A Room in the
Widow's House.
Enter BERTRAM and DIANA.
Ber. They told me that your name was
Fontibell.
Dia. No, my good lord, Diana.
Ber. Titled goddess ;
And worth it, with addition ! But, fair soul,
In your fine frame hath love no quality?
If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,
You are no maiden, but a monument ;
When you are dead, you should be such a one
As you are now, for you are cold and stern ;
And now you should be as your mother was
When your sweet self was got.
Dia. She then was honest.
Ber. So should you be.
Dia. No :
My mother did but duty ; such, my lord,
As you owe to your wife.
Ber. No more of that !
I pr'ythee, do not strive against my vows :
I was compell'd to her ; but I love thee
By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever
Do thee all rights of service.
Dia. Ay, so you serve us
Till we serve you : but when you have our roses
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
And mock us with our bareness.
Ber. How have I sworn?
Dia. 'Tis not the many oaths that make the
truth,
But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.
What is not holy, that we swear not by,
But take the Highest to witness: then, pray
you, tell me,
If I should swear by Jove's great attributes
I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths,
When I did love you ill? this has no holding,
To swear by him whom I protest to love,
That I will work against him: therefore your
oaths
Are words and poor conditions ; but unseal'd,
At least in my opinion.
Ber. Change it, change it ;
Be not so holy-cruel : love is holy ;
And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts [off,
That y^u do charge men with. Stand no more
But give thyself unto my sick desires,
Who then recover : say thou art mine, and ever
My love as it begins shall so persever. [case,
Dia. I see that men make hopes, in such a
That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that
ring. [power
Ber. I '11 lend it thee, my dear, but have no
To give it from me.
Dia. Will you not, my lord?
Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors ;
Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world
In me to lose.
Dia. Mine honour 's such a ring :
My chastity 's the jewel of our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors ;
Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world
In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom
Brings in the champion honour on my part,
Against your vain assault.
Ber. Here, take my ring :
My house, mine honour, yea, my life be thine,
And I '11 be bid by thee.
Dia. When midnight comes knock at my
chamber- window ;
I '11 order take my mother shall not hear.
Now will I charge you in the band of truth,
When you have conquer'd my yet maiden-bed,
Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me:
My reasons are most strong; and you shall
know them
When back again this ring shall be deliver'd ;
And on your finger, in the night, I '11 put
Another ring; that what in time proceeds
May token to the future our past deeds.
Adieu till then ; then fail not. You have won
A wife of me, though there my hope be done.
Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by woo-
ing thee. [Exit.
Dia. For which live long to thank both
heaven and me !
You may so in the end.
My mother told me just how he would woo,
As if she sat in his heart ; she says all men
Have the like oaths : he hath sworn to marry me
When his wife 's dead ; therefore I '11 lie with him
When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so
braid,
Marry that will, I '11 live and die a maid :
Only, in this disguise, I think 't no sin
To cozen him that would unjustly win. [Exit.
SCENE III. The Florentine Camp.
Enter the two French Lords, and two QT three
Soldiers.
i Lord. You have not given him his mother's
letter?
SCENE III.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
303
2 Lord. I have delivered it an hour since :
there is something in 't that stings his nature ;
for, on the reading it, he changed almost into
another man.
1 Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon
him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet
a lady.
2 Lord. Especially he hath incurred the ever-
lasting displeasure of the king, who had even
tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I
will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell
darkly with you.
1 Lord. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead,
and I am the grave of it.
2 Lord. He hath perverted a young gentle-
woman here in Florence, of a most chaste re-
nown ; and this night he fleshes his will in the
spoil of her honour: he hath given her his
monumental ring, and thinks himself made in
the unchaste composition.
1 Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion: as
we are ourselves, what things are we !
2 Lord. Merely our own traitors. And as in
the common course of all treasons, we still see
them reveal themselves, till they attain to their
abhorred ends ; so he that in this action con-
trives against his own nobility, in his proper
stream o'erflows himself.
1 Lord. Is it not meant damnable in us to be
trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall
not then have his company to-night?
2 Lord. Not till after midnight; for he is
dieted to his hour.
1 Lord. That approaches apace: I would
gladly have him see his company anatomized,
that he might take a measure of his own judg-
ments, wherein so curiously he had set this
counterfeit.
2 Lord. We will not meddle with him till he
come ; for his presence must be the whip of the
other. [these wars?
1 Lord. In the meantime, what hear you of
2 Lord. I hear there is an overture of peace.
1 Lord. Nay, I assure you, a peace con-
cluded.
2 Lord. What will Count Rousillon do then?
will he travel higher, or return again into
France?
1 Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you are
not altogether of his council.
2 Lord. Let it be forbid, sir ; so should I be
a great deal of his act.
i Lord. Sir, his wife, some two months since,
fled from his house : her pretence is a pilgrim-
age to St. Jaques-le-Grand ; which holy under-
taking, with most austere sanctimony, she ac-
complished; and, there residing, the tenderness
of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in
fine, made a groan of her last breath ; and now
she sings in heaven.
2 Lord. How is this justified ?
1 Lord. The stronger part of it by her own
letters, which make her story true even to the
point of her death : her death itself, which could
not be her office to say is come, was faithfully
confirmed by the rector of the place.
2 Lord. Hath the count all this intelligence?
1 Lord. Ay, and the particular confirmations,
point from point, to the full arming of the
verity.
2 Lord. I am heartily sorry that he '11 be
glad of this.
1 Lord. How mightily, sometimes, we make
us comforts of our losses !
2 Lord. And how mightily, some other times,
we drown our gain in tears ! The great dignity
that his valour hath here acquired for him shall
at home be encountered with a shame as ample.
1 Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled
yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would
be proud if our faults whipped them not ; and
our crimes would despair if they were not
cherished by our virtues.
Enter a Servant.
How now? where's your master?
Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir ; of
whom he hath taken a solemn leave : his lord-
ship will next morning for France. The duke
hath offered him letters of commendations to
the king.
2 Lord. They shall be no more than needfu/
there, if they were more than they can com-
mend.
1 Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the
king's tartness. Here 's his lordship now.
Enter BERTRAM.
How now, my lord, is't not after midnight?
Ber. I have to-night despatched sixteen busi-
nesses, a month's length a- piece, by an abstract
of success : I have conge'd with the duke, done
my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife,
mourned for her ; writ to my lady-mother I am
returning; entertained my convoy; and, be-
tween these main parcels of despatch, effected
many nicer needs: the last was the greatest,
but that I have not ended yet.
2 Lord. If the business be of any difficulty,
and this morning your departure hence, it re-
quires haste of your lordship.
Ber. I mean, the business is not ended, as
fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we
have this dialogue between the fool and the
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT iv.
soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit
model : has deceived me like a double-meaning
prophesier.
2 Lord. Bring him forth. [Exeunt Soldiers. ]
Has sat in the stocks all night, poor gallant
knave.
Ber. No rratter; his heels have deserved it,
in usurping his spurs so long. How does he
carry himself?
1 Lord. I have told your lordship already;
the stocks carry him. But to answer you as
you would be understood; he weeps like a
wench that had shed her milk : he hath con-
fessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to
be a friar, from the time of his remembrance
to this very instant disaster of his setting i' the
stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?
Ber. Nothing of me, has he?
2 Lord. His confession is taken, and it shall
be read to his face : if your lordship be in 't, as
I believe you are, you must have the patience to
hear it.
Re-enter Soldiers, with PAROLLES.
Ber. A plague upon him ! muffled ! he can
3ay nothing of me ; hush, hush !
I Lord. Hoodman comes ! Porto tartarossa.
I Sold. He calls for the tortures : what will
you say without 'em?
Par. I will confess what I know without con-
straint ; if ye pinch me like a pasty I can say
no more.
i Sold. Bosko chimurco.
I Lord. Boblibindo chicurmurco.
i Sold. You are a merciful general: Our
general bids you answer to what I shall ask you
out of a note.
Par. And truly, as I hope to live.
i Sold. First demand of him how many horse
the duke is strong. What say you to that ?
Par. Five or six thousand; but very weak
and unserviceable : the troops are all scattered,
and the commanders very poor rogues, upon
my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live.
i Sold. Shall I set down your answer so?
Par. Do; I'll take the sacrament on't, how
and which way you will. [slave is this !
Ber. All 's one to him. What a past-saving
1 Lord. You are deceived, my lord ; this is
Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that
was his own phrase), that had the whole theoric
of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice
in the chape of his dagger.
2 Lord. I will never trust a man again for
keeping his sword clean; nor believe he can
have everything in him by wearing his apparel
neatly.
I Sold. Well, that 's set down.
Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said, I
will say true, or thereabouts, set down, for
I '11 speak truth.
I Lord. He 's very near the truth in this.
Ber. But I con him no thanks for 't in the
nature he delivers it.
Par. Poor rogues, I pray you say.
I Sold. Well, that 's set down.
Par. I humbly thank you, sir: a truth's a
truth, the rogues are marvellous poor.
I Sold. Demand of him of what strength they
are a-foot. What say you to that?
Par. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this
present hour I will tell true. Let me see :
Spurio a hundred and fifty, Sebastian so many,
Corambus so many, Jacques so many ; Guiltian,
Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred
fifty each: mine own company, Chitopher,
Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each : so
that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my
life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll ; half
of the which dare not shake the snow from off
their cassocks lest they shake themselves to
pieces.
Ber. What shall be done to him?
i Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks.
Demand of him my condition, and what credit
I have with the duke.
i Sold. Well, that 's set down. You shall
demand of him whether one Captain Dumain
be the camp, a frenchman; what his reputa-
tion is with the duke, what his valour, honesty,
expertness in wars ; or whether he thinks it were
not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to
corrupt him to a revolt.
What say you to this? what do you know of it?
Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the
particular of the inter'gatories : demand them
singly.
I Sold. Do you know this Captain Dumain?
Par. I know him: he was a botcher's
'prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped
for getting the shrieve's fool with child : a dumb
innocent that could not say him nay.
[i Lord lifts up his hand in anger.
Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands ;
though I know his brains are forfeit to the next
tile that falls.
i Sold. Well, is this captain in the Duke of
Florence's camp?
Par. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.
I Lord. Nay, look not so upon me ; we shall
hear of your lordship anon.
I Sold. What is his reputation with the duke?
Par. The duke knows him for no other but
a poor officer of mine j and writ to me this other
SCENE 111.7
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
305
day to turn him out o' the band : I think I have
his letter in my pocket.
I Sold. Marry, we '11 search.
Par. In good sadness, I do not know ; either
it is there or it is upon a file, with the duke's
other letters, in my tent.
i Sold. Here 'tis; here's a paper. Shall I
read it to you ?
Par. I do not know if it be it or no.
Ber. Our interpreter does it well.
I Lord. Excellently.
I Sold. [Reads. ] Dian, the Count 's a fool, and
full of gold,
Par. That is not the duke's letter, sir ; that
is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence,
one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of
one Count Rousillon, a foolish, idle boy, but,
for all that, very ruttish : I pray you, sir, put it
up again.
1 Sold. Nay, I'll read it first, by your favour.
Par. My meaning in 't, I protest, was very
honest in the behalf of the maid ; for I knew the
young count to be a dangerous and lascivious
boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours
up all the fry it finds.
Ber. Damnable ! both sides rogue !
. I Sold. [^Mfc.]Whenheswearsoaths,bidhimdrop
gold, and take it :
After he scores, he never pays the score ;
Half won is match well made ; match, and well make it;
He ne'er pays after -debts, take it before ;
And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this,
Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss ;
For count of this, the count 's a fool, I know it,
Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.
Thine, as he vow'd to thee in thine ear,
PAROLLES.
Ber. He shall be whipped through the army
with this rhyme in his forehead.
2 Lord. This is your devoted friend, sir, the
manifold linguist, and the armipotent soldier.
Ber. I could endure anything before but a
cat, and now he 's a cat to me.
I Sold. I perceive, sir, by our general's looks
we shall be fain to hang you.
Par. My life, sir, in any case : not that I am
afraid to die, but that, my offences being many,
I would repent out the remainder of nature :
let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i' the stocks, or
anywhere, so I may live.
i Sold. We '11 see what may be done, so you
confess freely; therefore, once more to this
Captain Dumain : you have answered to his re-
putation with the duke, and to his valour : what
is his honesty ?
Par. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a
cloister ; for rapes and ravishments he parallels
Nessus. He professes not keeping of oaths;
in breaking them he is stronger than Hercules.
He will lie, sir, with such volubility that you
would think truth were a fool : drunkenness is
his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk ; and
in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bed-
clothes about him ; but they know his conditions
and lay him in straw. I have but little more
to say, sir, of his honesty ; he has everything
that an honest man should not have ; what an
honest man should have he has nothing.
I Lord. I begin to love him for this.
Ber. For this description of thine honesty?
A pox upon him for me ; he is more and more
a cat.
i Sold. What say you to his expertness in
war?
Par. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the
English tragedians, to belie him I will not,
and more of his soldiership I know not, except
in that country he had the honour to be the
officer at a place there called Mile-end, to in-
struct for the doubling of files : I would do the
man what honour I can, but of this I am not
certain.
I Lord. He hath out-villanied villany so far
that the rarity redeems him.
Ber. A pox on him ! he 's a cat still.
I Sold. His qualities being at this poor price,
I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him
to revolt.
Par. Sir, for a quart (fecit he will sell the
fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance oi
it ; and cut the entail from all remainders, and
a perpetual succession for it perpetually.
1 Sold. What 's his brother, the other Cap-
tain Dumain?
2 Lord. Why does he ask him of me?
I Sold. What 'she?
Par. E'en a crow of the same nest ; not al-
together so great as the first in goodness, but
greater a great deal in evil. He excels his
brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed
one of the best that is : in a retreat he outruns
any lackey ; marry, in coming on he has the
cramp.
I Sold. If your life be saved, will you under-
take to betray the Florentine?
Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count
Rousillon.
i Sold. I'll whisper with the general, and
know his pleasure.
Par. I '11 no more drumming ; a plague of all
drums ! Only to seem to deserve well, and to
beguile the supposition of that lascivious young
boy, the count, have I run into this danger:
yet who would have suspected an ambush where
I was taken? {Aside.
306
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT rv.
i Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you
must die : the general says, you that have so
traitorously discovered the secrets of your army,
and made such pestiferous reports of men very
nobly held, can serve the world for no honest
use; therefore you must die. Come, heads-
man, off with his head.
Par. O Lord ! sir, let me live, or let me see
my death.
1 Sold. That shall you, and take your leave
of all your friends. [ Unmuffling him.
So look about you : know you any here?
Ber. Good morrow, noble captain.
2 Lord. God bless you, Captain Parolles.
1 Lord. God save you, noble captain.
2 Lord. Captain, what greeting will you to
my Lord Lafeu? I am for France.
I Lord. Good captain, will you give me a
copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf
of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very
coward I 'd compel it of you ; but fare you well.
[Exeunt BERTRAM, Lords, &c.
I Sold. You are undone, captain: all but
your scarf ; that has a knot on 't yet.
Par. Who cannot be crushed with a plot?
I Sold. If you could find out a country where
but women were that had received so much
shame, you might begin an impudent nation.
Fare you well, sir ; I am for France too : we
shall speak of you there. [Exit.
Par. Yet I am thankful : if my heart were
great,
'Twould burst at this. Captain I '11 be no
more;
But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft
As captain shall : simply the thing I am
Shall make me live. Who knows himself a
braggart,
Let him fear this ; for it will come to pass
That every braggart shall be found an ass.
Rust, sword ! cool, blushes ! and, Parolles, live
Safest in shame ! being fool'd, by foolery thrive !
There 's place and means for every man alive.
I '11 after them. [Exit.
SCENE IV. FLORENCE. A Room in the
Widow's House.
Enter HELENA, Widow, and DIANA.
Hel. That you may well perceive I have not
wrong'd you,
One of the greatest in the Christian world
Shall be my surety; 'fore whose throne 'tis
needful,
Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel :
Time was I did him a desired office,
Dear almost as his life; which gratitude
Through flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth,
And answer, thanks : I duly am informed
His grace is at Marseilles ; to which place
We have convenient convoy. You must know
I am supposed dead : the army breaking,
My husband hies him home; where, heaven
aiding,
And by the leave of my good lord the king,
We '11 be before our welcome.
Wid. Gentle madam,
You never had a servant to whose trust
Your business was more welcome.
Hel. Nor you, mistress,
Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour
To recompense your love : doubt not but heaven
Hath brought me up to be your daughter's
dower,
As it hath fated her to be my motive
And helper to a husband. But, O strange men !
That can such sweet use make of what they
hate,
When saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts
Defiles the pitchy night ! so lust doth play
With what it loathes, for that which is away:
But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,
Under my poor instructions yet must suffer
Something in my behalf.
Dia. Let death and honesty
Go with your impositions, I am yours
Upon your will to suffer.
Hel. Yet, I pray you :
But with the word the time will bring on
summer,
When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away ;
Our waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us :
All 's well that ends well : still the fine 's the
crown :
Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V. ROUSILLON. A Room in the
COUNTESS'S Palace.
Enter COUNTESS, LAFEU, and Clown.
Laf. No, no, no, your son was misled with
a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous
saffron would have made all the unbaked and
doughy youth of a nation in his colour : your
daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour,
and your son here at home, more advanced by
the king than by that red-tailed humble-bee I
speak of.
Count. I would I had not known him ! it
was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman
that ever nature had praise for creating : if she
had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the
SCENS V.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
307
dearest groans of a mother, I could not have
owed her a more rooted love.
Laf. 'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady :
we may pick a thousand salads ere we light on
such another herb.
Clo, Indeed, sir, she was the sweet mar-
joram of the salad, or rather, the herb of grace.
Laf. They are not salad-herbs, you knave ;
they are nose-herbs.
Clo. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir ; I
have not much skill in grass.
Laf. Whether dost thou profess thyself, a
knave or a fool ?
Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a
knave at a man's.
Laf. Your distinction ?
Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife, and
do his service. [deed.
Laf. So you were a knave at his service, in-
Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble,
sir, to do her service.
Laf. I will subscribe for thee ; thou art both
knave and fool.
Clo. At your service.
Laf. No, no, no.
Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can
serve as great a prince as you are.
Laf. Who 's that ? a Frenchman ?
Clo. Faith, sir, 'a has an English name ; but
his phisnomy is more hotter in France than
there.
Laf. What prince is that?
Clo. The black prince, sir ; alias, the prince
of darkness ; alias, the devil.
Laf. Hold thee, there's my purse: I give
thee not this to suggest thee from thy master
thou talkest of; serve him still.
Clo. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that al-
ways loved a great fire ; and the master I speak
of ever keeps a good fire. But, .sure, he is the
prince of the world ; let his nobility remain in
his court. I am for the house with the narrow
gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to
enter: some that humble themselves may; but
the many will be too chill and tender; and
they '11 be for the flow'ry way that leads to the
broad gate and the great fire.
Laf. Go thy ways, I begin to be a- weary of
thee ; and I tell thee so before, because I would
not fall out with thee. Go thy ways ; let my
horses be well looked to, without any tricks.
Clo. If I put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they
shall be jades' tricks; which are their own
right by the law of nature. [Exit.
Laf. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.
Count. So he is. My lord that 's gone made
himself much sport out of him : by his authority
he remains here, which he thinks is a patent
for his sauciness ; and, indeed, he has no pace,
but runs where he will.
Laf. I like him well; 'tis not amiss. And
I was about to tell you, since I heard of the
good lady's death, and that my lord your son
was upon his return home, I moved the king
my master to speak in the behalf of my daugh-
ter; which, in the minority of them both, his
majesty, out of a self-gracious remembrance,
did first propose : his highness hath promised
me to do it : and, to stop up the displeasure he
hath conceived against your son, there is no
fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?
Count. With very much content, my lord;
and I wish it happily effected.
Laf. His highness comes post from Mar-
seilles, of as able body as when he numbered
thirty ; he will be here to-morrow, or I am de-
ceived by him that in such intelligence hath
seldom failed.
Count. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see
him ere I die. I have letters that my son will
be here to-night : I shall beseech your lordship
to remain with me till they meet together.
Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what
manners I might safely be admitted.
Count. You need but plead your honourable
privilege.
Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold char-
ter ; but, I thank my God, it holds yet.
Re-enter Clown.
Clo. O madam, yonder 's my lord your son
with a patch of velvet on 's face ; whether there
be a scar under it or no, the velvet knows ; but
'tis a goodly patch of velvet : his lelt cheek is a
cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek
is worn bare.
Laf. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a
good livery of honour; so belike is that.
Clo. But it is your carbonadoed face.
Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray you; I
long to talk with the young noble soldier.
Clo. Faith, there's a dozen of 'em, with
delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers,
which bow the head and nod at every man.
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I. MARSEILLES. A Street.
Enter HELENA, Widow, and DIANA, with
two Attendants.
Hel. But this exceeding posting day and
night
Must wear your spirits low : we cannot help it
3 o8
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT v.
But since you have made the days and nights
as one,
To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs,
Be bold you do so grow in my requital
As nothing can unroot you. In happy time ;
Enter a Gentleman.
This man may help me to his majesty's ear,
If he would spend his power. God save you,
sir.
Gent. And you.
Hel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of
France.
Gent. I have been sometimes there.
Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not
fallen
From the report that goes upon your goodness ;
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,
Which lay nice manners by, I put you to
The use of your own virtues, for the which
I shall continue thankful.
Gent. What 's your will?
Hel. That it will please you
To give this poor petition to the king ;
And aid me with that store of power you have
To come into his presence.
Gent. The king 's not here.
Hel. Not here, sir?
Gent. Not indeed :
He hence remov'd last night, and with more
haste
Than is his use.
Wid. Lord, how we lose our pains !
HeL All 's well that ends well yet,
Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.
I do beseech you, whither is he gone?
Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;
Whither I am going.
Hel. I do beseech you, sir,
Since you are like to see the king before me,
Commend the paper to his gracious hand ;
Which I presume shall render you no blame,
But rather make you thank your pains for it :
I will come after you, with what good speed
Our means will make us means.
Gent. This I '11 do for you.
Hel. And you shall find yourself to be well
thank'd,
Whate' erf alls more. We must to horse again;
Go, go, provide. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. ROUSILLON. The inner Court of
the COUNTESS'S Palace.
Enter Clown and PAROLLES.
Par. Good Monsieur Lavatch, give my Lord
Lafeu this letter : I have ere now, sir, been
better known to you, when I have held famili-
arity with fresher clothes ; but I am now, sir,
muddied in fortune's mood, and smell some-
what strong of her strong displeasure.
Clo. Truly, fortune's displeasure is but slut-
tish if it smell so strongly as thou speakest of:
I will henceforth eat no fish of fortune's butter-
ing. Pr'ythee, allow the wind.
Par. Nay, you need not to stop your nose,
sir ; I spake but by a metaphor.
Clo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I
will stop my nose ; or against any man's meta-
phor. Pr'ythee, get thee further.
Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.
Clo. Foh, pr'ythee, stand away: a paper
from fortune's close-stool to give to a noble-
man ! Look, here he comes himself.
.1/33 -: .wivfse aid oh
Enter LAFEU.
Here is a pur of fortune's, sir, or of for-
tune's cat (but not a musk-cat), that has fallen
into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure,
and, as he says, is muddied withal : pray you,
sir, use the carp as you may ; for he looks like
a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally
knave. I do pity his distress in my smiles of
comfort, and leave him to your lordship.
[Exit.
Par. My lord, I am a man whom fortune
hath cruelly scratched.
Laf. And what would you have me to do?
'tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein
have you played the knave with fortune, that
she should scratch you, who of herself is a good
lady, and would not have knaves thrive long
under her? There's a quart a* ecu for you:
let the justices make you and fortune friends;
I am for other business.
Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one
single word.
Laf. You beg a single penny more : come,
you shall ha't : save your word.
Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.
Laf. You beg more than one word then.
Cox' my passion ! give me your hand : how
does your drum?
Par. O my good lord, you were the first
that found me.
Laf. Was I, in sooth? and I was the first
that lost thee.
Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me m
some grace, for you did bring me out.
Laf. Out upon thee, knave ! dost thou put
upon me at once both the office of God and
the devil? one brings thee in grace, and the
other brings thee out. [Trumpets sound.']
The king's coming; I know by his trumpets.
SCENE III.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
309
Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk
of you last night : though you are a fool and a
knave, you shall eat : go to ; follow.
Par. I praise God for you. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. The same. A Room in the
COUNTESS'S Palace.
Flourish. Enter KING, COUNTESS, LAFEU,
Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, &C.
King. We lost a jewel of her ; and our esteem
Was made much poorer by it : but your son,
As mad in folly , lack'd the sense to know
Her estimation home.
Count. 'Tis past, my liege :
And I beseech your majesty to make it
Natural rebellion, done i' the blaze of youth,
When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force,
O'erbears it, and burns on.
King. My honour'd lady,
I have forgiven and forgotten all ;
Though my revenges were high bent upon him,
And watch'd the time to shoot.
Laf. This I must say,
But first, I beg my pardon, the young lord
Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady,
Offence of mighty note ; but to himself
The greatest wrong of all : he lost a wife
Whose beauty did astonish the survey
Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took
captive ;
Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to
serve
Humbly call'd mistress.
King. Praising what is lost
Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him
hitner ;
We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill
All repetition : let him not ask our pardon ;
The nature of his great offence is dead,
And deeper than oblivion do we bury
The incensing relics of it ; let him approach,
A stranger, no offender ; and inform him,
So 'tis our will he should.
Gent. I shall, my liege.
[Exit Gentleman.
King. What says he to your daughter? have
you spoke?
Laf. All that he is hath reference to your
highness.
King. Then shall we have a match. I have
letters sent me
That set him high in fame.
Enter BERTRAM.
Laf. He looks well on 't.
King. I am not a day of season,
For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail
In me at once : but to the brightest beams
Distracted clouds give way ; so stand thou forth,
The time is fair again.
Ber. My high-repented blames,
Dear sovereign, pardon to me.
King. All is whole ;
Not one word more of the consumed time.
Let 's take the instant by the forward top ;
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
The inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals ere we can effect them. You remetnbel
The daughter of this lord?
Ber. Admiringly, my liege : at first
I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue :
Where the impression of mine eye infixing,
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,
Which warp'd the line of every other favour;
Scorned a fair colour, or express'd it stolen ;
Extended or contracted all proportions
To a most hideous object : thence it came
That she whom all men prais'd, and whom
myself,
Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye
The dust that did offend it.
King. Well excused :
That thou didst love her, strikes some serves
away
From the great compt : but love that comes too
late,
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,
To the great sender turns a sour offence,
Crying, That's good that's gone. Our rash
feults
Make trivial price of serious things we have,
Not knowing them until we know their grave ".
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,
Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust :
Our own love waking cries to see what 's done t .
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.
Be this sweet Helen's knell, and now forget her.
Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin :
The main consents are had ; and here we '11 stay
To see our widower's second marriage-day.
Count. Which better than the first, O dear
heaven, bless !
Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse !
Laf. Come on, my son, in whom my house's
name
Must be digested, give a favour from you,
To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,
That she may quickly come.
[BERTRAM gives a ring to LAFEU.
By my old beard 7
And every hair that's on't, Helen, that's dead,
Was a sweet creature : such a ring as this,
3 io
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT v.
The last that e'er I took her leave at court,
I saw upon her finger.
Ber. Her's it was not.
King. Now, pray you, let me see it; for
mine eye,
While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to it.
This ring was mine, and when I gave it Helen
I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood
Necessitated to help, that by this token
I would relieve her. Had you that craft to
'reave her
Of what should stead her most?
Ber. My gracious sovereign,
Howe'er it pleases you to take it so,
The ring was never hers.
Count. Son, on my life,
I have seen her wear it ; and she reckon'd it
At her life's rate.
Laf. I'm sure I saw her wear it.
Ber. You are deceiv'd, my lord ; she never
saw it:
In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,
Wrapp'd in a paper, which contain'd the name
Of her that threw it: noble she was, and
thought
I stood engag'd : but when I had subscrib'd
To mine own fortune, and inform'd her fully
I could not answer in that course of honour
As she had made the overture, she ceas'd,
In heavy satisfaction, and would never
Receive the ring again.
King. Plutus himself,
That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,
Hath not in nature's mystery more science
Than I have in this ring: 'twas mine, 'twas
Helen's,
Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know
That you are well acquainted with yourself,
Confess 'twas hers, and by what rough en-
forcement
You got it from her: she call'd the saints to
surety
That she would never put it from her finger
Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,
Where you have never come, or sent it us
Upon her great disaster.
Ber. She never saw it.
King. Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love
mine honour;
And mak'st conjectural fears to come into me
Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove
That thou art so inhuman, 'twill not prove
so:
And yet I know not: thou didst hate her
deadly.
And she is dead ; which nothing, but to close
Her eyes myself, could win me to believe
More than to see this ring. Take him away.
[Guards seize BERTRAM.
My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall,
Shall tax my fears of little vanity,
Having vainly fear'd too little. Away with
him;
We '11 sift this matter further.
Ber. If you shall prove
This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,
Where yet she never was. {Exit, guarded.
King. I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Gracious sovereign,
Whether I have been to blame or no, I know
not:
Here 's a petition trom a Florentine^
Who hath, for four or five removes, come short
To tender it herself. I undertook it,
Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech
Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know,
Is here attending : her business looks in her
With an importing visage ; and she told me,
In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern
Your highness with herself.
King. [Reads. ] Upon his many protestations
to marry me, when his wife was dead, I blush
to say it, he won me. Now is the Cottnt Rou~
sillon a widower ; his vows are forfeited to me,
and my honour's paid to him. He stole from
Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to
his country for justice: grant it me, O king ;
in you it best lies ; otherwise a seducer flourishes,
and a poor maid is undone.
DIANA CAPULET.
Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair,
and toll this : I '11 none of him.
King. The heaven's have thought well on thee,
Lafeu,
To bring forth this discovery. Seek these
suitors:
Go speedily, and bring again the count.
[Exeunt Gentleman, and some Attendants.
I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,
Was foully snatch'd.
Count. Now, justice on the doers !
Enter BERTRAM, gtiarded.
King. I wonder, sir, since wives are mon-
sters to you,
And that you fly them as you swear them
lordship,
Yet you desire to marry. What woman 's that?
Re-enter Gentleman, with Widow and DIANA.
Dia. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,
SCENE III.]
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
Derived from the ancient Capulet ;
My suit, as I do understand, you know,
And therefore know how far I may be pitied.
Wid. I am her mother, sir, whose age and
honour
Both suffer under this complaint we bring,
And both shall cease, without your remedy.
King. Come hither, count ; do you know
these women ?
Ber. My lord, I neither can nor will deny
But that I know them : do they charge me
further ?
Dia. Why do you look so strange upon your
wife.
Ber. She 's none of mine, my lord.
Dia. If you shall marry,
You give away this hand, and that is mine ;
You give away heaven's vows, and those are
mine ;
You give away myself, which is known mine ;
For I by vow am so embodied yours
That she which marries you must marry me,
Either both or none.
Laf. [To BERTRAM.] Your reputation comes
too short for-my daughter ; you are no husband
for her.
Ber. My lord, this is a fond and desperate
creature
Whom sometimes I have laugh'd with : let your
highness
Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour
Than for to think that I would sink it here.
King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them
ill to friend
Till your deeds gain them : fairer prove your
honour
Than in my thought it lies !
Dia. Good, my lord,
Ask him upon his oath, if he does think
He had not my virginity.
King. What say'st thou to her?
Ber. She 's impudent, my lord ;
And was a common gamester to the camp.
Dia. He does me wrong, my lord ; if I were
so
He might have bought me at a common price :
Do not believe him. O, behold this ring,
Whose high respect and rich validity
Did lack a parallel ; yet, for all that,
He gave it to a commoner o' the camp,
If I be one.
Count. He blushes, and 'tis it:
Of six preceding ancestors, that gem,
Conferred by testament to the sequent issue,
Hath it been ow'd and worn. This is his
wife;
That ring 's a thousand proofs.
King. Methought you said
You saw one here in court could witness it.
Dia. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce
So bad an instrument ; his name 's Parolles.
Laf. I saw the man to-day, if man he be.
King. Find him, and bring him hither.
[Exit an Attendant.
Ber. What of him?
He 's quoted for a most perfidious slave,
With all the spots o' the world tax'd and de-
bosh'd :
Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth :
Am I or that or this for what he '11 utter,
That will speak anything?
King. She hath that ring of yours.
Ber. I think she has: certain it is I lik'd
her,
And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth :
She knew her distance, and did angle for me,
Madding my eagerness with her restraint,
As all impediments in fancy's course
Are motives of more fancy ; and, in fine,
Her infinite coming with her modern grace,
Subdued me to her rate : she got the ring ;
And I had that which any inferior might
At market-price have bought.
Dia. I must be patient ;
You that have turn'd off a first so noble wife
May justly diet me. I pray you yet,
Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband,
Send for your ring, I will return it home,
And give me mine again.
Ber. I have it not
King. What ring was yours, I pray you?
Dia. Sir, much like
The same upon your finger,
King. Know you this ring? this ring was
his of 1 .te.
Dia. And this was it I gave him, being a-bed.
King. The story, then, goes false you threw
it him
Out of a casement.
Dia. I have spoke the truth.
Ber. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.
King. You boggle shrewdly; every feather
starts you.
Re-enter Attendant, with PAROLLES.
Is this the man you speak of?
Dia. Ay, my lord.
King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I
charge you,
Not fearing the displeasure of your master,
Which, on your just proceeding, I '"11 keep off,
By him and by this woman here what know
you? 1 , .
Par. So please y6ur majesty, my master hath
312
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
[ACT V.
been an honourable gentleman ; tricks he hath
had in him, which gentlemen have.
King. Come, come, to the purpose : did he
love this woman ?
Par. Faith, sir, he did love her ; but how ?
King. How, I pray you ?
Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman
loves a woman.
King. How is that ?
Par. He loved her, sir, and loved her not.
King. As thou art a knave and no knave.
What an equivocal companion is this !
Par. I am a poor man, and at your majesty's
command.
Laf. He's a good drum, my lord, but a
naughty orator.
Dia. Do you know he promised me marriage?
Par. Faith, I know more than I '11 speak.
King. But wilt thou not speak all thou
know'st ?
Par. Yes, so please your majesty; I did go
between them, as I said ; but more than that,
he loved her, for, indeed, he was mad for
her, and talked of Satan, and of limbo, and of
furies, and I know not what : yet I was in that
credit with them at that time that I knew of
their going to bed ; and of other motions, as
promising her marriage, and things which would
derive me ill-will to speak of; therefore I will
not speak what I know.
King. Thou hast spoken all already, unless
thou canst say they are married : but thou art
too fine in thy evidence ; therefore stand aside.
Thif ring, you say, was yours ?
Dia. Ay, my good lord.
King. Where did you buy it? or who gave
it you ? [it.
Dia. It was not given me, nor I did not buy
King. Who lent it you ?
Dia. It was not lent me neither.
King. Where did you find it then ?
Dia. I found it not.
King. If it were yours by none of all these
ways,
How could you give it him ?
Dia. I never gave it him.
Laf. This woman 's an easy glove, my lord ;
she goes off and on at pleasure.
King. This ring was mine, I gave it his first
wife.
Dia. It might be yours or hers, for aught I
know.
King. Take her away, I do not like her now ;
To prison with her : and away with him.
Unless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this
" n g>
Thou diest within this houft
Dia. I '11 never tell you.
King. Take her away.
Dia. I '11 put in bail, my liege.
King. I think thee now some common cus-
tomer.
Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, 'twas you.
King. Wherefore hast thou accus'd him all
this while ?
Dia. Because he 's guilty, and he is not guilty:
He knows I am no maid, and he '11 swear to 't :
I '11 swear I am a maid, and he knows not.
Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life ;
I am either maid, or else this old man's wife.
[Pointing to LAFEU.
King. She does abuse our ears ; to prison
with her. [sir ;
Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal
{Exit Widow.
The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,
And he shall surety me. But for this lord,
Who hath abus'd me, as he knows himself,
Though yet he never harm'd me, here I quit
him :
He knows himself my bed he hath defil'd ;
And at that time he got his wife with child.
Dead though she be, she feels her young onf
kick;
So there 's my riddle One that 's dead is quick ;
And now behold the meaning.
Re-enter Widow with HELENA.
King.
Is there no exorcist
Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes ?
Is 't real that I see ?
Hel. No, my good lord ;
'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see
The name, and not the thing.
Ber. Both, both ; O, pardon !
Hel. O, my good lord, when I was like this
maid ;
I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring,
And, look you, here's your letter. This it
says,
When from my finger you can get this. ring,
And are by me with child, &"c. This is done;
Will you be mine, now you are doubly won ?
Ber. If she, my liege, can make me know
this clearly,
I '11 love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.
Hel. If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,
Deadly divorce step between me and you !
O, my dear mother, do I see you living ?
Laf. Mine eyes smell onions ; I shall weep
anon : Good Tom Drum {to PAROLLES], lend
me a handkercher : so, I thank thee ; wait on
me home, I '11 make sport with thee : let thy
courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.
SCENE III.]
ALL'S WELL THAT END'S WELL.
313
Kin%. Let us from point to point this story
know,
To make the even truth in pleasure flow:
If thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower,
[ To DIANA.
Choose thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy
dower ;
For I can guess that, by thy honest aid,
Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.
Of that and all the progress, more and less,
Resolvedly more leisure shall express :
All yet seems well ; and if it end so meet,
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet
{Flourish.
The king's a beggar, now the play is done :
All is well-ended if this suit be won,
That you express content ; which we will pay,
With strife to please you, day exceeding day :
Ours be your patience then, and yours our
parts;
Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.
{Exeunt.
br-A
