The Complete Works of Shakespeare

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Complete Works of Shakespeare

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THE 



COMPLETE WORKS 



OF 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 






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SHAKESPEARE 



P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY 
NEW YORK 




THE 



COMPLETE WORKS 



OF 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



WITH AN ESSAY ON SHAKESPEARE AND BACON 

BY SIR HENRY IRVING 
AND A BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION 





P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY 
NEW YORK 



India Paper 



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Manufactured in Great Britain 



TO 

SIR HENRY IRVING 

WHO, BY HIS 
FINE INTELLECT AND SPLENDID ACCOMPLISHMENT 

HAS, FOR MANY YEARS, 

ILLUMINED SEVERAL OF THE GREAT PLAYS- 
OF 

SHAKESPEARE 

THROUGHOUT THE STAGES OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA, 

THIS VOLUME IS, BY PERMISSION, AND AS A TOKEN OF APPRECIATION 

OF HIS MAGNIFICENT INTERPRETATION OF 

ENGLAND'S GREATEST DRAMATIST 

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 



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Kdl'iOT A ?.A aXA t WOIcrfIMJiaI YS ?.! 3MUJO / 8IHT 

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CONTENTS. 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION 

SHAKESPEARE AND BACON, BY SIR HENRY IRVING 

THE TEMPEST ...... 

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR . . . 

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL . 

MEASURE FOR MEASURE . . >; ? :A 

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . . 3i ? 3 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM . , 

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST . ***? . W 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE .... 

AS YOU LIKE IT 

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . . ;;>.;, 

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW . . . r * . / 

THE WINTER'S TALE . . \ . 

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS . '. ' V 

KING JOHN . \, ; : ..... 

THE LIFE AND* DEATH OF KING RICHARD II. . 

FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. 

SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. . p?^ tf .J^! 

KING HENRY V. ... ^^ 

FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. . 

SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI. . 

THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI. \ f ^ ^ 

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING RICHARD III. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

KING HENRY VIII. . .716 

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. ... , . . 752 

TIMON OF ATHENS ........ 791 

CORIOLANUS . . ^ p.T/r . . . 819 

JULIUS C/ESAR . j '"' . "* ' . .... 860 

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA . "~7~" ..... 889 

CYMBELINE .... . J ^, r/> . 929 

TITUS ANDRONICUS y^^ y^y. r H .y . ^. f - 969 

PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE . . . . . , /3T 998 

KING LEAR j y . . ^^ 1026 

ROMEO AND JULIET .... , )grr/ . ?Tyj . { y , 1065 

MACBETH . . . 1 iw U >Y'T> I'/T [OtXI ITH IIO 

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK . . a>r 2/ai; Mf)H [ljy . 1127 

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE . . ; nrr( ^1^ t[y? ( . r/ . } 1171 

POEMS. 

VENUS AND ADONIS . . . . \ , 2 J ? g J ? 1210 

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE . . . . ... _.- ^"/^ ' ":' 1224 

SONNETS . . . . . ". '.'". . '"! O 1246 

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT . . . J . J3 ' ^ H J A ' ' .'^ tW / 1270 

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM . . *. ' .^ . v " ". 1274 

SONNETS TO SUNDRY NOTES OF MUSIC . I 

8 JlOJ-i .-:! "1C YQ3MI 
THE PHOZNIX AND THE TURTLE 



1 



INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS IN SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMATIC 

WORKS . . . . . r ^ 1281 

GLOSSARY ..... IV. yj /T3.II WVA * . 1300 

006 '- : fc . .IY v;-'. /:::i:i O'/iJ -L r>iA^ ay j^a 



III'/.. 



I 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 



THERE is no name in the world of literature like the name of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Homer 
broke as a sudden dawn through the darkness of the earlier ages, and sang the grandest of 
heroic songs. Dante, when the gods of Homer were no more, towered up, proud and solitary, 
with his sad and solemn dreams, his fierce hate, and his majestic love. Milton opened the gates 
of death, of heaven, and of hell, and saw visions such as no man ever saw before or will see 
again. But Homer, Dante, and Milton do not live in our heart of hearts, do not twine round 
our affections, do not satisfy our souls as SHAKESPEARE does. Here and there we may find 
touches of more daring sublimity, passages more steeped in learning, lines more instinct with 
abstract thought ; but the greatest and best interpreter of human nature, the poet of the widest 
sympathies, of the most delicate perceptions, of the profoundest knowledge of mankind, a greater 
sculptor than Phidias, a truer painter than Raphael, came into the world at the pleasant town of 
Stratford-upon-Avon in April, 1564. 

He lived fifty-two years, he wrote thirty-seven plays and some miscellaneous poems, he was 
buried in the town in which he was born, and his name has ever since filled the world. His 
works are now one of the luxuries of life. It would be difficult to conceive of ourselves as still 
unacquainted with Hamlet, and Macbeth, and Lear, and Othello. The realms of fancy would 
appear uninhabited if Shakespeare's creations were withdrawn from them. Men are prouder 
of the earth on which they live, and of themselves, because he was one of their fellow-men. 
Coleridge called him the "myriad-minded;" and well he might, for there was no mood or 
phase of mind which he did not realize. The most absolute courage, the most perfect manliness 
were not less inherent in him than the most winning gentleness, the most exquisite tenderness. 
The exuberance of his art is only equalled by the profoundness of his pathos. As a moral teacher 
he takes precedence of all other uninspired writers. Vice never looks so odious, nor crime so 
execrable, as when placed under the burning light of his indignation : the simplest virtue, the 
humblest effort to do good, never shine so fair as when breathed upon by him. 

The endless multiplication of editions of Shakespeare is the natural consequence of the effect 
he produces and the benefits he confers. These benefits were felt in his lifetime, and have been 
acknowledged at all times since with an ever-increasing enthusiasm. It is a mistake to suppose, 
as some writers have done, that Shakespeare was at any period little read or lightly estimated. 
No doubt, as education and habits of reading came to be more widely diffused, the demand for 
his works increased ; but among those who did read, in the latter half of the sixteenth century 
and downwards, Shakespeare was from the first and continuously felt to be a new power and a 
new delight. All his most distinguished contemporaries regarded him with love and admiration. 
His plays speedily attained the highest favour at Court ; Queen Elizabeth and her successor 
James openly declared their preference for them. When Shakespeare died, Charles I. was 
Prince of Wales and Milton was a child. One of the favourite amusements of the prince was to 
witness representations of the Shakesperian drama at Whitehall ; and Milton, unfettered by that 
Puritanism which rejected as evil everything connected with the stage, dedicated to the great 
poet who had preceded him one of the noblest sonnets in our language. Dryden followed 
Milton, and Pope came after Dryden, and in the day and generation of both Shakespeare's star 
shone conspicuous, worshipped by none more than by the authors of the " Religio Laid " and 
the"Dunciad. 

In the year 1623, within seven years of Shakespeare's death, a complete edition of his plays 
was published, with a glowing dedication to his friends, the Earls of Pembroke and Montgomery. 
A second edition, in folio like the first, was brought out in 1632, a third in 1663, re-issued with 
additions in 1664, and a fourth in 1685. Throughout the whole of the eighteenth century there 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 



become the mother of Shakespeare : "how august a title," says De Quincey, "to the reverence 
of infinite generations, and of centuries beyond the vision of prophecy ! " She bore her husband 
eight children, four sons and four daughters. The two first were daughters, Jone or Joan, and 
Margaret ; the third was William ; then followed Gilbert, another Joan, Anne, Richard, and 
EdiTond, who was born in 1580, and was therefore sixteen years younger than William. With 
the exception of the second Joan, all the poet's sisters died in childhood ; but his brothers attained 
to mature age. 

William, being the eldest son, and born when his father's fortunes were in the ascendant, was 
no doubt looked carefully after. The year of his birth was one of terror and of woe in Stratford ; 
for the plague which desolated London in 1563, and still continued there, spread over other 
parts of England in 1564, and the red cross was seen on many a door in quiet country towns, 
and was nowhere more alarmingly frequent than in Stratford. But, fortunately for mankind, 
the plague spared the house of Shakespeare. He lay, like Horace 

" Sacra 

Lauroque, collataque myrto, 
Non sine Dis animosus infans.' 

They show the room still in which he was born, a low-roofed, antique apartment, but yet pos- 
sessing an air of comfort, the walls of which are, in the words of Washington Irving, " covered 
with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, 
from the prince to the peasant ; and present a simple but striking instance of the spontaneous and 
universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature." 

And when, in happy boyhood, he opened his eyes upon the world, and wandered out into the 
scenes that surrounded his home, he found them not only full of romantic beauty, but ennobled 
by old associations and poetical traditions. The immediate neighbourhood of Stratford is 
undulating and varied, with a picturesque variety of hill and dale, wood and meadowland, 
through which the Avon flows in silver links. Dear was that river to the young poet dear no 
doubt it was to every boy in Stratford ; but thoughts came to Shakespeare by its green bank 
destined to shine as long as its waters run : 

" Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream." 

He had "an eye for all he saw." Under the hedgerow, through the meadows, on the 
uplands, and in the beautiful bosom of the country, he noted every weed and wildflower. In 
after years, when buried in the heart of London, he could see, when he listed, 

"pvj yJ 'l'-\\&iii' ij'li; vr.ij I:::'- orfi:*, t JiJj Dns ~iHW' n ^nloitfp bsv/ouoi faaiiqi.J 3u| 

" The winking Mary -buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; n 

or, 

" Daffodils 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes 
Or Cytherea?s breath. * 

or else, 

"A bank whereon the wild thyme blows, 

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows ; 
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, 
With sweet musk roses and with eglantine." 

In the dingiest room, darkened by a city's smoke, he could return at will to the umbrageous oaks 
and elms beneath whose shadows he had so often lain, and warble, as of old, - 

" Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me* 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 



And tune his merry throat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ; 

Here shall he see 

No enemy 
But winter and rough weather 1 " 

When he extended his rambles to greater distances, they led him to some grand old castle, or 
famous battle-field, or stately ecclesiastical edifice, inspiring a respectful reverence not untouched 
with awe. He was twelve years old when Elizabeth made her celebrated visit to the Earl of 
Leicester at Kenilworth. The series of princely entertainments with which the aspiring courtier 
welcomed his sovereign attracted the whole surrounding district, and no doubt Stratford, which 
was only a few miles off, sent its entire population to testify their admiration and loyalty. It is 
more than probable that Shakespeare was one of the spectators, and that his imagination may 
have been there for the first time fired with a love of gorgeous spectacle, and all the " pride, 
pomp, and circumstance " of that great pageantry. 

There was a good grammar or free school at Stratford in Shakespeare's time. It had been 
founded in the reign of Henry VI., and had been patronized by Edward IV. We may take 
it for granted that the poet attended that school, since he certainly lived at Stratford till after 
his marriage, and there is no trace of his ever having been at any other seminary. The educa- 
tion which the school afforded was not solely rudimental, but extended to the classical 
languages. The more advanced scholars were afforded an opportunity of becoming familiar 
with such authors as Terence, Sallust, Cicero, Pliny, Horace, and Virgil. How many years 
Shakespeare attended this school we do not know, nor what figure he made at it. But we do 
know that he had a quick and ready wit, a keen perception, and an admirable faculty in the 
acquisition of knowledge. Admitting, therefore, as some have surmised, that all his schooling 
took place between his eighth and his sixteenth years, that was time enough" for a youth of his 
capacity to acquire a large if not a profound stock of learning. Shakespeare's first poems, the 
" Venus and Adonis," the " Lucrece," and the " Passionate Pilgrim" evince strong classical 
predilections ; and no one could have written them who had not drunk at the fountain of the 
Greek and Latin authors. His plays are full of classical allusions and illustrations. " Troilus 
and Cressida" possesses Homeric touches; " Coriolanus " and "Julius Csesar " have all the 
fire of the grandest of the Roman poets, historians, and orators ; " Love's Labour's Lost," one 
of his earliest comedies, breathes throughout of the youthful scholar ; and the " Comedy of 
Errors" is founded, even to minute details, on the " Menajchmi" of Plautus. If Shakespeare 
was not, even when a very young man, " a scholar, and a ripe one," he was at least one who 
had profited much by the instructions of faithful teachers. What his ultimate attainments as a 
linguist were is not perhaps a matter of great consequence, because he had that within him 



inferentially admitted 

Life of Shakespeare, that in a conversation which took place on one occasion between Jonson 
and Sir John Suckling the latter said, most truly, that " if Jonson would produce any one topic 
finely treated by any of the ancients, he (Suckling) would undertake to show something upon 
the same subject, at least as well written, by Shakespeare." Mr. Capel Lofft, in the Introduc- 
tion to his work entitled Aphorisms from Shakespeare, makes the following noteworthy observa- 
tions : " If it were asked from what sources Shakespeare drew those abundant streams of 
wisdom, carrying with their current the fairest and most unfading flowers of poetry, I should 
be tempted to say he had what would be now considered a very reasonable portion of Latin ; 
he was not wholly ignorant of Greek ; he had a knowledge of the French, so as to read it with 
ease ; and, I believe, not less of the Italian. He was habitually conversant in the chronicles 
of his country. He lived with wise and highly cultivated men, with Jonson, Essex, and 
Southampton, in familiar friendship. He had deeply imbibed the Scriptures ; and his own 
most acute, profound, active, and original genius (for there never was a truly great poet nor an 
aphoristic writer of excellence without these accompanying qualities) must take the lead in the 
solution." Pope, in the valuable Preface to his edition of Shakespeare, gives expression to 
similar sentiments. " There is a vast difference," he says, " between learning and languages. 

62 



xn BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

How far Shakespeare was ignorant of the latter I cannot determine ; but it is plain he had 
much reading^ least, if they will not call it learning : nor is it any great matter, if a man has 
knowledge, whether he has it from one language or from another. Nothing is more evident 
than that he had a taste of natural philosophy, mechanics, ancient and modern history, poetical 
learning, and mythology ; and that he was very knowing in the customs, rites, and manners of 
antiquity," 

Learning and the classics were much cultivated in Queen Elizabeth's reign, she herself settim? 
an example of predilection for them. Previously these studies had been mainly confined to the 
clergy and a few scholars by profession ; but now a general enthusiasm sprang up in the cause 
of letters. The Queen, with the aid of her tutor, Roger Ascham, wrote a commentary on 
Plato, and translated from the Greek two of the Orations of Isocrates, a Play of Euripides, and 
portions of Xenophon and Plutarch ; and from the Latin, Sallust's History of the Jugurthine 
War, Horace's De Arte Poetica, Boethius' De Consolatione Philosophic, and several of Cicero's 
and Seneca's Epistles. She was also the founder of Westminster School, and of Jesus College, 
Oxford ; whilst her successor James, who loved to be called the British Solomon, before 
ascending the English throne, had given a charter to the University of Edinburgh. The whole 
court circle, both male and female, and the upper classes generally, felt themselves constrained 
to follow in the wake of royalty ; and the erudition which diffused itself during Elizabeth's 
reign deepened into pedantry in that of James, About this time also, and even a little earlier, 
the modern languages Spanish, French, and Italian came much into vogue. Italian, in 
particular, was so much affected that the devotion to it almost rivalled the classical mania of the 
day. Wyatt and Surrey took Petrarch for their model ; and Sir Philip Sidney, who died about 
the time that Shakespeare went to London, and who may be said to have introduced pastoral 
poetry into England, was, in his " Arcadia," an open imitator of Sannazaro. Most of the lyric 
poems of the time are tinctured with an Italian style. It is traceable in several of Shakespeare's 
miscellaneous pieces, and particularly in the subtleties and ingenuities with which his Sonnets 
abound. His acquaintance with the stores of Italian fiction supplied him with the plots of some 
of his finest plays ; and Italy may well be proud of our great bard's ardent attachment to her 
soil, and just appreciation of her national and individual character. 

As yet, however, he was but a schoolboy at Stratford, on whose young life some shadow was 
about to fall. His father's fortunes declined. The cause has not been ascertained, but the fact 
seems indisputable. His property was mortgaged ; debt pressed upon him ; he withdrew from 
his municipal honours ; and the general belief seems to be that, finding himself in straitened 
circumstances, he took his son William from school about the year 1578, and apprenticed him 
to his own business. But here again we get upon debateable ground. No one knows as a fact 
that Shakespeare ever dabbled in the wool-stapling business. Rowe and Malone, on no better 
data apparently than the acquaintance which the poet has shown with legal terms, have fancied 
that he must have been in an attorney's office. They might as well have fancied that he had 
been bred a druggist, or a goldsmith, or a farrier, or an ornithologist, or a sailor, or a watch- 
man, or any other trade under the sun ; for there is no trade under the sun with the technicali- 
ties of which he does not seem familiar. The probability is (and we have nothing better than 
probabilities to go upon), that till within a year or two of his marriage in 1582, when he was 
eighteen years of age, he was at his studies ; and that, if his father then " needed him at home," 
he gave his father such aid in his failing circumstances as he could. 

An event happened in 1580 which was calculated to make a greater impression on the poet's 
mind than all the entries in the Glover's Ledger. The Nurse in " Romeo and Juliet," when 
speaking to Lady Capulet of Juliet's age, says, 

" "Pis since the earthquake now eleven years. 
gsbifloiriD srij hi. ttnsgisv 

This play was written somewhere about eleven years after 1580, and on the 6th of April of that 
year there occurred one of the severest earthquakes ever known in England. Holinshed, whose 
historical writings Shakespeare apparently knew by heart, thus writes of it, " On the 6th of 
April (1580), being Wednesday in Easter weeke, about six of the clocke, toward evening, a 
sudden earthquake happening in London, and almost generallie throughout all England, caused 
such an amazedness among the people as was wonderfull for the time, and caused them to make 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xiii 

their earnest praiers to Almighty God. The great clocke bell in the palace at Westminster 
strake of itselfe against the hammer with the shaking of the earth, as diverse other clockes and 
bells in the steeples of London and elsewhere did the like. The gentlemen of the Temple, 
being then at supper, ran from the tables, and out of their halls, with their knives in their hands. 
The people assembled at the plaiehouses in the fields were so amazed that, doubting the mine 
of the galleries, they made haste to be gone. A piece of the Temple Church fell down ; and 
some stones fell from St. Paul's Church, in London. The tops of diverse chimnies in the citie 
fell down, the houses were so shaken. A part of the castell at Bishop Stratford, in Essex, fell 
down. This earthquake indured in or about London not passing one minute of an houre, and 
was no more felt. But afterward in Kent, and on the sea-coast, it was felt three times ; and at 
Sandwich, at six of the clocke, the land not only quaked, but the sea also foamed, so that the 
ships tottered. At Dover also, the same houre, was the like, so that a piece of the cliffe fell 
into the sea, with also a piece of the castell wall there." 

Shakespeare had probably not lost his impression of this earthquake when he made Othello 
exclaim, after the murder of Desdemona, 

" Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse 
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe 
Should yawn at alteration. 1 ' 

Or when he put into Hotspur's mouth, in " King Henry IV.," the words, 

" Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth 
In strange eruptions ; oft the teeming earth 
Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd, 

r '/-mf ^ . which, for enlargement striving, 
Shakes the old beldame earth, and topples down 
Steeples and moss-grown towers." 

Or when Lennox, the morning after the murder of Duncan, utters these graphic lines,- 

" The night has been unruly ; where we lay 
Our chimneys were blown down ; and, as they say, 
Lamentings heard i' the air ; strange screams of death, 
And prophesying, with accents terrible, 
Of dire combustion and confus'd events, 
New hatched to the woeful time. The obscure bird 
Clamour'd the livelong night : some say the earth 
Was feverous and did shake." 

Manhood was now dawning, and the mightiest though the tenderest of human passions was 
waiting in the dawn for Shakespeare. 

" As on the sweetest buds 
The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
Inhabits in the finest wits of all." 

Shottery is a picturesque hamlet about a mile distant from Stratford. In a cottage there 
dwelt Anne Hathaway, the daughter of Richard Hathaway, a substantial yeoman. "Shottery," 
says Mr. Halliwell, in his elaborate Shakespearian work, "is a little hamlet in the parish of 
Stratford, situated about a mile to the west of the town by a pathway across the fields. Some 
years ago the meadows were thoroughly rural, and so was the village. Approaching the 
hamlet from Stratford, at the entrance of the lane past the fields stands the Shakespeare Inn, a 
pleasing example of the old half-timbered house that must formerly have been common in 
Shottery, and of which a few lingering traces still remain, in spite of innovation. Proceeding 
down the lane, as we arrive in sight of Anne Hathaway's cottage, a clear and ample brook 
crossed the road, once traversed by means of a picturesque wooden bridge, composing a scene 
that the most prosaic would admit harmonized with the idea of the locality of a poet's love." 

The two families had probably been long acquainted, for there is evidence that John 
Shakespeare and a Richard Hathaway were friends ; and, doubtless, William often took that 



XIV BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 



path by the fields. Whether Anne was in reality beautiful we know not ; but she was to be our 
Shakespeare's wife, and therefore she has an interest for all ages. Unfortunately, however, iu 
the sober and unromantic matter of the lady's age siirgit aliquid amari. She was eight years 
older than Shakespeare, for she was born in 1556, so that in the year of their marriage (1582) 
she was twenty-six, and he was only eighteen. Yet let no fault be imputed to either. He was 
no doubt older for his years, both in physical and mental development, than any of the youth of 
Stratford ; that he possessed great manly beauty is a tradition handed down by A.ubrey, and 
corroborated by the fact of his early success on the stage, and the lineaments of the most 
authentic likenesses of him that remain. The first love of a glowing and intelligent youth, who 
suddenly feels himself a man, is commonly older than himself. The girls with whom he ha? 
romped as a boy are to him still girls ; but, impressed with the necessity of bestowing his affec- 
tions somewhere, he experiences a glow of pride in finding them accepted by a full-grown 
woman. And how should any woman have shut her heart to Shakespeare if he chose to woo 
her? 

They were married at the end of November or in December, 1582 ; and we need not suppose 
that the alliance was against the wishes of either of the families, or that it was prompted by any 
but disinterested motives and mutual attachment. His perfect understanding of the holiness 
and the virtue of a well-assorted marriage appears from many passages of his works. How 
finely Suffolk says, in the first part of " King Henry VI.," 

" A dower, my lords ! disgrace not so your king, 
That he should be so abject, base, and poor, 
To choose for wealth, and not for perfect love. 
Henry is able to enrich his queen, 
And not to seek a queen to make him rich : 
So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, 
As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. 
Marriage is a matter of more worth 
Than to be dealt in by attorneyship ; 
For what is wedlock forced but a hell, 
An age of discord and continual strife ? 
Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, 
And is a pattern of celestial peace." 

And how pure and noble is that n6th Sonnet, in which he writes 

" Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove : 
O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 

Whose worth 's unknown although his height be taken. 
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me prov'd, 
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd." 

The course of Shakespeare's after-life took him much away from Stratford ; but, for aught 
that is known to the contrary, he generally left his wife and children there, being unwilling, 
perhaps, to expose them to the perils of that society in which he was obliged to mingle in 
London. We are not entitled to suppose that he had any cause to complain of domestic un- 
happiness. He paid regular visits to Stratford, and " the wife of his youth was the companion 
of his latest years." He had three children Susannah, Hamnet, and Judith the two last 
being twins. Susannah was born in May, 1583, and the other two in January, 1585. The 
date of the birth of the first child being within seven months of the date of the marriage, has 
led to some scandalous gossip. But an error of some months may have crept into the dates ; 
and if it has not, we at all events know that Shakespeare behaved with honour, and kept the 
troth he had plighted. His son Hamnet died in 1596, when he was eleven years and six 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. XV 

months old. The two daughters grew up to womanhood, married, and survived their father a 
number of years. They must have been well educated and well brought up ; for they both 
obtained good husbanik. and lived in the respect and esteem of those who knew them. 
Susannah married, in 1607, John Hall, a physician of considerable repute ; and when she died, 
in 1649, it was recorded on her tombstone, apparently with truth, that she was "witty above 
her sex," and " wise to salvation." She was the mother of only one child, Elizabeth, who was 
born in February, 1608, so that the poet became a grandfather at forty-five. His grand- 
daughter married, in 1626, Mr. Thomas Nash, a country gentleman of independent fortune. 
On his death, in 1647, she again married, in 1649, Sir John Barnard, Knight, of Abington. 
She died in 1669, and left no issue by either of her husbands. Judith, Shakespeare's younger 
daughter, married Mr. Thomas Quiney, a vintner or wine merchant at Stratford, a month or 
two before her father's death. She had by him three children ; but they all died young ; and 
she herself followed them to the grave in 1662. The death, therefore, of Lady Barnard, in 
1669, terminated the lineal descendants of Shakespeare. The collateral kindred, through his 
sister Joan, had a much longer succession ; but it, too, came to an end about forty years ago. 
Joan married, in 1599, William Hart, an honest tradesman, to whom she bore children; and 
they and their descendants continued to live at Stratford for two hundred and thirty years. 
None of the family ever achieved any distinction, except a grandchild, Charles Hart, who rose 
as an actor to the first honours of the stage. One of the last of the Harts was an aged maiden, 
who, in 1825, occupied the house in which her great ancestor was born, and showed visitors 
some relics, together with a manuscript play written by herself, but of very humble merit. 

In a very few years after his marriage, perhaps when he was twenty-two years of age, 
a young husband and a young father, certainly not more than three or four years later, he 
determined on going to London to push his fortune. There is a story, which is now almost 
stereotyped into his biography, that he was induced to take this step in consequence of having 
got himself into trouble by some unlawful meddling with the deer in the parks of Fullbroke 
or Charlecote, belonging to Sir Thomas Lucy, a neighbouring country gentleman. That 
Shakespeare knew every nook and corner, every sequestered dingle and romantic recess of those 
old woods ; that he had a thousand times dived into their depths, and made himself famil'ar with 
all the winged and four-footed animals that inhabited them, treasuring up those fancies and 
visions to which he afterwards gave such exquisite realization in his " As You Like It," no one 
need doubt. But that Shakespeare ever crossed the green paths as a vulgar stealer of deer, was 
ever convicted of theft, and personally chastised for it, is a base and idle tale, to be treated with 
the " summary indignation " which De Quincey has so well bestowed upon it. In the first 
place, it seems to be ascertained, through the researches of Malone, that though Sir Thomas 
Lucy had noble and extensive grounds, he had no deer park. In the next place, if it is neces- 
sary to say more, the only punishment which could be imposed under the statute then in force 
(the 5th of Elizabeth, cap. 21) for the suppression of deer-stealing was imprisonment for three 
months, and a fine payable to the party offended. Whipping was out of the question ; and 
there is not the slightest tradition or rumour that Shakespeare was ever imprisoned. Not one 
of his literary rivals, some of whom tried to pick flaws in him at first, ever twitted him with any 
such offence or its consequences. In the third place, Sir Thomas Lucy was High Sheriff of 
Warwickshire, and Shakespeare was the oldest son of a chief magistrate of Stratford, with whom 
it is more than probable the Sheriff was on familiar terms, and it is therefore most zVwprobable 
that the one would commit the offence, or the other prosecute it. Rowe, his first biographer, 
is responsible for having given circulation to the calumny, without any sufficient warrant. He 
says, with much coolness, and a sort of vulgar familiarity, " Shakespeare had, by a misfortune 
common enough to young fellows, fallen into ill company ; and amongst them some, that made 
a frequent practice of deer-stealing, engaged him more than once in robbing a park that belonged 
to Sir Thomas Lucy." Aubrey, an older authority than Rowe, is wholly silent on this scandal; 
but a scribbler of the name of Davies improves considerably upon Rowe's version. He says, 
' Shakespeare was much given to all unlawfulness in stealing 'venison and rabbits, particularly 
from Sir Lucy, who had him oft whipped, and sometimes imprisoned, and at last made him fly 
his native country." And thus the rolling stone gathered moss, in spite of the proverb ; and 
then there came an adjunct to it, that the first verses Shakespeare ever wrote were a lampoon 
on Sir Thomas, and that these bred him further grief. The verses are still more apochryphal 



xvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

than the story. They were produced for the first time so late as 1778, by Steevens, from the 
manuscript of the antiquary Oldys, who died in 1761. They are stupid and vulgar, beginning 
with the lines, 

' A parliamente member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scare-crowe. at London an asse ; " 

which, as De Quincey remarks, resemble more a production of Charles II. 's reign, and were no 
doubt levelled by an irritated poetaster at some other and later Lucy. It was contrary to 
Shakespeare's whole nature to write epigrams or lampoons against anyone. The epithet 
" gentle " has been indissolubly united with "his name. He was full of a gracious benignity. 
He gave wilful offence to no nian. He had, assuredly, no unpleasant reminiscence of any 
incident in his own life connected with the "poor sequestered stag" when he penned that 
exquisite description of the wounded deer that came to languish 

" Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ;" 

or when he made the Duke say, in the Forest of Ardennes, 

" Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, 
Being native burghers of this desert city, 
Should in their own confines, with forked Leads, 
Have their round haunches gor'd." 

It may be although of this there is no substantial evidence that some youthful adventure, 
prompted by no ignoble motive, but by the simple love of adventure, in which Shakespeare did 
not keep altogether on the windy side of the law, was one of the causes which led to his leaving 
Stratford. The truth, however, more probably is, that the hour had arrived when his expand- 
ing mind began to aspire after greater things than the narrow sphere of a small provincial town, 
when he felt the " wild pulsation " which genius so often feels before the tumult of life 
begins, 

" Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. 



it leaps _ 

Underneath the light he looks at. in among the throngs of men." 

So he bade farewell, doubtless with a throbbing heart, and not without some " natural tears," 
to Anne Hathaway, Susannah, Hamnet, and Judith, making such arrangements for their com- 
fort as his means afforded ; and, with the dauntless resolution of the soldier who is ever ready 
to exclaim, 

" Why, then, the world's mine oyster 
Which I with sword will open," 

he turned his back upon the humble houses ol Stratford, and all the scenes of his earlier days, 
and plunged with a vague hope into the great Babel " among the throngs of men," as so many 
thousands and thousands of youthful pilgrims have done from generation to generation. 

Whether he had any direct and immediate intention of going upon the stage cannot now be 
known. His first poetical pieces did not take a dramatic shape, but were rather didactic and 
lyrical ; and there was no occasion to go to London to write them. Old Aubrey, however, 
saw no mystery in the matter. lie simply says, " This William, being inclined naturally to 
poetry and acting, came to London." It is possible that the visits of the players to Stratford 
between the years 1579 and 1557 had some influence upon his resolution. Whatever was the 
inducing cause, he became an actor ; and continued in that profession for eighteen or twenty 
years namely, from 1586 to 1606. or thereby. Yet it would appear that there were moments 
when he regretted he had ever condescended to tread the boards. In his 91 st Sonnet he 
touchingly says, 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. XV11 

" O, for my sake, do you with Fortune chide, 

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 
That did not better for my life provide 

Than public means, which public manners breeds, 
Hence comes it that my name receives a brand, 

And almost then my nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand." 

And again, in the Iioth Sonnet, 

" Alas ! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, 
And made myself" a motley to the view." 

Eut this was not the normal state of Shakespeare's cheerful and unselfish mind. After alluding, 
in the 29th Sonnet, to his occasional despondency, when he fancies himself " in disgrace with 
fortune and men's eyes," he finely reverts at the close to the consolation derived from the 
assured affection of the friend to whom it is addressed, 

" Vet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 

Haply I think on chee, and then my state, 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate, 
For thy sweet love remember 1 d such wealth brings 

That then I scorn to change my state with kings." 

In 1593 his contemporary, Chettle, praised the excellence of his acting. Aubrey says ot him, 
" He did act exceedingly well." It is on record that two of his parts were, the Ghost in his 
own " Hamlet," and Adam in "As You Like It," the first of which affords scope for great 
elocutionary powers, and the latter for the delineation of some fine points of character. It is 
also handed down that he occasionally appeared in " kingly parts being, no doubt, well 
adapted for them by his graceful and manly bearing. Queen Elizabeth and James, who were 
both fond of theatrical entertainments, must frequently have seen him act ; and Ben Jonson no 
doubt alludes to their estimation of him, both as an actor and a writer, in the well-known lines, 
forming part of his tribute to the memory of his " beloved Master William Shakespeare," 

" Sweet swan of Avon ! whit a sight it were 
To see thee on our waters yet appear, 
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
That so did take Eliza and our James. ' 

Whatever his powers as an actor were, one thing is clear, that no man ever understood better 
the correct theory of acting, or had a profounder appreciation of what constitute its defects and 
its excellences ; witness Hamlet's address to the players, and other passages, full of the soundest 
precepts and most correct practical rules. 

It is provoking that we are here obliged to notice another idle and trumpery legend about 
Shakespeare, to which Dr. Samuel Johnson seems to have given credence, namely, that he sup- 
ported himself, on first going to London, by holding the horses of those who rode to the play. 
The great lexicographer's version of this fiction, which he says came from Mr. Pope, is as 
follows : " In the time of Elizabeth, coaches being yet. uncommon, and hired eoache* not at 
all in use, those who were too proud, too tender, or top idle to walk, went on horseback to any 
distant business or diversion. Many came on horseback to the play, and when Shakespeare 
fled to London from the terror of a criminal prosecution, his first expedient was to wait at the 
door of the playhouse, and hold the horses of those who had no servants, that they might be 
ready again after the performance. In this office he became so conspicuous for his care and 
readiness that in a short time every man, as he alighted, called for Will Shakespeare, and 
scarcely any other waiter was trusted with a horse while Will Shakespeare could be had. This 
was the first dawn of better fortune. Shakespeare, finding more horses put into his hand than 
he could hold, hired boys to wait under his inspection, who, when Will Shakespeare was sum- 
moned, were immediately to present themselves, / am Shakespeare's boy^ sir." This is a piece of 
transparent twaddle from beginning to end. It is not true that persons rode on horseback to 



xviii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

the play ; and if they had, it is ridiculous to suppose that they would have entrusted their 
horses to be held in the street in all weathers for a period of three or four hours. It is a 
contemptible calumny that Shakespeare ever sunk so low as to stand shivering night after night 
holding a horse, or, as the Doctor would have us believe, half-a-dozen horses, for the sake of a 
few pence haughtily bestowed by town gallants who had been sitting at their ease witnessing 
some play of Greene or of Marlowe, while Shakespeare, forsooth, already a man of two-ana" 
twenty, brimming over with the highest fancies, consorted as a stable-boy with the lowest dregs' 
of the street. This precious canard first appeared in a worthless book entitled The Lives of the 
Poets, published as the work of Theophilus Gibber, but said to be written by a Scotchman of 
the name of Shiels, who was an amanuensis of Dr. Johnson. Even Rowe rejected the story, 
and there is not a shadow of foundation for it. 

A theatre, considered merely in its aspect as a place ot amusement, was a very different thing 
in the time of Shakespeare from what it has become since. With the increase of wealth, civil- 
isation, and luxury, gorgeous theatres sprang up a century later in every populous city of Europe. 
Architecture lent its most elaborate graces ; decorative art was exhausted to furnish the richest 
embellishments ; every new mechanical appliance was made available to enhance the delusion 
and increase the interest of the scene ; skilfully painted canvas realized the locality in which the 
action was laid ; lights, unknown to our ancestors, brilliant as the day, yet capable of being 
tempered to any strength, illuminated the scene ; music, instrumental and vocal, of the most 
perfect kind, marbles, mirrors, gildings, draperies, every conceivable adjunct was present 
calculated to add to sensuous delight ; and, finally, "fair women and brave men," in every 
variety of attractive and picturesque costume, seemed to tread enchanted ground in presence of 
a rapt and breathless audience* Such is what a theatre, a San Carlo or La Scala, latterly 
became. When Shakespeare went to London it was a circular wooden booth, in many instances 
open to the sky, except over the stage and gallery, where it was roofed in from the weather. 
Some lanterns shed a dim light through the body of the house, and a few branches, with candles 
stuck into them, hung over the stage. The orchestra, if so it might be called, was composed of 
several trumpets, cornets, and hautboys. The stage itself was generally strewed with rushes, 
except on extraordinary occasions, when it was matted. It had a fixed roof, painted blue to 
represent the sky ; and when tragedies were performed it was generally hung with black. 
There was little or no movable painted scenery. A board was hung up containing the name of 
the place where the action was supposed to be. The stage properties were of the humblest 
description. The exhibition of a bedstead indicated a bedchamber ; a table with pen and ink, a 
sitting-room. A few rude models or drawings of towers, walls, trees, tombs, and animals, were 
sometimes introduced. No such phenomenon as a female actress existed, or would have been 
tolerated. All female parts were played by boys or young men, who frequently wore masks or 
visards. The performance was often by daylight, beginning at three o'clock P.M. The prices 
of admission varied from a shilling (or rather more) to a penny. At the conclusion of each 
performance the actors knelt on the stage and offered up a prayer for the Queen. 

Sir Philip Sidney, in a treatise published in 1583, graphically alludes to the rough and simple 
condition of the stage. He says, " In most pieces the player, when he comes in, must ever 
begin with telling where he is, or else the tale will not be conceived. Now you shall have three 
ladies" (that is, boys in female attire) "walk to gather flowers, and then we must believe the 
stage to be a garden ; by and by we hear news of a shipwreck in the same place, then we are to 
blame if we accept it not for a rock. Upon the back of that comes out a hideous monster, with 
fire and smoke, and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a cave ; while in the 
meantime two armies fly in, represented with four swords and bucklers, and then what hard 
heart will not receive it for a pitched field?" Shakespeare himself, in his prologue to ' 4 King 
Henry the Fifth," asks pardon for the spirit 

" that hath dar'd ?'v;/b) 

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 
So great an object : can this cockpit hold 
The vasty fields of France ? or may we civ 



asty fields of France ? or may we cram 
n this wooden O the very casques 
That did affright the air at Agincourt?' 



Within this wooden O the very casques ^ 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xix 

It is one of the glories of Shakespeare that all this poverty of mechanical aid was to him a 
matter of perfect indifference, and that, though professionally connected with the stage, he never 
wrote a single line that smelt of the footlights and of stage varnish. His muse soared to the 
" brightest heaven of invention ;" he wrote to suit no actor ; he adapted himself to no stage 
conventionalities ; he never stooped to think whether his plays would be performed or not. All 
that wondrous poetry emanated from him as light does from the sun, or music from an ./Eolian 
harp. 

It might have been a painful thought to a lesser genius that a painted or visared youth was to 
desecrate Desdemona, caricature Ophelia, and render Juliet ludicrous. But it irked him not a 
jot. He saw those radiant shapes in his mind's eye, and they were his and ours for evermore, 
incapable of obscuration or debasement. What gratitude can be excessive, what love too much 
for the man who has given us not only " the gentle lady married to the Moor " not only the 
fair Ophelia not only the exquisite daughter of the Capulets, but Imogen, Hermione, Perdita, 
Miranda, Viola, Isabella, Rosalind, Constance, Portia, Cordelia ! Thank heaven ! it was not 
that they might "strut their hour" upon the stage that he conceived of beings such as these, 
warmer, purer, and more tenderly human than the finest prototypes of classical antiquity. The 
Antigones, the Electras, the Iphigenias beautiful impersonations though they be are cold, and 
stately, and statuesque, beside the flesh and blood realities of Shakespeare. He delighted not to 
paint abstraction, he dealt with the sensibilities which throb in every bosom, he touched 
" the very pulse of the machine." The creature he presented to us was, as one of the greatest 
of his successors has said, 

* A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death, 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, 
A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light." 

If there be one thing more wonderful than another in Shakespeare's genius, it is his delicate and 
profound appreciation of female character through every variety of shade, every gradation of 
beauty. And he had his reward, though no Siddons or O'Neil, no Madame Mars, Pasta, Rachel 
or Ristori ever gladdened his eye, or led him to anticipate that the portraits he had hung up in 
the hearts of all the world might yet walk from their frames and speak his words to ravished 
ears. 

About the time when Shakespeare came to London, the taste for stage representations had so 
much increased that there were already several probably six distinct companies of players in 
London, besides two of children. It was only by becoming a member of a regularly licensed 
company that a player could escape being considered, in the phraseology of the statute law, a 
" vagabond." The Lord Chamberlain had the power of issuing, in favour of certain of the 
court nobility, licenses which entitled the granter to incorporate a company of players. In this 
way were founded the companies of Lords Leicester, Warwick, Howard, Essex, Derby, and 
Arundel (afterwards the Lord Admiral's), and others. 

The company which Shakespeare first joined is held to have been that of Lord Strange. This 
was, however, afterwards absorbed into that which was the most distinguished both then and 
afterwards. It was first called Lord Hunsdon's, then (after his appointment to the office) the 
Lord Chamberlain's, and afterwards (in 1603) the King's. James Burbage was manager and 
head of the Lord Chamberlain's company, and it was he who, in 1599, built the Globe Theatre, 
whither his company now removed. In 1613 they began acting at the Blackfriars, between St. 
Paul's and Blackfriars' Bridge, which Burbage had converted into a theatre in 1596. The 
Blackfriars was a winter theatre, and was therefore roofed in, differing in that respect from the 
Globe, where Shakespeare likewise continued to act. The Burbages, whose then company (the 
Queen's) had visited Stratford in 1587, were in all probability of Warwickshire descent, and may 
have been early acquaintances of Shakespeare. If this conjecture be correct, his introduction 
to their theatre would not be a matter of any difficulty. He would be welcomed all the more 
readily if known to be himself a composer ; for at that period there was a close alliance between 



XX BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

dramatic poetry and histrionic art. It was indeed almost an understood thing that the dramatist 
should aid in the representation of his own pieces. Such men as Greene, Marlowe, Ben Jonson, 
Heywood, Webster, and others, united both arts. 

Richard Burbage, the son of James, who was born three years later than Shakespeare, and 
died three years after him, was a devoted friend of the poet, and, according to all tradition, as 
fine a Shakespearian actor as the stage has ever seen. It is said that his just and truthful re- 
presentation of almost all Shakespeare's leading characters first riveted public attention on them. 
He was not of large stature, but, in the words of one of his admiring contemporaries, he was 
" beauty to the eye and music to the ear." He did not appear in comic parts ; but he had a 
wide range of histrionic talent ; for it is recorded of him that he was equally delightful in the 
youthful Pericles and the aged Lear, and that he achieved great success in Hamlet, Richard III., 
Shylock, Romeo, Brutus, Othello, Macbeth, and Coriolanus. An old writer says, " One of 
his chief parts wherein, beyond the rest, he moved the heart, was the grieved Moor," a well- 
chosen epithet, and indicative that the actor had a delicate appreciation of the character. It 
may readily be believed that dearer to the heart of Richard Burbage than all contemporary praise 
were the four words in Shakespeare's last will, bequeathing to him a ring in token of the poet's 
loving remembrance. 

By the time James I. ascended the throne, Shakespeare's company was, as we have seen, in 
possession of both the Globe and Blackfriars' theatres. James adopted the company as his own, 
and its members were then for the first time designated His Majesty's servants. He granted 
in their favour a royal license in the year 1603, in which he licenses and authorizes Laurence 
Fletcher, William Shakespeare, Richard Burbage, John Hemings, and the rest of their associates, 
" freely to use and exercise the art and faculty of playing comedies, tragedies, histories, inter- 
ludes, morals, pastorals, stage plays, and such like other as they have already studied, or here- 
after shall use or study, as well for the recreation of our loving subjects as for our solace and 
pleasure when we shall think good to see them." This license was the more valuable that 
it was not limited to " their now usual house, called the Globe," but entitled them "to show 
and exercise publicly, to their best commodity, within any townhall or moute-halls, or other 
convenient places within the liberties and freedom of any other city, university town, or burgh 
whatsoever, within our said realms and dominions." 

Shakespeare held shares possibly in the Blackfriars, certainly in the Globe, the one being 
principally used as a summer and the other as a winter theatre. It is worthy of remark that 
the brothers Burbage mention him before their other fellow-shareholders in a document referring 
to the Globe theatre, and that, in the King's license in 1603, his name stands second. Laurence 
Fletcher, who is mentioned before Shakespeare, and had succeeded James Burbage in the 
management, had performed before King James in Scotland, where he was with his company 
from October, 1599, to December, 1601. Fletcher must have taken the company to different 
towns in Scotland, and must have conducted himself in a creditable manner, for the municipal 
records of Aberdeen instruct that he was presented with the freedom of the city on October 
22nd, 1601, and was entered as a burgess under the designation of " Comedian to His Majesty." 
This suggests the interesting inquiry, whether Shakespeare did not also visit Scotland as one ot 
Fletcher's associates. Sir John Sinclair, in his statistical account, when referring to the local 
traditions respecting Macbeth's castle at Dunsinnan, infers from their coincidence with the 
drama that Shakespeare, "in his capacity of actor, travelled in Scotland in 1599, and collected 
on the spot materials for the exercise of his imagination." A subsequent writer objects that 
Shakespeare could not have heard the country people pronounce the word Dunsinnan, as they 
always put the accent on the second syllable, whereas he throws it on the last. It is true thai 
he does so frequently, but not always, as witness the lines, 

" Macbeth shall never vancjuish'd be until 
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinnan hill 
Shall come against him." 

Mr. Charles Knight argues strongly in favour of the probability of Shakespeare having been in 
Scotland. He contends that the company which James patronized in Scotland, and the 
manager of which is there recognized as " His Majesty's Comedian," was the same to which 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxi 

he granted the letters patent in 1603. If so, Shakespeare was a leading member of it as well 
in 1601 as in 1603, and could not be spared when an expedition was undertaken to Scotland. 
Being also by this time a poet of distinction, Mr. Knight thinks that his presence would operate 
as an additional inducement to the worthy magistrates of Aberdeen to confer the freedom of the 
city on the head of the company. All this is very conjectural ; but yet all Scotchmen must 
wish to believe that the poet saw with his own eyes their glens and mountains, heard their 
ancient tongue, inquired concerning their national superstitions, and listened, not unmoved, to 
some of their old-world stories of witches and weird women. 

" Posters of the sea and land." 

How pleasant it is to believe that he had himself observed the " temple-haunting martlet" 
making its " pendant bed and procreant cradle " among the ruins of Macbeth's castle ; that he 
had breathed the air of Birnam wood, and stood on the breezy forehead of Dunsinnan hill. 

The supernatural machinery interwoven with the tragedy of " Macbeth " is founded on a 
superstitious belief which was entertained during Shakespeare's lifetime by all classes both in 
England and Scotland. In a sermon which Bishop Jewel preached before Elizabeth, he 
beseeched Her Grace to understand that witches and sorcerers had marvellously increased 
within the realm, and that through their malevolence Her Grace's subjects often pined away 
even unto death ; their colour fading, their flesh rotting, their speech denied, and their senses 
obscured. If any adversity, grief, sickness, loss of children, of corn, cattle, or other posses- 
sions, happened to any one, witches were blamed for it. The Queen herself, " being under 
excessive anguish by pains of her teeth^ in so much that she took no rest for, divers nights," a 
Mrs. Dier was accused of having brought on the affliction by conjuration and witchcraft. If 
there was a thunderstorm or a gale of wind one or two witches were seized and burned as a 
preventative for the future. This popular frenzy was much encouraged by the publication, at 
Edinburgh, in 1597, of a work entitled Daemonologie, by no less an author than King James 
himself. This treatise owed its origin, it was said, to a discovery which the King had made, 
that when he went to Denmark, in 1590, there was a conspiracy of two hundred witches to 
drown him on his return. A London edition of the Daemonologie was issued in 1603, the 
preface to which speaks of " the fearful abounding at this time in this country of these detest- 
able slaves of the devil, the witches or enchanters." The legislature lent its sanction to the 
belief : in a statute against witches, which was passed soon after the accession of James, and 
was not repealed till 1736, it was enacted that any one who should practise any invocation or 
conjuration of any evil or wicked spirit, or consult, covenant with, entertain or employ, feed or 
reward any such evil or wicked spirit ; or who should take up any dead man, woman, or child 
out of the grave, or the skin, bone, or other part of any dead person, to be employed in any 
manner of witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or enchantment, whereby any person shall be killed, 
destroyed, wasted, consumed, pined, or lamed in body ; such offenders, on being duly con- 
victed, shall suffer death. The persons suspected of witchcraft were for the most part old, lame, 
blear-eyed, and wrinkled women, who led sullen and solitary lives. They were credited with 
the power of inducing on whom they chose, apoplexies, epilepsies, convulsions, fevers, and all 
the other ills " that flesh is heir to." They could also raise spirits, dry up springs, turn the 
course of running waters, go in and out without the aid of doors, and sail in shells and cock- 
boats through and under tempestuous seas. James informs us in his book that they likewise 
made images in wax or clay, which they wasted before a slow fire, giving them the names of 
particular persons, who forthwith melted or dried away without knowing the cause of their 
sickness. Spenser, in his great poem, describes the abode of a witch : 

" There in a gloomy hollow glen she found 
A little cottage, built of sticks and reeds 
In homely wise, and wall'd with sods around, 
In which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds 
And wilful want, all careless of her needs ; 
So choosing solitary to abide 
Far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds 
And hellish arts from people she might hide, 
And hurt far off, unknown, whomever she envied." 



xxii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

Shakespeare, with higher power, invests the witches in " Macbeth " with a sort of mysterious 
grandeur, whilst he at the same time strictly conforms to the current superstitions regarding 
them : 

" What are these, 

So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, 
That look not like the inhabitants of earth, 
And yet are on 't ? Live you ? or are you aught 
That man may question ? You seem to understand rne, 
By each at once her choppy finger laying 
Upon her skinny lips : you should be women, 
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 
That you are so." 

The caldron scene in the fourth act is of the wildest and most imaginative description, and 
though frequently adulterated on the modern stage by the introduction of sheer buffoonery, 
must have thrilled with awe the unsceptical spectators to whom it was originally presented. 
Macbeth himself, like his successor King James, believed in the " unknown power " : 

" I conjure you, by that which you profess, 
Howe'er you come to know it, answer me r 
Though you untie the winds, and let them fight 
Against die churches ; though the yesty waves 
Confound and swallow navigation up ; 
Thofgh bladed corn be lodg'd and trees blown down ; 
Though castles topple on their warders* heads : 
Though palaces and pyramids do slope 
Their heads to their foundations ; though the treasure 
Of nature's germins tumble all together, 
Even till destruction sicken. answer me 
To what I ask." 

Shakespeare found another, a gentler and more loveable superstition, In the fairy 
mythology, which he turned to such delightful account, especially in his " Midsummer Night's 
Dream." The popular creed concerning fairies seems to have been of Scandinavian origin, and 
was more pagan in character than those other beliefs in the supernatural, for which some 
warrant was found in Scripture. Shakespeare added a new grace to fairy lore ; he almost 
remodelled and re-invented it. The places to which fairies were supposed to be most attached, 
--the green knoll, the opening in the wood, the crystal fountain ; the ornaments and costume 

printless 

hanging 

" cankers in the musk rosebuds," their keeping 

wondered at them, their singing their Queen Titania asleep, their stealing the honey-bags from 

the humble bees, and plucking the wings from painted butterflies, their bringing "jewels from 

the deep " for the bewildered Bottom, and feeding him with dew-berries, their putting a girdle 

" round about the earth in forty minutes," all these, and many other traits of fairy life and 

customs, we learn from him, and are indebted for the knowledge to the captivating enthusiasm 

with which he entered into this ideal world, and sported with those favourite children of his 

fancy. The very names he gave his fairies carry a charm with them, Oberon, Titania, Puck 

or Robin Goodfellow, Peasblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, Cricket, Queen Mab ; to 

which let us add Ariel, who slept in a cowslip's bell, and lived so merrily " under the blossom 

that hangs on the bough." He, like Prospero, was known to you all, and was your familiar 

friend 

'' Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves. 

And ye that on the sands with printless foot 

Do chase the ebbing Neptune I 

A graver superstition, if so it must be called, which takes the form of a belief in ghosts and 
apparitions, and the reappearance of the spirits of the departed, was and is too deeply enwoven 
with human nature to have been overlooked by Shakespeare. He dealt with it sparingly, but 
with wonderful power, not unmixed with reverence. The supernatural visitation to Hamlet is 




BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxiii 

conducted with a solemn grandeur and air of reality throughout that has never been equalled in 
poetry. It is impossible to read the scene in which the ghost of the dead king appears, with- 
out feeling convinced that it all happened as described. If ever a ghost was permitted to walk 
the earth, and to hold communion with human beings, we cannot conceive of more perfectly 
appropriate action and language than Shakespeare has used. Nor in any after-scene of the 
play can it be forgot that Hamlet has gone through the ordeal of receiving that terrible 
revelation from another world. He thenceforth looks at Ophelia, his mother, his stepfather, 
with the eyes of one who has seen the dead. He has heard the " eternal blazon," and all other 
"motives and cues for action" affect his mind subserviently. Scarcely less awful, though less 
elaborately conducted, are the spectral appearances in "Julius Caesar," in "Macbeth," and in 
" Richard the Third." Most touching and thrilling is the scene in which the ghost of Caesar 
so suddenly appears to Brutus. There is a sort of retributive justice in it, which gives it a 
naturalness and a probability. Brutus is alone in his tent on the night before the decisive 
battle. He has had a quarrel with his best friend, Cassius, and he has unexpectedly received 
the mournful intelligence of the death of Portia. A sadness has gathered upon him, against 
which he contends proudly, but it overmatches his stoicism. His page, Lucius, from whom he 
had asked for some music, has fallen asleep over his lute. Brutus resumes a book he had been 
reading, having found the place where he had turned down the leaf. It is midnight, and he 
is seated beside a solitary taper. He has just remarked how ill it burns, when the sudden ghost 
of the man he had stabbed stands before him : 

" Ha ! who comes here ? 
I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 
That shapes this monstrous apparition. 
It comes upon me. Art thou anything ? 
Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, 
That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare ? 
Speak to me what thou art. 

Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. 

Bru. Why com st thou? 

Ghost. To tell thee thou shall see me at Philippi. 

Bru. Well; 
Then I shall see thee again. 

Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. (Exit Ghost. 

Whether we take this as a reality, or as a spectral illusion visible only to a diseased and over- 
wrought brain, no pale Nemesis ever made a ghastlier annunciation of approaching disaster and 
death. 

Dramatic literature in England before Shakespeare was in its infancy, and it was not an 
Herculean infancy. The first original play regularly divided into acts and scenes, and making 
pretension to a consistent action and a poetical delineation of character, was the tragedy of 
"Gorboduc," or "Ferrex and Porrex," by Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, produced in 
1561, just three years before Shakespeare was born. Prior to that period there were no plays 
properly so called. There were itinerant jesters, who amused the common people with the 
recitation of vulgar dialogue, there were interludes, as they were called, of a rather more 
advanced kind, and there were a few rude farces, such as " Ralph Roister Doister," hardly any 
of which have come down to us. "Gammer Gurton's Needle, which made a slight advance 
towards comedy, was acted not long before 1575, several years after the " Ferrex and Porrex." 
There had existed, it is true, from an earlier time, religious plays in rhyme, which the Church, 
prior to the Reformation, did not generally discourage, and which were known by the names of 
" Mysteries," " Moralities," and "Miracle" plays. The Mysteries and Miracle plays dealt 
almost exclusively with scriptural narratives and personages, in a manner which nowadays 
would be considered not a little profane : the Moralities did not present real, but allegorical 
persons. 

When the ice, however, was at length broken, and a play, bearing some remote resemblance 
to the ancient models of Greece and Rome, was successfully produced, others speedily followed, 
and something like a national drama arose. Richard Edwardes brought out his " Damon and 
Pythias" and " Palamon and Arcite ;" Robert Wilmot and others, the " Tragedie of Tancred 
and Gismond ;" Thomas Garter, the "Commedy of the Most Virtuous and Godlv Susanna ; " 



xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

George Peele, who was educated at Oxford, "Edward the First" (one of the species called 
Chronicle Histories), "The Old Wives' Tale," and other plays ; John Lilly, "Sappho and 
Phaon," "Endymion," and many other pieces; Thomas Kyd, "The Spanish Tragedy," a 
continuation of "Jeronimo," perhaps also written by him ; and Robert Greene, " Friar Bacon" 
and "James the Fourth slain at Flodden." Though some of these writers were not without 
vigour and poetical spirit, they have achieved little general reputation beyond that of being our 
earliest dramatists. Christopher Marlowe took a higher flight, and was beyond doubt the most 
eminent dramatic poet anterior to Shakespeare. His life, however, was vicious ; and no poet 
with a corrupted mind can ever produce the highest poetry. His plays, containing, as they do, 
some vivid though imperfect delineations of character, and frequent passages of considerable 
power, which, nevertheless, hardly justify Ben Jonson's phrase of "Marlowe's mighty line," 
are much disfigured, with bombast, and are full of forced and unnatural incident. His principal 
pieces are " Tamburlane the Great," in two parts, "Doctor Faustus," "The Jew of Malta," 
and " Edward the Second." Of these "Doctor Faustus" is the most remarkable for origin- 
ality and boldness. It contains a good deal of the fire at which Goethe afterwards lighted his 
lamp. As a whole, however, Marlowe's writings have hardly as yet taken hold of the general 
mind, and cannot be said to enjoy any wide popularity in the present day. 

Shakespeare's immediate contemporaries and followers, catching apparently fresh inspiration 
from him, and soaring far above the writers who had preceded them, formed a school of 
dramatic literature which has never been equalled since, and which constitutes the chief glory 
of the Elizabethan era. Around Shakespeare, the great central luminary, we find collected the 
shining names of Ben Jonson, Massinger, Fletcher, Beaumont, Ford, Webster, Middleton, 
Decker, and Chapman. A wonderful richness of power and matter is prominent in the works 
of all these poets. We owe them much for many a noble thought and many a finely conceived 
character. Their chief fault lay in a want of control over their own strength ; their freedom 
and power were often misused ; the sense of moderation is wanting ; exuberance of fancy is 
counted better than a high moral aim ; bombast is sometimes mistaken for sublimity. Like 
certain portrait painters, they endeavour to intensify the likeness by exaggerating the character- 
istic features, and they thus "overstep the modesty of nature." The learned German critic, 
Gervinus, speaks truly of them when he says, " Everything in the minds engaged testifies of 
sap and vigour, of life and motion, of luxuriant creative genius, of ready ability to satisfy a 
glaring taste with glaring effects ; but the plastic hand of that master is absent who created his 
works according to the demands of the highest ideal of art." Shakespeare as Dryden long ago 
remarked, stands as high above them, 

" Quantum lenta sclent inter viburna cupressi.** 

Nevertheless, there is a mine of wealth in their works from which hundreds of feebler poets 
have furtively enriched themselves, and in which the careful student will always find much 
precious ore, easily separable from the surrounding alloy. 

The twenty years which Shakespeare spent in London cannot but have passed pleasantly 
in the society that surrounded and caressed him. He had his choice of all that was most 
intellectual and all that was most refined. His moral character was without reproach ; his 
disposition magnanimous and gentle ; his manner open and unassuming. " I loved the^man," 
says Ben Jonson, " and do honour his memory 
indeed honest, and of an open and free nature." 
ness of dealing," his " generosity of mind and 
candour." Aubrey, in his plain, prosaic way, says, " He was a handsome, well-shaped man, 
very good company, and of a very ready and pleasant smooth wit." His "sugared sonnets 





cated all the affection that was lavished on him, for it is evident from his writings that friend- 
ship was the chief solace of his life. It was friends who were " precious " to him that filled his 
heart, 

" When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
He summoned up remembrance of things past." 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxv 

The Earis of Southampton, Pembroke, and Montgomery, especially the first, were his cherished 
and constant companions. The only two letters written by Shakespeare which have come down 
to us, and which possess, therefore, a heightened interest, are those in which he dedicates to 
Southampton his " Venus and Adonis " and his " Rape of Lucrece." The first was published 
in 1593, and its style indicates that the friendship was then only in its bud which afterwards 
ripened so fully. It is as follows : 

" To the Right Honourable HENRY WRIOTHESLY, Earl of Southampton and Baron of Tichfield. 

" RIGHT HONOURABLE, 

" I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, 
nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden : 
only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advan- 
tage of all idle hours till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of 
my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear 
(cultivate] so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honour- 
able survey, and your honour to your heart's content ; which I wish may always answer your 
own wish and the world's hopeful expectation. Your honour's in all duty, 

"WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE." 

The " Lucrece " was published in May, 1594, and the more familiar style of the letter pre- 
fixed to it indicates the rapid progress which had been made in the personal relationships of the 
earl and the poet. It runs thus : 

" The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end, whereot this pamphlet, without 
beginning, is but a superfluous moiety (portion). The warrant I have of your honourable 
disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have 
done is yours ; what I have to do is yours : being part in all I have devoted yours. Were my 
worth greater my duty would show greater : meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship ; 
to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness. Your lordship's in all duty, 

" WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE." 

Southampton was an enthusiastic lover ot the drama ; spent much time at the theatre ; and 
no doubt frequently mingled with Shakespeare's friends there. He might meet sometimes with 
Spenser and Bacon, with Raleigh and Pembroke, with Ben Jonson, Selden, Carew, and Mas- 
singer. With some of these and Shakespeare he may have adjourned to that famous club at 
the Mermaid, in Cornhill, where Fuller says there were many wit-combats between Shakespeare 
and Jonson ; and of which Beaumont writes, 

" What things have we seen 

Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
As if that every one from whom they came 
Had meant to put his whole soul in a jest. 
We left an air behind us, which alone 
Was able to make the two next companies 
Right witty, tho* but downright fools." 

Nor did that " merrie com panic " confine itself to the Mermaid. Shakespeare has himseK 
immortalized the Boar's Head in Eastcheap and the Garter at Windsor ; and Herrick asks 
affectionately of Jonson, 

" Ah, Ben ! 

Say how or when 

Shall we thy guests 
Meet at those lyric feasts 

Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, the Triple Tun I 



xxvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

Where we such clusters had 
As made us nobly wild, not mad ; 

And yet each verse of thine 
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine ! " 

He had also his annual, if not more frequent, visits to Stratford, round which all his early 
associations centred, and where his family lived. His father did not die till 1601, and his 
mother survived for seven years later, having reached the ripe age of seventy. His brother 
Gilbert had grown into manhood ; his sister Joan was passing through her teens ; Richard was 
at school ; and Edmond, his youngest brother, was still so young as to be a playmate for his 
daughter Susannah. Anne Hathaway watched over his two girls and his son Hamnet till the 
sad year 1596, when the dark shadow crossed their threshold, and the boy was taken from them 
on the nth August. Shakespeare no doubt attended the funeral with a saddened heart : but 
in general his visits must have been occasions of great happiness to himself and his relatives. 
He was rising in the world ; he had gained a handsome independence ; his name was becoming 
famous. Rumours had reached Stratford that he was beloved by great nobles, and that 
the Queen herself had smiled upon him. Sentiments of wonder and admiration would 
mingle with the affection of his old friends : in him, however, they would find no change, 
no lofty airs, no paltry affectation, the same simplicity, the same gentle earnestness. How 
should the passing breath of popular applause excite any complacent vanity in one who was 
too great to be conscious of effort, too full of immortality to be dependent on the "ignorant 
present ! " 

Some striking historical events happened during Shakespeare's residence in London. There 
were, or had been immediately before, religious wars in France and the Netherlands ; conquests 
in the West Indies ; discoveries in most quarters of the globe ; Drake's voyage round the 
world ; a firmer establishment of English dominion in Ireland ; and the overthrow of the 
ancient form of faith, and of the youthful Queen who was at its head, in Scotland. He 
witnessed the cruelties which attended the execution of Babington and his thirteen fellow-con- 
spirators. He heard the proclamation of the sentence of death against Mary Queen of Scots ; 
and he must have shuddered over the details of the remorseless execution at Fotheringay on 
the 8th of February, 1587. He beheld the gorgeous pageant at the public funeral of Sir 
Philip Sydney, the brightest star of English chivalry. He mingled in all the excitement of the 
threatened invasion of the land by Philip of Spain. He saw the camp formed at Tilbury, and 
the thousands of citizens who flocked to it as volunteers in aid of the regular army ; for neither 
then nor ever did Great Britain acquiesce in the possibility of a foreign invader taking possession 
of one acre of her soil. The news of the approach of the mighty armament sounded in his 
ears ; but the God of battles fought on the side of England, and the foe was scattered to the 
winds. Was our Shakespeare in St. Paul's when Elizabeth gave thanks on her bended knees, 
surrounded by Raleigh, and Hawkins, and Frobisher, and Drake, and Howard of ErBngham ? 
By and by, he perhaps followed the body of Elizabeth herself, " covered with purple velvet, 
and borne in a chariot," to her last resting-place in Westminster Abbey. And in other lands, 
agitated with their own events, Tasso was, during the same period, weaving his epic song ; 
Cervantes was composing his deathless story ; Lope de Vega was filling the stage of Spain with 
his romantic dramas ; and Galileo was fathoming the scheme of the universe. It is somewhat 
marvellous that to not one of these great contemporary incidents is there any direct allusion in 
the writings of Shakespeare. The explanation must be, that he so entirely threw himself into 
the scenes and characters he selected for his own themes, that his mind, intensifying itself upon 
them, shut out for the time all that was foreign to them. 

The order in which Shakespeare's plays were written, and the precise dates at which they 
successively appeared, have given rise to much ingenious discussion. His ability as a dramatist 
gradually matured itself : he did not start up, full-armed, at once. The satirical writer, Greene, 



our feathers, that with ' his tiger's heart wrapped 
a player's hide '" (a parody of a line in the Third Part of " King Henry the Sixth ") " supposes 
he is as well able to bombaste out a blank verse as the best of you ; and being an absolute 
Joannes factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake- scene in a countrey." We are entitled, 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxvii 

to conclude from this passage that Shakespeare had written for the stage before the year 1592, 
and that he had most probably altered and adapted some of the earlier dramas. Drake is of 
opinion that Shakespeare's first entire play was " Pericles," and that it was written in 1590. 
Malone, on the other hand, influenced partly by the fact that in the first two folios of Shake- 
speare's collected plays (and the first edition of the third) " Pericles" is not included, omits it 
altogether from his enumeration, and puts at the head of his list the First, Second, and Third 
Parts of " King Henry the Sixth," assigning the First to the year 1589, when Shakespeare was 
twenty-five, and the Second and Third to 1591. Knight, in his turn, thinks " Titus Androni- 
cus " was the first play, which he believes, in opposition to Coleridge and some other writers, 
to have been written by Shakespeare. De Quincey names the " Two Gentlemen of Verona " as 
the earliest, and calls it the least characteristically marked of all his plays, and, with the excep- 
tion of " Love's Labour's Lost," the least interesting. Gervinus comes probably pretty near 
the mark when he says that the seven pieces which lie at the outset of Shakespeare's career are, 
"Titus Andronicus," " Pericles," the Three Parts of " King Henry the Sixth," the "Comedy 
of Errors," and the " Taming of the Shrew." 

In the original folio editions no chronological order is attempted, the plays being simply 
divided into three classes, under the respective names of Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies. 
The edition of 1623, and the two editions which followed, include, "Titus Andronicus ;" and 
of all the thirty-seven plays now attributed to Shakespeare, they omit " Pericles" alone. That 
play, however, is now commonly ranked as his with less hesitation than the drama which con- 
tains the revolting parts of Aaron and Tamora. The horror which is accumulated upon horror 
in "Titus Andronicus" exceeds all bounds ; yet it was not out of keeping with the immature 
and sensational dramatic tastes of the period immediately preceding Shakespeare. The most 
probable theory is that Shakespeare was requested to work the piece up from a version already 
existing, and that he threw in numerous passages which even Coleridge admits could have been 
written by no one else. Horror is an element of the tragic ; but the horror which consists in 
presenting to the eyes of the spectators the mutilation of limbs, the cutting of throats, and the 
eating of the baked flesh of murdered enemies, smells too much of the shambles. Shakespeare, 
it may be supposed, performed reluctantly the task assigned to him, and felt strongly what he 
makes one of the characters express, 

" Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak ; 
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres, 
Acts of black night, abominable deeds, 
Complots of mischief, treason, villanies, 
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously performed." 

It has been clearly ascertained that in his " Henry the Sixth," which is the feeblest of all his 
historical dramas, Shakespeare did little more than revise and dress up two earlier pieces, which 
have recently been published in the Transactions of the Shakespeare Society, under the editor- 
ship of Mr. Halliwell. " Pericles," on the other hand, though an early production, is essenti- 
ally Shakespearian. It is a long romance, dramatized upon a principle to which Shakespeare 
always adhered. that a play admits of as much progressive action, lapse of time, and change of 
locality, as an epic narrative. The liberties which are taken both with time and place are so 
great that the ancient poet Gower (from whose Confessio Amantium the incidents of the play 
are borrowed) has to be introduced at the commencement of each act, to inform the reader of a 
variety of events supposed to have occurred, but which are not represented in the play. This 
was going to the very verge of dramatic license, and was indicative of a hand still somewhat 
inexperienced ; yet how fresh and vigorous and full of poetry many of the scenes are, and 
how well the interest is sustained throughout ! 

If Shakespeare did not know the full strength of his wing till he had made some lower 
flights, it was not long ere 

" None that beheld him but, like lesser lights 
Did vail their crowns to his supremacy. 

Between 1589 and 1613 he poured out upon the astonished world tne following works: 

COMEDIES." The Two Gentlemen of Verona ; " " The Comedy of Errors ; " "The Taming 



xxvui BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

of the Shrew;" "Love's Labour's Lost;" "All's Well that Ends Well;" " Midsummer 
Night's Dream;" "Much Ado about Nothing;" " Merry Wives of Windsor;" "Twelfth 
Night." 

TRAGI-COMEDIES. "Merchant of Venice;" " Measure for Measure ;" " Troilus and 
Cressida ; " " Timon of Athens." 

HISTORICAL PLAYS. First, Second, and Third Parts of " King Henry the Sixth ;" " King 
John;" "Richard the Second;" "Richard the Third;" First and Second Parts of "King 
Henry the Fourth ; " " King Henry the Fifth ; " " King Henry the Eighth." 

ROMANTIC DRAMAS. " Pericles ; " " Cymbeline ; " " As You Like It ; " " Winter's Tale ;" 
"The Tempest." 

TRAGEDIES. "Titus Andronicus;" "Romeo and Juliet;" "Hamlet;" "Othello;" 
"Lear;" "Macbeth;" and the Roman Tragedies, " Coriolanus ; " "Julius Caesar;" 
" Antony and Cleopatra." 

The precise order in which these thirty-seven plays appeared is not, after all, of much conse- 
quence, and no two writers have exactly agreed regarding it. A collected edition of his works 
was not issued during his lifetime, but a good many of his plays were published separately. It 
has been ascertained that these came out in the following order, which, however, is no certain 
indication of the order in which they were written, since the title-page frequently bears that the 
piece had been acted for some time before it was printed : 1st, " Titus Andronicus," 1593 ; 
2nd, " Richard the Third," 1594; 3rd, " Romeo and Juliet," 1596; 4th, "Love's Labour's 
Lost," 1598; 5th, "Henry the Fifth," 1600; 6th, First Part of "King Henry the Fourth," 
1598 ; ;th, Second Part of " King Henry the Fourth," 1600 ; 8th, " The Merchant of Venice," 
1600; 9th, "Midsummer Night's Dream," 1600; loth, "Much Ado about Nothing," 1600; 
lith, "Merry Wives of Windsor," 1602; I2th, "Hamlet," 1603; I3th, "King Lear," 1608; 
I4th, " Pericles," 1609 ; and I5th, " Troilus and Cressida," 1609. It is not known that any of 
the remaining twenty-two plays appeared in print till six years after his death. But such was the 
prestige which already attached to his name, that numerous attempts were made to impose upon 
the public spurious plays as his. The deception partially succeeded for a time ; but until lately 
almost all critics, with the single exception of Schlegel, have given their verdict against the 
genuineness of any of these productions. The names of the most prominent are " Edward the 
Third;" " Arden of Feversham;" "Locrine;" the First Part of "Sir John Oldcastle;" 
" The Life and Death of Thomas, Lord Cromwell ; " " The Merry Devil of Edmonton ; " and 
" The Yorkshire Tragedy." Shakespeare may have had some slight hand in several of these, 
he may have sketched in a scene or a character ; but that he was, in the proper sense, the author 
of any of them cannot be credited. Others are " Macedorrus ; " "The London Prodigal;" 
"The Puritan;" and "Fair Em." There is better reason for believing that he took a less 
inconsiderable part in the composition of the " Two Noble Kinsmen," though that play is 
commonly attributed to Fletcher, and was probably written mainly by him. 

There are two ways in which the Shakespearian student may read his historical plays. He 
may take them either in the order in which they were probably written, with the view of tracing 
the development of the poet's style and manner ; or he may peruse them in chronological sequence 
as illustrative of the successive periods with which they deal. In the first case they would be 
read in the following order : The First, Second, and Third Parts of " King Henry the Sixth;" 
"King John;" "King Richard the Second;" " King Richard the Third;" The First and 
Second Parts of" King Henry the Fourth ;" " King Henry the Fifth ;" and " King Henry 
the Eighth." In the order of history, on the other hand, " King John " comes first, his period 
being from 119910 1216; then "Richard the Second," 1377 to 1399; "Henry the Fourth, 
1399 to 1413 ; " Henry the Fifth," 1413 to 1422 ; " Henry the Sixth," 1422 to 1461 ; " Richard 
the Third," 1483 to 1485 ; and " Henry the Eighth," 1509 to 1547. 

Shakespeare wrote on an average a play every six months for nearly twenty years. The 
variety is infinite ; the multiplication of human portraiture is unparalleled. The gayest fancy, 
the broadest humour, the most piercing wit, alternate with the deepest pathos, the strongest 
passion, the truest philosophy. It was human life, not a stilted conventionality, not an 
academical rule, that Shakespeare cared for. He refused to be bound by the dogmas of a 
school ; he felt that no other unity was essential if there was unity of impression harmony of 
general conception. The Attic severity of the Greek drama repelled him ; he may have 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxix 

acknowledged the art that pervaded it, but he missed the free movement of actual existence. 
He saw that comedy and tragedy are blended indissolubly in man's life ; that tears and laughter 
have one common source, and flow in the same channel. He recognised the truth that in our 
mundane condition the greatest moral lessons are taught in the midst of those conflicting 
emotions which shed upon surrounding objects alternate gloom and sunshine. The heart and 
the head alike confess that he was right. He had made it apparent to the whole world that 
yEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, great as they were, 
took a narrower and feebler view of the true scope and aim of the drama, " whose end, both 
at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her 
own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time her form and pur- 
pose." Hence it was that he fearlessly mingled the tragic with the comic element, that he 
gave its silver lining to the cloud, that he brought " sceptre and crown " face to face with the 
" poor crooked scythe and spade," that he made nature predominant over accident. 

He had no models ; he had nothing to guide him but his own perspicacity. Chaucer was 
the greatest of his predecessors, but he has drawn little from Chaucer. Neither can it be said 
that his writings were a reflex of his own age. High literature and high art rarely or never 
reflect their own age. Just because Shakespeare's are the finest plays the world has ever seen, 
the special characteristics of the Elizabethan era are not to be found in them. They suit all 
ages ; they are universal, not national. It is the boast of sculpture that in producing the per- 
fection of ideal form it links itself with no particular time or place. So it is with Shakespeare ; 
he grasps the essential, and cares little for the adventitious. His men and women are human 
beings ; it matters not whether they wear the Greek peplos or the Roman toga, the rirfF and 
stomacher of Elizabeth, or the jerkin and collar of James. Yet he ever takes care not to 
generalise too much, or to forget in the typical the special features of character. His portraits 
are not shadowy abstractions ; they are intensely individual ; but they present to us what is 
inherent and permanent, not what is superficial and transitory. 

No poet ever more entirely sunk himself in his own conceptions. He comes before us as 
Hamlet or Falstaff, Macbeth or Malvolio, Othello or Launcelot Gobbo, never as Shakespeare. 
He is whatever he chooses to be, from Coriolanus to Caliban. He finds a heap of dry bones, 
and infuses vitality into them. He rarely or never takes the trouble of inventing a plot ; but 
when he lights upon an insipid tale by Cinthio, or a ballad by some unknown chapman, he 
touches it, as with Ithuriel's spear, and it starts up into a shining comedy or a heart-consuming 
tragedy. Building, as he often did, on the foundation of some ancient chronicle or ,half- for- 
gotten legend, it was he alone who supplied the scene with thought and action, filled it with 
breath, and peopled it with living beings, whom once to know is to remember for ever. A 
halfpenny broadside told the " Pityfull Historic of Two Loving Italians," or "of a Jew who 
would for his Debt have a Pound of the Flesh of a Christian," and Shakespeare's genius, by a 
magic alchemy, transmuted such materials as these into Romeo and Juliet, and Shy lock. 

But had Shakespeare no faults ? The answer must be that perfection is not given to mortals. 
Such faults as he had were the faults of one who had his feet entangled in the meshes of a 
semi-enlightened age, and who was diffident of his right to set himself free at once by his own 
strength. Some of the scenes and dialogues are repulsive to the taste of the present day, but 
were not so when he wrote. Coarseness of language does not necessarily imply immorality of 
principle. Shakespeare is ahead of all other writers of his time in this, that he never indulges 
in coarseness for its own sake, but introduces it either with the view of illustrating character, or 
of bringing us back with increased relish to the expression of higher and purer thoughts. He 
adopts no story which has in itself a vicious tendency. He is not indeed always careful, as 
more commonplace moralists may be, to make virtue triumph ; he sometimes carries his persons, 
as if indifferently, through right and wrong. But the impression which every one of his works 
leaves, is that its perusal has contributed to a healthy tone of feeling and to moral invigoration. 

A few of his plots are loosely formed, and want regularity of design. He not only does not 
avoid, but seems rather to rejoice in anachronisms. He gives to one age or nation the customs 
and institutions of another. He intermixes the features of the heroic and feudal times. He 
puts the names of the Roman gods in the mouths of the Druids ; he makes Hector auote 
Aristotle ; and he introduces cannon in the reign of King John. These things may be dis- 
agreeable to the antiquary, but they are only motes in the sunshine of Shakespeare's genius. 



XXX BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

Another fault is imputed to him, traceable to the imitation of the manner of the Italian poets, 
so prevalent in the latter half of the sixteenth century. It consists in a playful twisting of the 
meaning of words, suggested sometimes by their sound, and sometimes by their juxtaposition. 
Shakespeare evidently found pleasure in these concetti, or what Dr. Johnson calls " idle conceits 
and contemptible equivocations." " A quibble," says the Doctor, who had somewhat ponder- 
ous notions of humour, "is to Shakespeare what luminous vapours are to the traveller ; he 
follows it at all adventures ; it is sure to lead him out of his way, and sure to engulf him in the 
mire. It has some malignant power over his mind, and its fascinations are irresistible. What- 
ever be the dignity or profundity of his disquisition, whether he be enlarging knowledge or 
exalting affection, whether he be arousing attention with incidents or enchaining it in suspense, 
let but a quibble spring up before him and he leaves his work unfinished. A quibble, poor 
and barren as it is, gave him such delight that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of 
reason, propriety, and truth." They who choose may agree with this Johnsonian criticism ; 
but do not let them forget that Shakespeare, being himself 

" A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy," 

;.-.- o iibrirmftw 

one who was " not only witty in himself, but the cause that wit is in other men," cared as little 
for " quibbles " as Dr. Johnson. They suited the times, and he therefore gave them " as thick 
as Tewkesbury mustard ; " but he fails not to say, through Lorenzo, in the " Merchant of 
Venice," " How every fool can play upon the word ! I think the best grace of wit will 
shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots." 

In Germany, Shakespeare's supremacy as a dramatic poet has long been admitted. Lessing, 
Herder, Goethe, Schlegel, Tieck, Gervinus, Ulrici, and others, have done much to naturalise 
him among their countrymen, and to kindle enthusiasm for his genius. In France, on the 
other hand, it is comparatively recently that he has met with a reception worthy of the intellect 
of that country. Before Shakespeare could be thoroughly understood in France a system had , 
to be overturned, the battle of the orders had to be fought, Aristotle and the unities had to be 
weighed in the balance. Voltaire allowed Shakespeare the praise only of a clever "barbarian;" 
and La Harpe dragged him by the heels behind the triumphal car of Racine. The French 
poets were unable to conceive of a tragic drama not founded on the Greek model, of which 
they produced highly successful imitations ; but, as was likely to happen with imitations, they 
were colder and more pompous than the originals. In ancient Greece, where there were fewer 
shades and diversities of character than there came to be as the world got older, there was a 
stately grandeur, which to a certain extent atoned for its monotony, in the scenic representation 
of an illustrious house contending in vain against the inexorable decrees of destiny. But when 
the same stateliness and severity of artistic rule was transferred on the French stage to the halls 
of the Cid and the courts of Bajazet and Mahomet, it was certain that human nature would 
sooner or later rebel, and that, as hair-powder and furbelows went out, Shakespeare and real 
life would come in. The film fell from the eyes of Le Mercier, Madame De Stael, and Guizot ; 
and France at length owns that Voltaire, who said of Shakespeare that "he was without the 
least spark of good taste, and without the slightest knowledge of rules," must "pale his 
uneffectual fire " before the author of " Hamlet. 

If taste consists in a quick and accurate appreciation of all that is graceful and harmonious, 
not in artificial life alone, but in the world as God made it, no Frenchman, great or small, had 
ever half the taste of Shakespeare. Taste is, indeed, too low and technical a term for his 
intuitive perception of the true and the beautiful, and his exquisite delight in them. In reading 
a play by Voltaire we imagine of a man " who has lived for a long time in apartments lighted 
only by wax candles, chandeliers, or coloured glasses who has only breathed in the faint, 
suffocating atmosphere of drawing-rooms who has seen only the cascades at the opera, calico 
mountains, and garlands of artificial flowers." In reading a play by Shakespeare we imagine 
of a man who was ever in the pure air that encompasses the sights and sounds of external 
nature, and who found at will 

" Tongues in trees, books in the running brook, 

Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxxi 

Of his fellow-beings his thoughts were, 

"What a piece of work is man ! How noble in reason I how infinite in faculties ! in form and moving, how 
express and admirable ! in action, how like an angel ! in apprehension, bow like a god ! the beauty of the world 1 

the paragon of animals ! " 

In the starry wilderness of space he recognised the music of eternity, 

" Look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold i 
There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins : 
Such harmony is in immortal souls 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly cl se us in, we cannot hear it." 

In the changing seasons his feeling was but of one description of beauty passing into another, 

" 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." 

In the works of man, no less than in the works of God, he took deep delight, the "cloud- 
capp'd towers," the "gorgeous palaces," the " solemn temples." Of the Fine Arts he was an 
earnest votary. Music, in particular, was a never-ending delight to him. His eloquent 
denunciation of those who "are not moved with concord of sweet sounds" is written in a 
thousand hearts. To his ear music was " the food of love" : he claims for it the distinction of 
having been " ordained to refresh the mind of man." In that most exquisite scene at Belmont, 
in the Fifth Act of the " Merchant of Venice," music intensifies the happiness of the youthful 
lovers, 

" 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." 

And Jessica only deepens into tenderness when she breathes into the ear of Lorenzo, 
" I am never merry when I hear sweet music." 

With what truth of feeling the Duke, in "The Twelfth Night," asks for a repetition of the 
music he has just heard ! 

jjoi ii;i '. i ' .'..:;[ : ^ndaa od ,;.oad TOJicW --.'r8'!r jnu; ; b-uibmfe ; ^-- /i arri^o-:!! -->.' 
' That strain again ; it had a dying fall : 

O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 

That breathes upon a bank of violets, 

Stealing and giving odour.'' 
And again, 

" That old and antique song we heard last night: 

Methought it did relieve my passion much, 

More than light airs and recollected tunes 

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. " 

Such examples could be largely multiplied ; but take as the only other the lines put into the 
lips of Oberon, 

" 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." 



xxxn BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

Not contented with thus celebrating the charms of music, Shakespeare gave to be wedded to it 
some of the most delicious of our English songs. They sparkle through his plays in rich pro- 
fusion, many of them light, airy, and fanciful, like his own sprites, others full of a divine 
melancholy. Painting and sculpture were hardly less prized by him ; and he had evidently a 
learned knowledge of both. Of painting he says, " It tutors nature." Neither Titian, nor 
Velasquez, nor he, greater than either, -who designed the Sibyls on the dome of the Sistine 
Chapel, ever painted a nobler portrait than Hamlet does of the "buried Majesty of Denmark." 
Raphael, on his most impassioned canvas, never exceeded the beauty of the description of 
"fair Portia's counterfeit," given by the enamoured Bassanio. Perhaps Shakespeare had 
before him a work of Julio Romano, for whom he is known to have entertained great admira- 
tion, when he makes the Poet say of the picture exhibited by the Painter in the first scene of 
" Timon of Athens," 

" Admirable t How this grace 
Speaks his own standing ! what a mental power 
This eye shoots forth ! how big imagination 
Moves in this lip ! to the dumbness of the gesture 
One might interpret." 

As regards sculpture, his understanding of the chief excellences of that art is sufficiently attested 
by the language used when Paulina, in the " Winter's Tale," unvails to Leontes the supposed 
statue of Hermione ; 

' ' Prepare 

To see the life as lively mock'd as ever 
Still sleep mock'd death. 

Masterly done : 

The very life seems warm upon her lip, 
The fixture of her eye has motion in 't ; 
There is an air comes from her J what fine chisel 
Could ever yet cut breath ?" 

And this was the semi-barbarian who, as the French scoffer declared, had no spark of taste ! 
Thomas Carlyle spoke truer words when he said, "The noblest thing we men of England 
have produced has been this Shakespeare." 

After some years of persevering industry in London, Shakespeare found himself the possessor 
of handsome means, which, as there is every reason to believe, continued steadily to increase. 
Besides his partnership in the profits of the Globe Theatre, he may have been a shareholder in 
the Blackfriars, and, in any case, he enjoyed his part of the actors' profits in both. To this 
may have been added a proportion of the gains accruing from the successful representation of 
his plays. De Quincey is of opinion that Shakespeare was the first man of letters in Great 
Britain who realized a fortune by literature, Pope being the second, and Sir Walter Scott the 
third. However this may be, it is certain that as soon as Shakespeare had money to invest, 
his thoughts reverted to Stratford ; and, like Sir Walter Scott, he seems to have been ambitious 
of giving stability to his family by the acquisition of landed rights. In the year 1597 he pur- 
chased the best house in Stratford, known by the name of New Place, and in 1602 he bought, 
at a considerable cost, one hundred and seven acres of land adjoining the house. On Shake- 
speare's death, New Place went to his daughter, Mrs. Hall, in liferent, and then to her only 
daughter, Elizabeth, afterwards Lady Barnard, in fee. It was sold in 1675 to Sir Edward 
Walker, Garter King-at-Anns. From him it passed to his grandson, Sir John Clopton, who, 
about the year 1702, made extensive alterations on it, and modernized its aspect both internally 
and externally. Sir Hugh Clopton's son-in-law, Henry Talbot, brother to the Lord Chancellor 
Talbot, sold New Place, in the year 1756, to the Rev. Francis Gastrell, Vicar of Frodsham, in 
Cheshire. Of this reverend gentleman we fear it must be said that 

" The motions of his spirit were dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus." 

He must have known that he had the honour to own a house which was dear to Stratford and 
sacred to all England ; and yet, in a fit of paltry rage at being forced to pay a poor's-rate on it 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. XXXlll 

though he resided a part of the year at Lichfield, he declared, in -the year 1759, that New Place 
should never be assessed again, and forthwith razed the building to the ground, sold off the 
materials, and took his departure from Stratford amidst the execrations of its inhabitants. 
Nor was this the only offence of this same Mr. Gastrell : he had committed three years before 
another act of sacrilege hardly less atrocious. Shakespeare planted with his own hand, in 
1609, or thereby, in the garden at New Place, a mulberry tree, which grew to a goodly size, 
and produced abundant fruit. " The planting of this tree by Shakespeare," says Malone, " is 
as well authenticated as anything of that nature can be. The Rev. Mr. Davenport informed 
me that Mr. Hugh Taylor, the father of his clerk, who was in 1790 eighty-five years old, and 
an alderman of Warwick, told him that he lived, when a boy, at the next house to New Place ; 
that his family had inhabited the house for almost three hundred years ; that it was transmitted 
from father to son, during the last and present century, that this tree (of the fruit of which he 
had often eaten in his younger days, some of its branches hanging over his father's garden) was 
planted by Shakespeare ; and that till this was planted there was no mulberry tree in that 
neighbourhood." A similar tradition was preserved in the Clopton family; and in 1742 Sir 
Hugh Clopton entertained the two celebrated actors, Garrick and MackUn, under the flourish- 
ing and time-honoured branches. The aforesaid Vicar of Frodsham, however, the Rev. 
Francis Gastrell, took a dislike to the tree, on account of its popularity, which exposed his 
reverence to frequent requests to permit strangers to see it. This interruption to his own ease 
was intolerable ; so the leaden-souled priest, who had never drawn one breath of inspiration in 
the garden where Shakespeare had walked, ordered the tree, in the year 1756, when it was at 
its full growth and of remarkable beauty, to be cut down and cleft into pieces for firewood. 
When the assertion is made that a man may do what he likes with his own, it may be well to 
remember that the slave-owner lashes the negro to within an inch of his life, and that the Rev. 
Francis Gastrell cut down Shakespeare's mulberry tree and demolished his house. The New 
Place property was, in 1862, purchased by a public subscription, due to the exertions of Mr. 
Hall i well, and placed in charge of the Stratford corporation. 

After his purchase of New Place and the adjacent lands, Shakespeare's relationships with 
Stratford became closer and more constant. There is evidence that he at one time thought of 
buying a messuage at Shottery, in remembrance, perhaps, of his youthful days of love-making 
there. He farmed some land in the immediate vicinity of Stratford, which was probably 
managed for him by his brother Gilbert. The books of the local Burgh Court show that decrees 
were once or twice issued at Shakespeare's instance for the price of corn and other farm produce 
owing to him. In the year 1 596 application was made to the Herald's College for a grant of a 
coat of arms to John Shakespeare ; and there can be little doubt that this was done at the 
instigation of his eldest son. The grant was not obtained till 1599. It bears in gremio that the 
reasons for conceding it were that John Shakespeare's ' ' parentes and late antecessors " (above 
which word is written " grandfather") had done " faithful and valiant service to the late most 
prudent prince, King Henry VII.," for which they had by him been " advanced and rewarded"; 
that since that time they had continued in these parts, " being of good reputation and credit," 
and that the said John Shakespeare had married " the daughter and one of the heirs of Robert 
Arden of Wilmcote, in the said county, esquire." In consideration of these premises, " and for 
the encouragement of his posterity," a shield and coat of arms were assigned. The arms of the 
Shakespeare family were, in a field of gold upon a bend sable, a spear of the first, the point 
upward, headed argent ; and for a crest or cognizance, a falcon with his wings displayed, stand- 
ing on a wreath of his colours, supporting a spear headed or steeled silver. These arms were 
impaled upon another escutcheon with the ancient arms of Arden of Wilmscote, and the whole 
were surmounted by the motto, " Non sanz droict" 

It was probably not long after the year 1604 that Shakespeare transferred his headquarters 
from London to Stratford. In that year his name still appears among the players of the King's 
company ; but he is not known to have acted after 1603, when he was one of the actors in Ben 
Jonson's " Sejanus," which was produced at the Globe in that year ; he did not perform in the 
same author's " Volpone," which was brought out in 1605. In 1604 the London theatres were 
closed for a time on account of the plague, and it is likely that Shakespeare then went to Strat- 
ford. In a diary written in 1662 by the Rev. John Ward, Vicar at Stratfocd, the author says, 
" Mr. Shakespeare frequented the plays all his younger time, but in his older days he lived at 



xxxiv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

Stratford, and supplied the stage with two plays every year, and for that had an allowance so 
large that he spent at the rate of ^"1,000 a year." 

Some events which took place in the Shakespearian circle early in the seventeenth century 
must have occasioned alternate pain and pleasure. In September, 1601, his father died ; in 
June, 1607, his daughter Susannah married Dr. John Hall ; on the last day of the same year he 
buried, at the Church of St. Saviour's, Southwark, his youngest brother Edmond, who died at 
the early age of twenty-seven, after a brief career as an actor ; in February, 1608, he became a 
grandfather by the birth of a daughter to Mrs. Hall ; in the September following he lost his 
mother, Mary Arden or Shakespeare ; on 3rd February, 1612, his brother Gilbert, and on 4th 
February, 1613, his brother Richard, were buried at Stratford. 

Among the plays which Shakespeare wrote between the years 1605 and 1613 are generally 
included " King Lear," " Macbeth," "Julius Caesar," " Antony and Cleopatra," " Coriolanus," 
" Troilus andCressida," "Cymbeline," " The Winter's Tale," "Othello," and "The Tempest." 
It was believed by Thomas Campbell, De Quincey, and others, that " The Tempest " was his 
last play ; and this would, as Campbell says, give it "a sort of sacredness." Campbell further 
suggests that Shakespeare may be regarded as in some sort typified in Prospero, the potent and 
benevolent magician ; and De Quincey, following up the same idea, conjectures that it was with 
a prophetic feeling of the end that Shakespeare makes Prospero " solemnly and for ever renounce 
his mysterious functions, symbolically break his enchanter's wand, and declare that he will bury 
his books, his science, and his secrets 

' Deeper than did ever plummet sound.' " 

It is not within the scope of the present biographical sketch to enter into any critical analysis 
of Shakespeare's separate plays; but if " The Tempest " was written in his forty-ninth year, it 
affords the completest evidence that his fancy retained all its freshness. None of his creations 
are more original than Caliban and Ariel, none more beautiful than Miranda, none more lofty 
than Prospero. It is difficult to say that " The Tempest " is finer, as a romantic drama, than 
" As You Like It," " Cymbeline," or " The Winter's Tale," but it takes rank with these, and 
is as luminous with poetry as any of them. 

The last eight or nine years of Shakespeare's life were probably among the happiest which he 
spent on this "bank and shoal of time." His mind was matured, his passions were softened, 
the fever of expectation was over ; he had won his position, he had fulfilled the mission which 
the Almiguty had assigned to him. And with how much tranquil earnestness had he done his 
work ! He had involved himself in no hatreds ; stood aloof from all brawls and cavillings. 
Party spirit was unknown to him ; polemics were distasteful. His works betray neither political 
nor religious bias ; yet they teach, with the force almost of inspiration, the duties we owe to 
society, and the homage that is due to religion. The advantages and the disadvantages of the 
democratic, the aristocratic, and the monarchical elements, both in a state and in men, are treated 
by him with the utmost impartiality. He fights a noble battle against class prejudices. He 
delights in showing sympathy for the poor and the destitute, and " he makes the mighty of the 
earth, who have forgotten poverty, remember it in their own adversity." His patriotic love for 
" our sea- walled garden," 

" This precious stone set in the silver sea," 

and the grand words in which he has given expression to the sentiment, have quickened the 
pulses of hundreds of thousands of his countrymen. His religion is catholic, not sectarian. He 
teaches that the service of God is above the service of all lords and princes. He never alludes 
to the great truths of Christianity except with the most profound reverence. When Angelo says 
to Isabella 

" Your brother is a forfeit of the law," 
the answer is, 

"Alas! alasl 

Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once, 

And HE that might the 'vantage best have took. 

Found out the remedy. How would you be 

If He which is the top of judgment should 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxxv 

But judge you as you are? O, think on that, 
And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
Like man new made." 
IBM >B|#0 A : ,iA\\vs: - .ttebf i-nA -,%nwj 

" Shakespeare contented himself," says his loving and intelligent commentator, Mr. Cowden 
Clarke, * c with the simple mission of teaching mankind a cheerful reliance upon the mercy and 
benevolence of our good God ; to be just and kind to all men ; to seek out the good in things 
evil, and not, after the new philosophy, to ferret out whatever of evil may lurk in things good. 
He strove to make men wiser and better, and therefore happier." 

May we not imagine him once more among the woods round Stratford, or upon the turfy up- 
lands, weaving into shape the scenes of " Macbeth " or "Julius Caesar," or filling his imagina- 
tion with "Cleopatra," " Coriolanus," or "Othello"? May we not follow him home to his 
wife and children, all unconscious of his fine frenzies, his lofty meditations, but looking on with 
smiles as he takes his granddaughter in his arms, and remembering, perhaps, his lines, 

" Thy grandsire lovM thee well ; 
Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee, 
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow ; 
Many a matter hath he told to thee 
Meet and agreeing with thy infancy?" 



In such scenes as these may we not fancy him asking himself the question, 

" 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 ? " 

Or saying to some pleasant neighbour, 



"So we'll live, " '.( 

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh 
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues 
Talk of court news ; and we '11 talk with them too, 
Who loses and who wins ; who 'sin, who's out ; 
And take upon's the mystery of things, 
As if we were God's spies ? " 

During the four last years of Shakespeare's life few traces of him can be discovered. In 1614 
there was a great fire in Stratford, which, aided by a strong wind, consumed, in less than two 
hours, fifty-four dwelling-houses ; but New Place was not one of them. On the loth of 
February, 1616, which was to be the year in which he was to be withdrawn from the world, 
his younger daughter, Judith, was married to Mr. Thomas Quiney. This event, with other 
considerations, probably led to his making his Will, which was executed on the 25th March 
following ; he being then " in perfect health and memory." 

His Will is one of the very few private and personal writings of Shakespeare which have come 
down. The following particulars of the document are worthy of note : First, The devout 
spirit in which it commences," I commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hop- 
ing and assuredly believing, through the only merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be made 
partaker of life everlasting ; and my body to the earth whereof it is made." Second, The be- 
quest of a handsome marriage portion to his daughter Judith, and a further bequest of the like 
amount in the event of her surviving three years from the date of the Will, which she did. 
Third, A legacy of twenty pounds (equal to about ^100 of present money) to his sister Joan 
Hart, together with all his wearing apparel, and the house in which she dwelt. Fourth, Small 
legacies to each of Joan Hart's three sons. Fifth, All his plate, except his " broad silver and 
gilt bowl," to his grand-daughter Elizabeth Hall. Sixth, A legacy of a sum of money to the 
poor of Stratford ; of his sword to Mr. Thomas Combe, who was then in his twenty-seventh 
year, and was the son of an old acquaintance, John Combe ; and of ten small sums to ten 
intimate friends, " to buy them rings," in memoriam, among which friends were Hamlet or 
Hamnet Sadler, who had been godfather to Shakespeare's only son, William Walker, to whom 



xxxvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

Shakespeare had himself been godfather, Anthony Nash, the father of Mr. Thomas Nash, who 
afterwards married the poet's granddaughter, and " my fellows," that is, his brother actors, 
John Hemings, Richard Burbage, and Henry Condell. Seventh, A bequest to his daughter 
Susannah Hall of " that capital messuage or tenement" called the New Place, together with 
other two tenements in Henley Street, and " all my barns, stables, orchards, gardens, lands, 
tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever," in Stratford-upon-Avon, Old Stratford, Bishopton, 
and Welcombe, and the messuage or tenement " in the Blackfriars in London, near the Ward- 
robe," and to the oldest lawful son of her body, whom failing, the next oldest in regular suc- 
cession ; whom all failing, to his granddaughter Elizabeth Hall, and the heirs male of her body; 
whom failing, to his daughter Judith, and the heirs male of her body ; whom failing, to his heirs 
whatsoever. Eighth, A legacy to his wife of his " second-best bed with the furniture." Ninth, 
A legacy of his " broad silver gilt bowl " to his daughter Judith ; and, Tenth, A bequest of all 
the rest of his "goods, chattels, leases, plate, jewels, and household stuff whatsoever," after 
payment of his debts, and legacies, and funeral expenses, to his son-in-law, John Hall, who, 
along with his wife Susannah, are appointed executors. 

The leading feature of this Will is the desire manifested in it to found a family by a strict 
entail of almost the whole real estate in favour, first, of the heirs male of his elder, and, next, of 
his younger daughter, his only son having predeceased. This desire, however, was frustrated 
by the death of Susannah Hall with no issue except Elizabeth, who died childless, and by all 
Judith Quiney's children predeceasing her, so that the estates were scattered after the second 
generation. There is another peculiarity of the Will which has attracted even more attention 
namely, that it bequeath es to his wife only a second-best bed, and that, as originally written 
out, she was not mentioned in it at all, the bequest being introduced by an ex post facto inter- 
lineation. Malone drew unpleasant conclusions from this, which, however, seem groundless. 
Mr. Charles Knight has pointed out that the wife was entitled to dower, and was thus amply 
provided for by the ordinary operation of the law. Her provision would be all the greater from 
the fact that, with a single exception, Shakespeare's estates were not copyhold, but freehold. A 
handsome life-interest thus accrued to his widow, which rendered any testamentary bequest un- 
necessary. It was therefore solely from an affectionate desire to show that she was not out of 
the testator's mind that she was put down as a legatee. The best bed was one of those chattels 
which the law gives to the heir along with the mansion-house ; but the second-best bed could 
be disponad as the owner desired. And who knows, as Steevens suggests, but that it was far 
more valued by Shakespeare and Anne than the newer heirloom ? Who knows but that thirty 
years before it had been their bridal bed ? Both Knight and Halliwell have shown that in the 
Wills of many men of substance executed about the same period, nothing but a very trifling 
legacy was bequeathed to their wives, it being notorious that they were well and richly provided 
for otherwise. Had Anne Hathaway been little regarded either by her husband or her children, 
had she dwelt " but in the suburbs of their good pleasure," she would not have been buried 
beside Shakespeare when she died, seven years after him, nor would a loving inscription, in 
which she is specially designed as the " wife of William Shakespeare," been placed upon her 
tombstone by her daughters. We may fairly, therefore, cherish the belief that he who wrote 
"Julius Caesar " could say with Brutus, 



" You are my true and honourable wife ; 
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 
That visit my sad heart." 

Shakespeare had no old age. He had barely reached his fifty-third year when he died. 
Within a month of his decease he had declared himself to be "in perfect health and memory, 
God be praised ! " What his last illness was, or how it was contracted, remains unknown. 
There is an apocryphal tradition that his friends Ben Jonson and the poet Drayton, who was 
afterwards deemed worthy of a tomb in Westminster Abbey, had come upon a visit, and that 
Shakespeare's hospitality so overflowed that a fever supervened, which ran a short course to a 
fatal termination. This may or may not be true. Had the world known then, so well as it 
knows now, whom it was losing, a thousand chroniclers would have recorded the minutest par- 
ticulars of the parting scene. As matters are, all that we know is the bare fact that he expired 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. xxxvii 

at New Place on the 23rd April, 1616, and was interred on the 25th in the chancel of Stratford 
Church. " That church," says Washington Irving, " stands on the banks of the Avon, on an 
embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. The 
situation is quiet and retired, and the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and 
the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. Small birds 
have built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual 
flutter and chirping, and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire." It is there 
that Shakespeare " quiet consummation " hath. 

A flat stone covers his grave, bearing the well-known inscription, 

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear 
To dig the dust enclosed here ; 
Blest be the man that spares these stones 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Whether these lines were or were not Shakespeare's, they are at all events of an ancient date ; 
for Dugdale quotes them in 1656 as his epitaph, cut on "a plain free-s:one, underneath which 
his body is buried." Some writers have characterized them as doggerel ; but the author of the 
Sketch Book says they " have in them something extremely awful, and show that solicitude about 
the quiet of the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds." They 
had the merit, at any rate, of achieving their purpose, since they have secured for his native 
place the permanent possession of his remains. 

A few years after his death, and before 1623, a commemorative monument was erected on 
the north wall of the chancel, near the grave. The design evinces some taste ; but the poetical 
inscription, which is partly in Latin and partly in English, possesses little merit. The most 
interesting portion of the monument is a bust of Shakespeare, the size of life, formed out of a 
block of soft stone. The sculptor was one Gerard Johnson, a " tomb-maker," and contem- 
porary of Shakespeare. The late Sir Francis Chantrey was of opinion that Johnson had 
probably modelled the features from a cast of Shakespeare's face taken after death. Such a 
cast may have been procured by his son-in-law, Dr. Hall, who was in London within a few 
weeks of his death, and may then have placed the cast in Johnson's hands. It is to be feared, 
however, that Johnson's knowledge of his art was not great. He painted over the whole work, 
and produced a coloured image rather than a piece of sculpture. The hands and face were of 
flesh-colour, the eyes of a light hazel, the hair and beard auburn, the doublet scarlet, and the 
gown or tabard black ; the upper part of the cushion on which the arms rest was green, the 
under half crimson, and the tassels gilt. Those colours all faded in the course of time ; they 
were renovated in 1749; but in 1793 tne entire bust was covered with one or more coats of 
white paint, which destroyed its original character, and altered the expression of the face. The 
colours have since been carefully restored. This bust is the earliest, and, on the whole, the 
most authentic portrait which exists ; and there is an individuality in the features, and in 
the unmistakable forehead, which leads to the belief that it presents a general, though defective 
resemblance of the great original. 

There is only one other well-established contemporary likeness of Shakespeare, and that is 
the print by Martin Droeshout, prefixed to the folio edition of 1623. The original engraving 
was poorly executed ; and as impressions were taken from the plate for three subsequent 
editions, the copies now commonly met with are much deteriorated. Considerable interest, 
however, attaches to them, when it is recollected that the print was brought out by and for 
persons who had seen Shakespeare, and who would have rejected it if altogether unlike. Ben 
Jonson so far attests its accuracy in some lines which were printed under it, beginning, 



igure that thou here see'st put 
5 for gentle Shakespeare cut : 
ein the graver had a strife 



This fij 

It was: 

Wherein the graver had a str 

With nature, to outdo the life." 



There is a good deal of resemblance between this engraving and the bust, a fact which corrobo- 
rates the authenticity of both. Various other Shakespearian portraits have from time to time 



xxxvill -BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 

been brought forward as genuine ; but these have in no instance been proved to have been 
executed from the life, and their value is consequently extremely problematical. 

Cervantes and Shakespeare were taken from the world within ten days of each other the 
former on the 23d of April, new style, and the latter on the same date, old style. The greatest 
genius whom the authors of Don Quixote and King Lear left behind them was John Milton ; 
but he was only seven years of age when they passed away. Another remarkable man was 
approaching maturity, through whose instrumentality events, involving both good and evil, 
were preparing for England. The long succession of her kings was to be broken, her con- 
stitutional monarchy was to be overthrown, and a commonwealth was to be set up on its ruins. 
Oliver Cromwell, however, was entering at college on the very day of Shakespeare's death ; 
and no dream of coming regicide and civil war disturbed the poet's dying hours, or mingled 
with the grief of those who surrounded his deathbed, and in whose breasts the predominant 
sentiment must have been, 






" This was the noblest Roman of them all. 
His life was gentle ; and the elements 



So mix'd in him that nature might stand up 
And say to all the world, This was a man ! 

bet us not think that he died " an untimely death." Who had ever done so much in fifty- 
two years ? He gave expression to as many high and remarkable thoughts in that time as would 
have graced and dignified a hundred ordinary lives, protracted to the longest span. No fruit 
could have been expected from "the golden autumn of such a mind " superior to what its spring 
and summer had produced. If wisdom be often found under " the silver livery of advised age," 
it was equally found in Shakespeare's unblanched manhood. It was better that he sank beneath 
the horizon at once, like the broad-orbed sun, than that he should have waned into gradual 
dimness. If the spirits of the departed are cognizant, as we fondly trust they are, of the senti- 
ments which animate the " breathers of this world," Shakespeare's may well be filled with 
profoundest love and gratitude in the perception of how much it was permitted to contribute 
towards the elevation and refinement of the world. 

To the young, who may yet be unacquainted with his works, this Volume will be as a 
newly-discovered mine, filled with inconceivable riches. To the more advanced it will afford 
the means of reverting again and again to old-established loves and friendships, which only grow 
the stronger with every fresh opportunity of renewed intercourse. The absence of notes and 
commentaries need not be regretted. These, if wanted, can be found elsewhere in super-abun- 
dance ; but Samuel Johnson, erroneous as many of his own commentaries were, never gave 
sounder advice than when he recommended that they who wished to become fully acquainted 
with the powers of Shakespeare, and who desired to feel the highest pleasure that the drama can 
give, should read every play from the first scene to the last, "with utter negligence of all his 
commentators." When fancy is once on the wing, as the Doctor truly says, it should not stoop 
at correction or explanation : when the attention is strongly engaged with Shakespeare, let it 
not turn aside to the name of Theobald or of Pope. Particular passages may be cleared by 
notes ; but the general effect is weakened by the interruption. Obscurities and niceties may be 
investigated when time permits and inclination prompts ; but in the beginning and in the end it 
is best and safest to allow Shakespeare to speak for himself. 






-1* 



SHAKESPEARE AND BACON. 



' ;;:1 ' .riOlICjSOnOD r -' iHinf l.:!lJJiUITtifl 9ft| i/'^r.Kijjj 

IT has occurred to me that the opinion of a player (for Shakespeare was both player and play- 
wright) may have some interest in the controversy which seems to make a perennial appeal to 
the curiosity of the public. I am encouraged to express this opinion by Judge Allen, of Boston, 
who, at the end of his able treatise on " The Bacon -Shakespeare Question," does me the honour 
of summing up the debate in some words of my own. " When the Baconians can show that Ben 
Jonson was either a fool or a knave, or that the whole world of players and playwrights at that 
time was in a conspiracy to palm off on the ages the most astounding cheat in history, they will 
be worthy of serious attention." 

I submit that this is exactly how the matter stands. Has any attempt been made to give 
even the semblance of reason to the assumption that Bacon induced the whole world of players 
and playwrights, and all his contemporaries who had relations with the theatre men like 
Southampton and Herbert, and the officials of the Court, who were brought into constant and 
close contact with the players to bolster up the fiction that Shakespeare wrote the masterpieces 
for which he had the credit and the profit, and to keep the secret so close that nobody breathed a 
word of it, nobody kept any memorandum of it, and everybody carried it to the grave? 
Shakespeare was a man whose rapid advancement had excited bitter jealousies. He was 
stigmatized by Robert Greene as the "Johannes Factotum" who was monopolizing the play- 
wright's business. He was " the upstart crow, beautified with our feathers;" that is to say, the 
jealous Greene saw him handling, re-writing, and vastly improving plays which, according to the 
theatrical custom of the time, were wholly at the disposal of the manager who had bought them. 
Young Shakespeare was called in to revise these works, and Greene cried aloud to all the 
supplanted that such presumption was not to be borne ; and why was it not proclaimed then, that 
Shakespeare could not write, that he was virtually illiterate, and that the plays he presumed to 
turn from commonplace to genius were conveyed by him to Bacon, who laid the magic spell upon 
them ? What spell did Bacon employ to prevent Greene from declaring the truth ? I am aware 
that Bacon is said to have disclosed in the wondrous cipher that he wrote the plays of Greene. 
This makes the complication still more entertaining. First, Bacon writes Greene ; then he beautifies 
Shakespeare with Greene's feathers and makes Greene very angry ; but he will not let Greene 
denounce Shakespeare as an impostor, for Greene is himself an impostor. Greene is entitled to 
our sympathies, because it is obvious that in his name Bacon wrote poor stuff, whereas in 
Shakespeare's name he wrote magnificently. Why this wanton injustice to poor Greene? The 
cipher might tell us ; but this point is beneath its notice ; and when you consider that its chief 
business is to stagger us with the revelation that Bacon was the " legitimate son of Queen 
Elizabeth," you cannot expect more light on anybody so trivial as Greene. 

The only explanation I can conjecture is that when Bacon suspected any writer as a likely 
man to find Shakespeare out, he proceeded to bribe that person with his multifarious talents. I 
cannot fit this process exactly to Greene's case, but who can fit any parts of this amazing story / 
Still, Bacon is alleged to have written, in addition to Shakespeare and Greene, the works of Ben 
Jonson and Marlowe, Spenser's "Faerie Queene," and Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy." 
This is pretty well, but it is not enough. There were Shakespeare's collaborators in his 
historical plays to be reckoned with ; so Bacon must have done the collaboration himself or 
silenced the collaborators. There was Fletcher, for example, whose hand is perceptible in 
" King Henry VIII." To square Fletcher, Bacon had also to square Beaumont ; so we had 
better add the works of Beaumont and Fletcher to Bacon's account. If he did not bribe all these 
people in this fashion, how else could he have secured their complicity ? He had no money even 
for his own needs. He had very little influence for the greater part of his career. Although he 
was the "legitimate son of Queen Elizabeth," his unnatural mother showed not the smallest 



xl SHAKESPEARE AND BACON. 

desire to advance his interests. What could he do, then, for the various poets and dramatists 
who were privy to his authorship of Shakespeare, except write their plays and poems ? Is it 
probable that they would have held their tongues on such terms ? 

The Baconian theory requires our belief in a confederacy, the like of which never entered the 
wildest imagination. All the plots in history pale beside it. How vain and childlike seem all 
the secret societies compared with this brotherhood, which, to oblige Bacon, foisted Shakespeare 
on the centuries as the supreme genius of our literature ! I don't think the Baconians have fully 
grasped the magnitude of their own conception. They are still apt to suggest that Shakespeare 
was very little known to his contemporaries. A critic in "The National Review" for August, 
1902, tells us "there is not a rag of evidence that Shakespeare could write at all;" whereas 
there is abundant evidence of what Webster, his fellow-dramatist, called his "copious industry." 
His first editors, Heminge and Condell, his friends and fellow-actors, report that he wrote almost 
without a blot. Ben Jonson, repeating that testimony, expresses the wish that Shakespeare had 
blotted a good deal. Jonson thought the greater poet had too much facility and too little art. 
We are asked to believe that these opinions were designed to deceive the world, that Heminge 
and Condell deliberately lied, that Jonson blamed Shakespeare's fluency the better to hide the 
fact that he could not write a line ; that, when Jonson said Shakespeare had " small Latin and 
less Greek," this was to prevent the world from learning that Shakespeare never went to school, 
knew neither Greek nor Latin, could barely scrawl an illegible signature, and did not know the 
correct spelling of his own name. The name is spelt in the municipal records of Stratford in 
sixteen ways ; therefore the Corporation of Stratford in those days was an illiterate body, and the 
contemporary records were written by Bacon. Sir Walter Raleigh spelt his name in five ways ; 
therefore he was illiterate, and Bacon wrote his works. No writer of that period appears to have 
any fixed spelling for his name ; therefore Bacon wrote all the Elizabethan literature. But he 
sometimes spelt his name with a "k;" whence springs a horrid suspicion that he may have been 
illiterate, and that we have yet to learn who wrote Bacon. 

Is this a whit more extravagant than the whole basis of the Baconian theory ? The moment it 
is touched at any point it discloses the grossest absurdities. I defy any man to give me a 
coherent account of the conceivable circumstances in which Bacon acquired that mastery of the 
stage without which the Shakespearean drama could not have been written. The plays were not 
evolved by a recluse in a closet. Some were based on earlier pieces never published, and 
belonging solely to the theatres. How did Bacon come by them ? The plays were frequently 
altered, and this must have needed close consultation with the players. How did Bacon manage 
that ? How did he manage the collaboration with other writers in the historical dramas ? Many 
of the dramatists then were actors, and one of Shakespeare's most striking qualities is consummate 
stagecraft. What did Bacon know about the stage ? His life is as well known to us as the life 
of any statesman or philosopher of our own time ; and where is there a particle of evidence that 
he took even the smallest interest in the theatre ? You may be the mightiest genius that ever 
breathed, but if you have not studied the art of writing for the stage, you will never write a good 
acting play. Of this technique there is no more striking example than "Othello." It is a 
masterpiece of pure exposition, which could have been achieved only by a man who had spent 
years in the atmosphere of the theatre. The Baconians cannot grasp the elementary fact that the 
Shakespearean plays were written exclusively for the stage by a playwright who was in the very 
centre and heart of theatrical life, and not by an inspired outsider. The inspired outsider may 
have an admirable story admirably written, but without any knowledge of the stage how is he to 
get his characters on and off? You see the craft of Shakespeare in his exits and his entrances. 
The knocking at the gate in " Macbeth," after the murder of Duncan, is one of those dramatic 
incidents that hold you breathless. It is the stroke of fate, heralding the entrance of Macduff, 
and the disclosure of the crime. An essay might be written on Shakespeare's exits alone. You 
remember Shylock, when he leaves his house in Jessica's charge, and murmurs, with no suspicion 
of treachery : 

" Fast bind, fast find ; f> 
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind." 

That takes him off the stage effectively. Equally characteristic is lago's exit : 

" This is the night 
That either makes me or fordoes me quite." 



SHAKESPEARE AND BACON. xli 



No actor ever had reason to complain that Shakespeare sent him tamely off, or brought him 
feebly on. Apart from the genius of the poet, you have the irresistible evidence that Shakespeare 
was a great dramatic constructor, who knew the stage as intimately as a watchmaker knows the 
mechanism of a watch. How could Bacon acquire this experience ? 

Shakespeare acquired it because he was an actor, and the hand of the actor is visible in all his 
dramatic work. The plays are full of images drawn from the player's art. Laborious efforts 
have been made to show that only Bacon could have known the law, philosophy, and natural 
history that abound in Shakespeare's illustrations ; but how could Bacon have known or cared for 
the letter and spirit of the actor's calling, which are still more conspicuous? These meet us 
at every turn. A mimic play within a play is one of the dramatist's favourite devices. He 
employs it in " Hamlet" with evident relish. He makes Hamlet a born actor, and an accom- 
plished dramatic critic, whose dissertations on the art of acting and on theatrical affairs have a 
point that must have come much nearer home than Elsinore. Here is a passage between Hamlet 
and Horatio : 

" Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me with 
two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir ? 
Half a share. 
A whole one, I." 

This, as Judge Allen says, " refers to the custom of paying players not by fixed sums, but in 
proportion to the receipts." " Haifa share !" Even if Bacon had been acquainted with such a 
custom, what possible interest could it have had for him ? Why should he have introduced it 
into a dialogue? Not "Hamlet" alone, but all the plays are charged with these theatrical 
associations. There is an apology in " Henry V." for the limited resources of the stage properties 
for representing the field of Agincourt. This comes naturally from Shakespeare, but why should 
it trouble Bacon? In " Romeo and Juliet" we are reminded of the time-limit of the play " the 
two hours' traffic of our stage." What had Bacon to do witk such a detail? Shakespeare often 
remarks upon the characteristics of audiences. Thus in " King Henry VIII." : 

" There are the youths that thunder at a play-house, and fight for bitten apples ; that no audience, 
but the Tribulation of Tower Hill, or the Limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure." 

Again in the same play : 

" 'Tis ten to one this play can never please 
All that are here : some come to take their ease 
And sleep an act or two ; but those we fear 
We have frighted with our trumpets." 

These genial observations are natural to an actor, and especially to an actor-manager ; but is it 
likely that Bacon would have bantered the somnolent pittites, or remarked the kindred spirits 
between the lads of Tower Hill and the "limbs of Limehouse?" Would he have rebuked the 
public taste for child actors in " Hamlet"? 

"There is, sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of the question, and 
most tyrannically clapped for it : these are now the fashion." 

Here are topics of the theatre in theatrical parlance ; but in the so-called parallels of thought and 
expression between Shakespeare and Bacon they make no figure. There is not the smallest 
reason to suppose that Bacon ever heard of them. The interests of the theatrical profession had 
no concern for him. He was not the man to write 

" Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used ; for 
they are the aostract and brief chronicles of the time : after your death you were better have a bad 
epitaph than their ill report while you live." 

It is this constant pre-occupation with the actor's work, vicissitudes, merits, and shortcomings, 
which run through Shakespeare's imagery. Macbeth figures life as "a walking shadow," and 
man as the player who "struts and frets his hour upon the stage." "All the world's a stage, 
and the men and women merely players." Hamlet ma^ks the player's simulated grief for 



are 



xlii SHAKESPEARE AND BACON. 



Hecuba, and asks what he would do " had he the motive and the cue for passion that I have." 
The cue is a perpetual symbol in Shakespeare, but not in Bacon : 

" Had you not come upon your cue, my lord." 
" Now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial." 
" ' Deceiving me ' is Thisby's cue : she is to enter now," 
" You speak all your part at once, cues and all." 
Who but an actor-playwright would harp upon the cue like this ? 

" When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer." 

Assuredly Bacon does not answer. Look where you will, these theatrical allusions spring to the 
eye. Take " Coriolanus": 

" It is a part that I shall blush in acting." 

"You have put me now to such a part, which 
Never I shall discharge to the life." 

" Come, come, we'll prompt you." 

I have forgo, my '^^X 
Even to a lull disgrace." 

In " King Richard II." we have this signal tribute to the actor who is not dull : 

"As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, 
Are idly bent on him that enters next, 
Thinking his prattle to be tedious ; 
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes 
Did^cowl on gentle Richard." 

Bacon was a historian. Is this the kind of parallel that would be likely to strike his mind in 
commemorating the misfortunes of a king ? 

In the technicalities of the stage Shakespeare is always accurate ; but when he employs legal 
terms, he is often wrong. In geography he gave Bohemia a coast, much to the distress of Ben 
Jonson. In navigation, he starts a ship from the gates of Milan. His knowledge of law was 
supposed to be wonderful by Lord Campbell, but does not commend itself to Judge Allen. I 
understand that the trial scene in "The Merchant of Venice" bears no resemblance to any 
judicial procedure that ever was recorded in legal annals. It is evident that Shakespeare did not 
care a jot for judicial procedure, and that the law which authorized Shylock to cut his pound of 
Antonio's flesh, but forbade him to shed one drop of blood, was not sanctioned by the judgment 
of Bacon. Campbell was not at the pains to discover how much law was known to Shakespeare's 
contemporaries in playwriting. Judge Allen shows that legal terms abounded in ail the 
Elizabethan plays, and that Shakespeare's contemporaries used them even more freely than he 
did. Ben Jonson, Middleton, Chapman, Massinger, Peele, Wilkins, Webster, Sir Thomas 
Wyat, Dekker, Barry, and Spenser, all made use of legal phraseology that is not to be found in 
Shakespeare. Are these writers to be taken simply as emanations of Bacon's prodigal genius ? 
If not, what becomes of the hypothesis that Bacon must have written Shakespeare because 
Shakespeare so often quoted the jargon of lawyers ? There is no more reason for the contention 
that Shakespeare's mind must be Bacon's because they have ideas and expressions in common. 
Shakespeare was an original genius, but he was also a chartered borrower. He was the 
microcosm of his time. He held Goethe's large views about plagiarism. Goethe said that Scott 
borrowed from him, and that he borrowed from Scott, and he applauded both transactions. 
Shakespeare seldom invented a plot, and it is impossible to measure the whole of his indebtedness 
to old plays. Sometimes he quoted Marlowe with acknowledgment, and sometimes the 
acknowledgment was omitted. It is clear that he had a great respect for Marlowe, who was his 
model in several ways. If the Baconian enthusiasts explain this by assuming that Bacon wrote 
both Shakespeare and Marlowe, they must produce something more rational than the cipher 
story to account for the incredible connivance at Bacon's protean secrecy. In the first of Bacon's 



SHAKESPEARE AND BACON. xliii 

essays, he uses the expression, "discoursing wits, for people of giddy minds." Ford writes 
" discoursing brains " in exactly the same connection. Must Ford be added to the list of Bacon's 
conquests? I am told that because Bacon uses the word "eager" in the sense employed by 
Hamlet (" It is a nipping and an eager air "), therefore Hamlet must be Bacon's creation. Apply 
this sort of reasoning to the whole Elizabethan drama, and you will involve the authorship of that 
period in a tangle from which no cipher will rescue any intelligible fact. 

What is the secret of Shakespeare's grasp of life ? Simply his prodigious faculty of assimila- 
tion. He took in everything at the pores. He had no great scholarship. The translated 
Plutarch served him so well that he turned whole passages into dramatic speeches without 
changing a word. This, by the way, ought to prove that Plutarch wrote Shakespeare ; and if it 
be urged that Plutarch had been dead some time, that cannot be a valid objection in the eyes of 
people who believe that Bacon was the "legitimate son of Queen Elizabeth." They ought to 
swallow anything, provided that it robs the hated Shakespeare of his glory. 

But without great scholarship, and with absolutely careless notions about law and geography 
and historical accuracy, Shakespeare had an immeasurable receptivity of all that concerned 
human character. An oracle lately dismissed the idea that a great poet could have been a 
poacher in his youth and could have consorted with topers. Where, then, did he study the 
tavern company who flourish at the Boar's Head in Eastcheap? What gave him his relish for 
the escapades of Prince Hal ? Why did he make Falstaff a hoary but lovable scamp ? Why did 
he glory in Bardolph's nose ? What had Bacon to do with Bardolph's nose ? I have examined 
the cipher for some information on this point, but the " legitimate son of Queen Elizabeth " never 
mentions it. Sprung from the people, Shakespeare had the most intimate and sympathetic 
knowledge of country folk and country life that our literature can show. His plays are a mine of 
popular sayings, songs, customs, and legends. He uses profusely Warwickshire names, 
Warwickshire traditions, Warwickshire places. Such names as De Bois, Jaques, Audrey, 
Bardolph, Peto, were all among the patronymics of Stratford. Is it pretended that Bacon, 
anywhere in his voluminous writings, exhibits this quality of sympathy, this interest in song and 
story, this familiarity with Warwickshire ? What charm had folklore for the intellect which, at 
the age of twenty-four, was addressing a great State paper to the Queen ? Is it possible to 
conceive two master minds with characters, temperaments, and training so absolutely divergent 
as those of Bacon and Shakespeare ? As Tennyson said, the philosopher who, in his Essay on 
" Love," described it as a " weak passion " fit only for stage comedies, and deplored and despised 
its influence over the world's noted men, could never have written " Romeo and Juliet." 
And here I may say that nothing angered Tennyson more than the attempt to dethrone 
Shakespeare. In his house at Freshwater on one occasion, when a guest had argued the 
Baconian hypothesis, Tennyson rose from the table exclaiming, as he hastily left the room, "I 
can't listen to you you, who would pluck the laurels from the brow of the dead Christ." It 
was no more possible for Bacon's genius and endowment to produce Shakespeare than for 
Shakespeare to write the "Novum Organum." 

For, as the Baconians assiduously forget, Shakespeare was the greatest of poets, and Bacon 
could not write a decent verse. Shakespeare was the supreme creator of dramatic character, and 
Bacon has given us no more reason to suppose that he could create a character than that he could 
construct a play. Shakespeare is mentioned in every contemporary list of poets, and Bacon is 
mentioned as a poet only once. It is clear from this that he must have made some poetical 
efforts, and that the critics had a poor opinion of them. This is not surprising when we consider 
the sort of poetry that Bacon thought it worthy of his fame to bequeath to posterity. The year 
before his death, when he was in possession of all his faculties, he wrote his metrical translations 
of the Psalms. They do not contain a line that is above the level of Dr. Watts. 

In " The Return from Parnassus," a play that was published in 1606, there is a scene between 
Kemp and Burbage, two of Shakespeare's fellow-actors. They are represented as giving 
dramatic hints to a couple of university students. Says Kemp : 

" Few of the University pen plays well : they smell too much of that writer Ovid, and that writer 
Metamorphosis, and talk too much of Proserpina and Jupiter. Why, here's our fellow Shakespeare 
puts them all down ay, and Ben Tonson too. O that Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow ! He brought 
up Horace giving the poets a pill, but our fellow Shakespeare hath given him a purge that made him 
bewray his credit." 

This suggests that if any attempt had been made in that day to class Bacon's Watts-like Muse 



xliv SHAKESPEARE AND BACON. 

with the inspiration of the " Sonnets," somebody would have been rude enough to give Bacon 
"a purge." And how do the people who tell us glibly that Shakespeare was illiterate explain 
this evidence that he was regarded as the master of the playwright's craft ? 

Still more noteworthy is the absence of any plausible excuse for Bacon's fond preservation of 
his worthless rhymes, and his neglect of the masterpieces that went by Shakespeare's name. 
He gave the most minute directions for the publication of his literary remains. His secretary, 
Dr. Rawley, was intrusted with this responsibility, and faithfully discharged it. Thirty years 
after Bacon's death, Rawley published the first biography of his early patron, but said never a 
word of Bacon's creation of Shakespeare. Why not ? As so many people were privy to the 
glorious secret, Rawley must have known it. After thirty years there could have been no motive 
for concealing it. Why was not Rawley instructed to make it known, an obviously surer way of 
establishing Bacon's fame than burying it in a cipher? And where are the manuscripts? 
Shakespeare left none, and this circumstance is pleaded against him by persons who do not take 
the trouble to note that no other dramatic writer of the period left any manuscripts of plays. 
Beaumont and Fletcher died in serene indifference to the fate of their works, which were not 
published until they had been dead many years. Heywood left on record the reluctance with 
which he consented to the publication of his own works. And we should remember there was 
no Dramatic Authors' Society in those days for the protection of playwrights. The Elizabethan 
dramatists could not see what they had to gain by publication. This may seem odd to us, but it 
was an oddity clearly not confined to Shakespeare. Bacon, on the other hand, had an eye on 
posterity. Hence his scrupulous care to secure a literary executor. Hence the certainty that if 
he had written Shakespeare, he would have preserved the manuscripts. Hence the certainty that 
he was not Shakespeare. 

Bacon died in 1626, and the First Folio of Shakespeare was published in 1623. Now it is in 
the First Folio that we have the blessed cipher. The theory is that Bacon edited the Folio in order 
to introduce the cipher into the printing, but I ask any man who has ever written a book whether 
he really believes that any author, in revising his proofs, would allow all the obscure passages 
to go uncorrected? The First Folio, as Judge Allen says, is "a badly and carelessly printed 
book ; " it is much more imperfect than some of the quartos that preceded it ; and yet we are 
called upon to believe that Bacon either did not notice this, or did not care about it ! The 
translations from the Psalms were accurately printed ; but the First Folio might go down to 
posterity with all its imperfections on its head ! And it never occurred to Bacon to instruct his 
faithful executor to prepare a revised edition ! 

To any intelligent mind, unprejudiced by the nonsense about Shakespeare's illiteracy, it is 
plain that the First Folio was not edited by its author, for the simple reason that the author was 
dead. The players, Heminge and Condell, were not experts in editing, and they lamented that 
Shakespeare had not lived for that task. That their testimony to the authorship is to be over- 
thrown by the grotesque gabble of the cipher is not, I fancy, a contingency that will occupy any 
serious historical student. When some historian like Mr. Morley or Mr. Gardiner, when some 
accomplished scholar like Major Martin Hume, who has made the secret archives of the 
Elizabethan period his special study, when some authority like the late beloved John Fiske, 
whose contempt for the Baconian figment did not lack explicitness when a writer of this 
distinction and calibre thinks it worth while to consider whether Bacon, whose family history is 
as well known to us as that of Abraham Lincoln, was the " legitimate son of Queen Elizabeth, " 
then I shall humbly await his judgment. Until that happens, we need not pay much attention to 
the higgledy-piggledy of lettering by which the Donnellys and the Gallups construct the wonderful 
cipher. Nothing could be easier than to make an equally impressive cipher which would show 
that Darwin wrote Tennyson, Dickens, Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, and Harrison Ainsworth. 
But it would be more to the purpose if the Baconians would tell us why on earth Bacon could not 
let the world know in his lifetime that he had written Shakespeare. If it was beneath the dignity 
of a rising lawyer to acknowledge that he was the first poet and dramatist of his time, why was it 
beneath the dignity of a fallen Lord Chancellor ? If men of good family like Surrey and Wyat 
could publish romantic poetry without shame, why not Francis Bacon ? If Bacon could write a 
masque for the Court (and he appears to have tried his hand in this line of theatricals), why 
should his dignity forbid him to claim credit for the humours of Falstaff, for all 

" Those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
That so did take Eliza and our James " ? 



SHAKESPEARE AND BACON. xlv 

I return to the point from which I started. Until it can be shown how the most alert intellectual 
world of Elizabeth lent itself to a gigantic imposture of which there is no evidence except a silly 
cipher, we cannot take the Baconians with the gravity they demand. When they say it is 
incredible that a man of Shakespeare's education and upbringing could have written his plays, 
3,nd tell us that Bacon wrote not only his own works but all Shakespeare and an ever-increasing 
list of other authors as well, they ignore both the sense of proportion and the sense of the 
ridiculous. I say little of the wanton eagerness with which they smirch the characters of men 
who lived and died in the esteem of their fellows. There can be no reasonable doubt that 
Shakespeare inspired the warmest admiration and personal affection. Ben Jonson's witness on 
that score is emphatic. I fear that the desire to drag down Shakespeare from his pedestal, and 
to treat the testimony of his personal friends as that of lying rogues, is due to that antipathy to 
the actor's calling which has its eccentric manifestations even to this day. Some people, I 
believe, are spiritually comforted by the notion that the plays which they misread at home, but 
would on no account see enacted, were written not by a vagabond player who stole a deer in his 
hot youth, and kept company with Bardolph's nose, but by a statesman, a philosopher, and a 
judge, who was convicted of taking money from suitors, and degraded in his old age. I make 
no complaint of this singular frame of mind, for its lack of charity touches not only Shakespeare 
and his fellow-actors, men like Burbage and Edward Alleyn, on whose fame there is no 
reproach. It gathers under one comprehensive anathema a whole society of distinguished men 
in all ranks of life, poets and patrons, courtiers and critics. They all knew Shakespeare and his 
work, and they are all accused as fools who were deceived by an illiterate mountebank, or as 
knaves who were hired by the penniless, but " legitimate son of Queen Elizabeth." I have too 
much respect for Shakespeare, for the stage to which he gave splendid and imperishable renown, 
and for the calling in which all actors reverently follow his footsteps to suppose that he needs to 
be shielded against ignorance or malice. 

HENRY IRVING. 









THE TEMPEST. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



ALONSO, King of Naples. 

SEBASTIAN, his brother. 

PROSPERO, the rightful Duke of Milan. 

ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of 

Milan. 

FERDINAND, son to the King of Naples. 
GONZALO, an honest old Counsellor of Naples 
ADRIAN, ) T , 
FRANCISCO, { Lords ' 
CALIBAN, a savage and deformed Slave. 
TRINCULO, a Jester. 
STEPHANO, a drunken Butler. 



Master of a Ship, Boatswain, ana Mariners. 
MIRANDA, daughter to PROSPERO. 

ARIEL, an airy Spirit. 

IRIS, -v 

CERES, 

JUNO, \Spirits. 

Nymphs, 

Reapers^ j 

Other Spirits attending on PROSPERO. 



SCENE, The Sea, with a Ship: afterwards an uninhabited Island. 



ACT I. O, T: 

SCENE I. On a Ship at Sea. A Storm, 
with Thunder and Lightning. 

Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain. 

Master. Boatswain, 

Boats. Here, master: what cheer? 

Master. Good : Speak to the mariners : fall 
to 't yarely, or we run ourselves aground ; 
bestir, bestir. [Exit. 

Enter Mariners. 

Boats. Heigh, my hearts; cheerly, cheerly, 
my hearts; yare, yare: take in the top-sail; 
'Tend to the master's whistle. Blow till thou 
burst thy wind, if room enough ! 

Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, 
FERDINAND, GONZALO, and others. 

A Ion. Good Boatswain, have care. Where's 
the master? Play the men. 

Boats. I pray now, keep below. 

Ant. Where is the master, Boatswain? 

Boats. Do you not hear him? You mar 
our labour; keep your cabins: you do assist 
the storm. 

Gon. Nay, good, be patient. 

Boats. When the sea is. Hence! What 
care these roarers for the name of king? To 
cabin : silence : trouble us not. 

Gon. Good ; yet remember whom thou hast 
aboard. 

Boats. None that I more love than myself. 
You are a counsellor: if you can command 



these elements to silence, and work the peace 
of the present, we will not hand a rope more ; 
use your authority. If you cannot, give thanks 
you have lived so long, and make yourself 
ready in your cabin for the mischance of the 
hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts. 
Out of our way, I say. [Exit. 

Gon. I have great comfort from this fellow : 
methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him ; 
his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, 
good fate, to his hanging! make the rope of 
his destiny our cable, for our own doth little 
advantage ! If he be not born to be hanged, 
our case is miserable. [Exeunt. 

Re-enter Boatswain. 

Boats. Down with the top- mast; yare; 
lower, lower; bring her to try with main- 
course. [A cry within.] A plague upon this 
howling ! They are louder than the weather, 
or our office. 

Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO. 

Yet again? what do you here? Shall we give 
o'er, and drown? Have you a mind to sink? 

Seb. A pox o' your throat! you bawling, 
blasphemous, incharitable dog ! 

Boats. Work you, then. 

Ant. Hang, cur, hang ! you whoreson, in- 
solent noise-maker, we are less afraid to be 
drowned than thou art. 

Gon. I Ml warrant him from drowning ; 
though the ship were no stronger than a nut- 
shell, and as leaky as an unstanch'd wench. 






THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT i. 



Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold: set her two 
courses; off to sea again, lay her off. 

Enter Mariners, wet. 

Mar. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all 
lost ! \Exeunt. 

Boats. What, must our mouths be cold? 

Gon. The king and prince at prayers ! let us 

assist them, 
For our case is as theirs. 

Seb. I am out of patience. 

Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by 

drunkards. 
This wide - chapp'd rascal ; Would thou 

mightst lie drowning, 
The washing of ten tides ! 

Gon. He '11 be hanged yet ; 
Though every drop of water swear against it, 
And gape at wid'st to glut him. 
[A confused noise within. ] Mercy on us ! We 
split, we split ! Farewell, my wife and children ! 
Farewell, brother ! We split, we split, we 
split ! 

Ant. Let 's all sink with the king. [Exit. 

Seb. Let 's take leave of him. [Exit. 

Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs 
of sea for an acre of barren ground ; long heath, 
brown furze, any thing: The wills above be 
done ! but I would fain die a dry death. [Exit. 

SCENE II. The Island; before the Cell of 

PROSPERO. 

,j?,el briKtri .?.//;' r ooixsJqcnoD^iri 

Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA. 

Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you 

have 

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them : 
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking 

pitch, 
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's 

cheek, 

Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd 
With those that I saw suffer ! a brave vessel, 
Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures in her, 
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock 
Against my very heart ! poor souls ! they 

perish'd. 

Had I been any god of power, I would 
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er 
It should the good ship so have swallowed, and 
The freighting souls within her. 

Pro. Be collected; 

No more amazement ; tell your piteous heart, 
There 's no harm done. 

Mira. O, woe the day ! 

Pro. No harm. 

I have done nothing but in care of thee, 



(Of thee, my dear one ! thee, my daughter !) who 
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing 
Of whence I am ; nor that I am more better 
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 
And thy no greater father. 

Mira. More to know 

Did never meddle with my thoughts. 

Pro. 'Tis time 

I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand, 

And pluck my magic garment from me. So; 

[Lays down his mantle. 

Lie there my art. Wipe thou thine eyes ; have 

comfort. 

The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd 
The very virtue of compassion in thee, 
I have with such provision in mine art 
So safely order'd, that there is no soul 
No, not so much perdition as an hair, 
Betid to any creature in the vessel 
Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st 

sink. Sit down ; 
For thou must now know further. 

Mira. You have often 

Begun to tell me what I am ; but stopp'd, 
And left me to a bootless inquisition ; 
Concluding, Stay, not yet. 

Pro. The hour 's now come ; 

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; 
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember 
A time before we came unto this cell? [not 
I do not think thou canst ; for then thou wast 
Out three years old. 

Mira. Certainly, sir, I can. 

Pro. By what ? by any other house, or person ? 
Of any thing the image tell me, that 
Hath kept with thy remembrance. 

Mira. 'Tis far off; 

And rather like a dream than an assurance 
That my remembrance warrants: Had I not 
Four or five women once, that tended me? 

Pro. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda: But 
how is it, [else 

That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou 
In the dark backward and abysm of time? 
If thou remember'st aught, ere thou cam'st here, 
How thou cam'st here, thou mayst. 

Mira. But that I do not. 

Pro. Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve 

years since, 

Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and 
A prince of power. 

Mira. Sir, are not you my father? 

Pro. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and 
She said thou wast my daughter; and thy 

father 

Was Duke of Milan ; and his only heir 
A princess ; no worse issued. 






SCENE II.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



Mira. O, the heavens ! 

Whatfoul play had we that we came from thence; 
Or blessed was 't, we did ? 

Pro. Both, both, my girl ; 

By foul play as thou say'st, were we heaved 

thence ; 
But blessedly holp hither. 

Mira. O, my heart bleeds 

To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to, 
Which is from my remembrance ! Please, you, 
further. 

Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd 

Antonio 

I pray thee, mark me, that a brother should 
Be so perfidious ! he whom, next thyself, 
Of all the world I loved, and to him put 
The manage of my state ; as, at that time, 
Through all the signiories it was the first, 
And Prospero the prime duke ; being so reputed 
In dignity, and, for the liberal arts, 
Without a parallel : those being all my study, 
The government I cast upon my brother, 
And to my state grew stranger, being transported 
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle 
Dost thou attend me ? 

Mira. Sir, most heedfully. 

Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits, 
How to deny them ; whom to advance, and 

whom 

To trash for over-topping ; new created 
The creatures that were mine ; I say, or chang'd 

them, 

Or else new form'd them ; having both the key 
Of officer and office, set all hearts 
To what tune pleased his ear ; that now he was 
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk, 
And suck'd my verdure out on't. Thou 

attend'st not ; 
I pray thee, mark me. 

Mira. O good sir, I do. [dedicate 

Pro. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all 
To closeness, and the bettering of my mind 
With that, which, but by being so retired, 
O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother 
Awaked an evil nature : and my trust, 
Like a good parent, did beget of him 
A falsehood, in its contrary as great 
As my trust was ; which had, indeed, no limit, 
A confidence sans bound. He being thus 

lorded, 

Not only with what my revenue yielded, 
But what my power might else exact, like one, 
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it, 
Made such a sinner of his memory, 
To credit his own lie, he did believe 
He was the duke ; out of the substitution, 
And executing the outward face of royalty, 



With all prerogative : Hence his ambition 
Growing, Dost hear ? 

Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. 

Pro. To have no screen between this part he 



And him he play'd it for, he needs will be 
Absolute Milan : Me, poor man ! my library 
Was dukedom large enough ; of temporal royalties 
He thinks me now incapable : confederates 
(So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples, 
To give him annual tribute, do him homage ; 
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend 
The dukedom, yet unbowed, (alas, poor Milan !) 
To most ignoble stooping. 

Mira. O the heavens ! 

Pro. Mark his condition, and the event ; then 
If this might be a brother. [tell me, 

Mira. I should sin 

To think but nobly of my grandmother : 
Good wombs have borne bad sons. 

Pro. Now the condition. 

This king of Naples being an enemy 
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit ; 
Which was that he in lieu o' the premises, 
Of homage, and I know not how much tribute, 
Should presently extirpate me and mine 
Out of the dukedom ; and confer fair Milan, 
With all the honours, on my brother : Whereon, 
A treacherous army levied, one midnight 
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open 
The gates of Milan ; and i' the dead of darkness, 
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence 
Me, and thy crying self. 

Mira. Alack, for pity ! 

I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then, 
Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint, 
That wrings mine eyes to 't. 

Pro. Hear a little further, 

And then I '11 bring thee to the present business 
Which now 's upon us ; without the which, this 
Were most impertinent. [story 

Mira. Wherefore did they not, 

That hour, destroy us ? 

Pro. Well demanded, wench ; 

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they 

durst not ; 

(So dear the love my people bore me) nor set 
A mark so bloody on the business ; but 
With colours fairer painted their foul ends. 
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark ; 
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepar'd 
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd, 
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast ; the very rats 
Instinctively had quit it : there they hoist us. 
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us ; to sigh 
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 
Did us but loving wrong. 






THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT i. 



Alack ! what trouble 



Mira. 
Was I then to you ! 

Pro. O ! a cherubim 

Thou wast, that did preserve me ! Thou didst 

smile, 

Infused with a fortitude from heaven, 
When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt ; 
Under my burden groan'd ; which raised in me 
An undergoing stomach, to bear up 
Against what should ensue. 

Mira. How came we ashore ? 

Pro. By Providence divine. 
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that 
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 
Out of his charity, (who being then appointed 
Master of this design,) did give us; with 
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, 
Which since have steaded much ; so, of his 

gentleness, 

Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me, 
From my own library, with volumes that 
I prize above my dukedom. 

Mira. Would I might 

But ever see that man ! 

Pro. Now I arise : 

Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 
Here in this island we arrived ; and here 
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit 
Than other princes can, that have more time 
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. 

Mira. Heavens thank you for 't ! And now, 

I pray you, sir, 

(For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason 
For raising this sea-storm ? 

Pro. Know thus far forth. 

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, 
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies 
Brought to this shore : and by my prescience 
I find my zenith doth depend upon 
A most auspicious star ; whose influence 
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes 
Will ever after droop. Here cease more ques- 
tions, 

Thou art inclin'd to sleep ; 'tis a good dulness, 

And give it way; I know thou canst not choose. 

[MIRANDA sleeps. 

Come away, servant, come : I am ready now ; 
Approach, my Ariel ; come. 

.tibna If, 

Enter ARIEL. [ come 

Art. All hail, great master ! grave sir, hail ! I 
To answer thy best pleasure ; be 't to fly, 
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
On the curFd clouds ; to thy strong bidding, task 
Ariel, and all his quality. 

Pro. Hast thou, spirit, 

Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee? 



Ari. To every article. 

I boarded the king's ship ; now on the beak, 
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, 
I flamed amazement : Sometimes, I 'd divide, 
And burn in many places ; on the top-mast, 
The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame dis- 
tinctly, 
Then meet and join : Jove's lightnings, the 

precursors 

O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary 
And sight-out-running were not : The fire, and 

cracks 

Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune 
Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold waves 
Yea, his dread trident shake. [tremble, 

Pro. My brave spirit ! 

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil 
Would not infect his reason ? 

Ari. Not a soul, 

But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd 
Some tricks of desperation : All, but mariners; 
Plung'd in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel, 
Thenall afire withme: the king'sson, Ferdinand, 
With hair up-staring (then like reeds, not hair), 
Was the first man that leap'd ; cried, Hell is 
And all the devils are here ! [empty, 

Pro. Why, that 's my spirit ! 

But was not this nigh shore ? 

Ari. Close by, my master. 

Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe ? 

Ari. Not a hair perish'd ; 

On their sustaining garments not a blemish, 
But fresher than before : and, as thou bad'st me, 
In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle ; 
The king's son have I landed by himself; 
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs, 
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, 
His arms in this sad knot. 

Pro. Of the king's ship, 

The mariners, say, how thou hast disposed, 
And all the rest o' the fleet ? 

Ari. Safely in harbour 

Is the king's ship ; in the deep nook, where once 
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
From the still- vex'd Bermoothes, there she's hid: 
The mariners all under hatches stow'd : 
Whom, with a charm join'd to vneir suffer'd 

labour, 

I have left asleep : and for the rest o' the fleet, 
Which I dispersed, they all have met again ; 
And are upon the Mediterranean flote, 
Bound sadly home for Naples ; 
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd, 
And his great person perish. 

Pro. Ariel, thy charge 

Exactly is performed ; but there 's more work : 
What is the time o' the day ? 



SCENE II.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



5 



Art. Past the mid season. 

Pro. At least two glasses : The time 'twixt 

six and now 
Must by us both be spent most preciously. 

Ari. Is there more toil? Since thou dost 

give me pains, 

Let me remember thee what thou hast promis'd, 
Which is not yet perform'd me. 

Pro. How now? moody? 

What is 't thou canst demand? 

Art. My liberty. 

Pro. Before the time be out? No more ! 

Ari. I pray thee 

Remember, I have done thee worthy service ; 
Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv'd 
Without or grudge or grumblings : thou didst 

promise 
To bate me a full year. 

Pro. Dost thou forget 

From what a torment I did free thee? 

Ari. No. 

Pro. Thou dost ; and think'st 
It much to tread the ooze of the salt deep; 
To run upon the sharp wind of the north ; 
To do me business in the veins o' the earth, 
When it is bak'd with frost. 

Ari. I do not, sir. 

Pro. Thou liest, malignant thing ! Hast 

thou forgot [envy, 

The foul witch, Sycorax, who, with age and 

Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her? 

Ari. No, sir. 

Pro. Thou hast: Where was she 

born ? speak ; tell me. 

Ari. Sir, in Argier. 

Pro. Oh, was she so? I must, 

Once in a month, recount what thou hast been, 
Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch, 

Sycorax, 

For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible 
To enter human hearing, from Argier, 
Thou know'st, was banished; for one thing 

she did, 
They would not take her life: Is not this true? 

Ari. Ay, sir. 

Pro. This blear-eyed hag was hither brought 
with child, [slave, 

And here was left by the sailors: Thou, my 
As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant : 
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 
To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, 
Refusing her grand 'hests, she did confine thee, 
By help of her more potent ministers, 
And in her most unmitigable rage, 
Into a cloven pine ; within which rift 
Imprisoned, thou didst painfully remain 
A dozen years within which space she died, 



And left thee there : where thou didst vent thy 

groans, 
As fast as mill-wheels strike: Then was this 

island, 

(Save for the son that she did litter here, 
A freckled whelp, hag-born,) not honour'd with 
A human shape. 

Ari. Yes : Caliban her son. 

Pro. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, 
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st 
What torment I did find thee in : thy groans 
Did make wolves howl , and penetrate the breasts 
Of ever-angry bears ; it was a torment 
To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax 
Could not again undo ; it was mine art, 
When I arriv'd, and heard thee, that made gape 
The pine, and let thee out. 

Ari. I thank thee, master. 

Pro. If thou more murmur'st I will rend an 
And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till [oak, 
Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters. 

Ari. Pardon, master: 

I will be correspondent to command, 
And do my sprit ing gently. 

Pro. Do so ; and after two days 

I will discharge thee. 

Ari. That 's my noble master.' 

What shall I do? say what? what shall I do? 

Pro. Go, make thyself like to a nymph o' 

the sea ; 

Be subject to no sight but mine ; invisible 
To every eye-ball else. Go, take this shape 
And hither come in 't : hence, with diligence. 

[Exit ARIEL. 

Awake, dear heart, awake ! thou hast slept well ; 
Awake ! 

Mira. The strangeness of your story put 
Heaviness in me. 

Pro. Shake it off; Come on ; 

We '11 visit Caliban, my slave, who never 
Yields us kind answer. 

Mira. 'Tis a villain, sir, 

I do not love to look on. 

Pro. But, as 'tis, 

We cannot miss him : he does make our fire, 
Fetch in our wood ; and serves in offices 
That profit us. What ho ! slave ! Caliban ! 
Thou earth, thou ! speak. 

Cal. [ Within.} There 's wood enough within, 

Pro. Come forth, I say; there's other busi- 
ness for thee : 
Come forth, thou tortoise! when? 

Re-enter ARIEL, like a water-nymph. 

Fine apparition ! My quaint Ariel, 
Hark in thine ear. 

Ari. My lord, it shall be done. [Exit. 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT I. 



Pro. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil 

himself 
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth ! 

Enter CALIBAN. 
Cat. As wicked dew as e'er my mother 

brush'd 

With raven's feather from unwholesome fen, 
Drop on you both ! a south-west blow on ye, 
And blister you all o'er. 

Pro. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt 

have cramps, 
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up ; 

urchins 

Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, 
All exercise on thee ; thou shalt be pinch'd 
As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more 

stinging 
Than bees that made them. 

Cal. I must eat my dinner. 

This island 's mine, by Sycorax my mother, 
Which thou tak'st from me. When thou 

earnest first, 
Thou strok'dst me, and mad'st much of me ; 

wouldst give me 

Water with berries in 't ; and teach me how 
To name the bigger light, and how the less, 
That burn by day and night : and then I lov'd 

thee, 

And shew'd thee all the qualities o' the isle, 
The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place, and 

fertile ; 

Cursed be I that did so ! All the charms 
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you ! 
For I am all the subjects that you have, 
Which first was mine own king ; and here you 

sty me 

In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me 
The rest of the island. 

Pro. Thou most lying slave, 

Whom stripes may move, not kindness : I have 

used thee, [thee 

Filth as thou art, with human care ; and lodged 
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate 
The honour of my child. 

Cal. O ho, O ho ! would it had been done ! 
Thou didst prevent me ; I had peopled else 
This isle with Calibans. 

Pro. Abhorred slave ; 

Which any print of goodness will not take, 
Being capable of all ill ! I pitied thee, 
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee 

each hour [savage, 

One thing or other : when thou didst not, 
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble 

like 
A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes 



With words that made them known : But thy 
vile race, [good natures 

Though thou didst learn, had that in 't which 
Could not abide to be with : therefore wast thou 
Deservedly confined into this rock, 
Who hadst deserved more than a prison. 

Cal. You taught me language; and my 

profit on 't 

Is, I know how to curse ; the red plague rid you, 
For learning me your language ! 

Pro. Hag-seed, hence ! 

Fetch us in fuel ; and be quick, thou wert best, 
To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, 

malice ? 

If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly 
What I command, I '11 rack thee withold cramps; 
Fill all thy bones with aches ; make thee roar, 
That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 

Cal. No, pray thee ! 

I must obey : his art is of such power, [Aside. 
It would control my dam's god, Setebos, 
And make a vassal of him. 

Pro. So, slave ; hence ! 

[Exit CALIBAN. 
Re-enter ARIEL invisible, playing and singing; 



ARIEL'S SONG. 

Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands : 
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd, 

(The wild waves whist,) 
Foot it featly here and there ; 
And sweet sprites, the burden bear. 

Hark, hark ! 
Bur, Bowgh, wowgh, [Dispersedly. 

The watch-dogs bark : 
Bur, Bowgk, wowgh. [Disfersectly. 

Hark, hark ! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticlere 
Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

Fer. Where should this music be ? i' the air, 

or the earth ? 

It sounds no more : and sure it waits upon 
Some god of the island. Sitting on a bank 
Weeping again the king my father's wreck, 
This music crept by me upon the waters ; 
Allaying both their fury, and my passion, 
With its sweet air : thence I have follow'd it, 
Or it hath drawn me rather : But 'tis gone. 
No, it begins again. 

ARIEL sings. 

Full fathom five thy father lies ; 
Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

[Burden, ding-dong. 
Hark ! now I hear them, ding-dong bell. 



SCENE II. J 



THE TEMPEST. 



Fer. The ditty does remember my drown'd 

father : 

This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
That the earth owes : I hear it now above me, 

Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, 
And say, what thou seest yond'. .fo. 

Mira. What is 't ? a spirit ? 

Lord, how it looks about ! Believe me, sir, 
It carries a brave form : But 'tis a spirit. 

Pro. No, wench ; it eats and sleeps, and 
hath such senses [seest, 

As we have, such : This gallant, which thou 
Was in the wreck : and but he 's something 
stain'd [call him 

With grief, that 's beauty's canker, thou might'st 
A. goodly person : he hath lost his fellows, 
And strays about to find them. 

Mira. I might call him 

A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
I ever saw so noble. 

Pro. It goes on, [Aside. 

As my soul prompts it : Spirit, fine spirit ! I'll 

free thee 
Within two days for this. 

Fer. Most sure the goddess 

On whom these airs attend ! Vouchsafe, my 

prayer 

May know, if you remain upon this island ; 
And that you will some good instruction give, 
How I may bear me here : My prime request, 
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder ! 
If you be maid or no ? 

Mira. No wonder, sir ; 

But certainly a maid. 

Fer. My language ! heavens ! 

I am the best of them that speak this speech, 
Were I but where 'tis spoken. 

Pro. How ! the best ? 

What wert thou, if the king of Naples heard thee? 

Fer. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders 
To hear thee speak of Naples : He does hear me; 
And, that he does, I weep : myself am Naples ; 
Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, beheld 
The king my father wreck'd. 

Mira. Alack, for mercy ! 

Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords : the Duke of 
And his brave son, being twain. [Milan, 

Pro. The Duke of Milan, 

And his more braver daughter, could control 
thee, [Aside. 

If now 'twere fit to do 't : At the first sight 
They have changed eyes : Delicate Ariel, 
I'll set thee free for this ! A word, good sir ; 
I fear you have done yourself some wrong : a 
word. 

Mira. Why speaks my father so ungently ? 
This 



Is the third man that e'er I saw ; the first 
That e'er I sigh'd for : pity, move my father 
To be inclined my way ! 

Fer. O, if a virgin, 

And your affection not gone forth, I '11 make you 
The queen of Naples. 

Pro. Soft, sir ; one word more. 

They are both in cither's powers ; but this swift 

business 

I must uneasy make, lest too light winning [Aside. 
Make the prize light. One word more ; I charge 

thee, 

That thou attend me : thou dost here usurp 
The name thou ow'st not ; and hast put thyself 
Upon this island, as a spy, to win it 
From me, the lord on 't. 

Fer. No, as I am a man. 

Mira. There 's nothing ill can dwell in such a 
If the ill spirit have so fair an house, [temple : 
Good things will strive to dwell with 't. 

Pro. Follow me. 

[To FERD. 

Speak not you for him ; he 's a traitor. Come. 
I '11 manacle thy neck and feet together : 
Sea-water shall thou drink ; thy food shall be 
The fresh -brook muscles, wither'd roots, and 

husks 
Wherein the acorn cradled : Follow. 

Fer. No ; 

I will resist such entertainment, till 
Mine enemy has more power. [He draws. 

Mira. O dear father, 

Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
He 's gentle, and not fearful. 

Pro. What, I say. 

My foot my tutor ! Put thy sword up, traitor ; 
Who makest a show, but darest not strike, thy 

conscience 

Is so possess'd with guilt : come from thy ward; 
For I can here disarm thee with this stick, 
And make thy weapon drop. 

Mira. Beseech you, father ! 

Pro. Hence ; hang not on my garments. 
Mira. Sir, have pity ; 

I '11 be his surety. 

Pro. Silence ! one word more 

Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. 

What! 

An advocate for an impostor ? hush ! 
Thou think'st there are no more such shapes 
as he, [wench ! 

Having seen but him and Caliban : Foolish 
To the most of men this is a Caliban, 
And they to him are angels. 

Mira. My affections 

Are then most humble ; I have no ambition 
To see a goodlier man. 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT II. 



Pro. Come on ; obey : [To FERD. 

Thy nerves are in their infancy again, 
And have no vigour in them. 

Fer. So they are : 

My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. 
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel, 
The wreck of all my friends, or this man's 

threats, 

To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, 
Might I but through my prison once a day 
Behold this maid : all corners else o' the earth 
Let liberty make use of ; space enough 
Have I, in such a prison. 

Pro. It works : Come on. 

Thou hast done well, fine Ariel ! Follow me. 

[To FERD. and MIR. 

Hark, what thou else shall do me. [To ARIEL. 

Mira. Be of comfort ; 

My father 's of a better nature, sir. 
Than he appears by speech ; this is unwonted, 
Which now came from him. 

Pro. Thou shalt be as free 

As mountain winds : but then exactly do 
All points of my command. 

Art. To the syllable. 

Pro. Come, follow : speak not for him. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT II. 
SCENE I. Another part of the Island. 

Enter A-LOKSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, 
GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others. 

Gon. Beseech you, sir, be merry : you have 
(So have we all) of joy ; for our escape [cause 
Is much beyond our loss : Our hint of woe 
Is common ; every day, some sailor's wife, 
The masters of some merchant, and the 

merchant, 

Have just our theme of woe : but for the miracle, 
I mean our preservation, few in millions 
Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, weigh 
Our sorrow with our comfort. 

A Ion. Pr'ythee, peace. 

Seb. lie receives comfort like cold porridge. 

Ant. The visitor will not give him o'er so. 

Seb. Look, he 's winding up the watch of his 
By and by it will strike. [wit ; 

Gon. Sir, 

Seb. One, Tell. [offer'd, 

Gon. When every grief is entertain'd, that's 
Comes to the entertainer 

Seb. A dollar. 

Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed ; you 
have spoken truer than you purposed. 

Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant 
you should. 



Gon. Therefore, my lord, 

Ant. Fye, what a spendthrift is he of his 
tongue ! 

Alon. I pr'ythee spare. 

Gon. Well, I have done : But yet 

Seb. He will be talking. 

Ant. Which of them, he, or Adrian, for a 
good wager, first begins to crow ? 

Seb. The old cock. 

Ant. The cockrel. 

Seb. Done : the wager ? 

Ant. A laughter. 

Seb. A match. 

Adr. Though this island seem to be desert, 

Seb. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Ant. So, you've paid. [sible, 

Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inacces- 

Seb. Yet, 

Adr. Yet, 

Ant. He could not miss it. 

Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and 
delicate temperance. 

Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench. 

Seb. Ay, and a subtle ; as he most learnedly 
delivered. [sweetly. 

Adr. The air breathes upon us here most 

Seb. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones. 

Ant. Or, as 'twere perfumed by a fen. 

Gon. Here is everything advantageous to life. 

Ant. True ; save means to live. 

Seb. Of that there 's none, or little, [green! 

Gon. How lush and lusty the grass looks ! how 

Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny. 

Seb. With an eye of green in 't. 

Ant. He misses not much. 

Seb. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. 

Gon. But the rarity of it is (which is indeed 
almost beyond credit) 

Seb. As many vouch'd rarities are. 

Gon. That our garments, being, as they were, 
drenched in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their 
freshness and glosses ; being rather new dyed, 
than stained with salt water. 

Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, 
would it not say, he lies ? 

Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report 

Gon. Methinks, our garments are now as 
fresh as when we put them on first in Africk, 
at the marriage of the king's fair daughter 
Claribel to the king of Tunis. 

Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we pros- 
per well in our return. 

Adr. Tunis was never graced before with 
such a paragon to their queen. 

Gon. Not since widow Dido's time. 

Ant. Widow ? a pox o' that ! How came 
that widow in ? Widow Dido ! 



SCENE I.] 



THE TEMPEST, 



Seb. What if he had said, widower yEneas 
too ? good lord, how you take it ! 

Adr. Widow Dido, said you ? you make me 
study of that : She was of Carthage, not of Tunis. 

Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. 

Adr. Carthage? 

Gon. I assure you, Carthage. 

Ant. His word is more than the miraculous 
harp. 

Seb. He hath raised the wall, and houses too. 

Ant. What impossible matter will he make 
easy next ? 

Seb. I think he will carry this island home in 
his pocket, and give it his son for an apple. 

Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the 
sea, bring forth more islands. 

Gon. Ay ? 

Ant. Why, in good time. 

Gon. Sir, we were talking, that our garments 
seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at 
the marriage of your daughter, who is nowqueen. 

Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there. 
' Seb. 'Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. 

Ant. O, widow Dido ; ay, widow Dido. 

Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the 
first day I wore it ? I mean, in a sort. 

Ant. That sort was well fish'd for. 

Gon. When I wore it at your daughter's 
marriage ? 

Alon. You cram these words into mine ears, 

against 

The stomach of my sense : Would I had never 
Married my daughter there ! for, coming thence, 
My son is lost ; and, in my rate, she too, 
Who is so far from Italy removed, 
I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir 
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish 
Hath made his meal on thee ! 

Fran. Sir, he may live ; 

I saw him beat the surges under him, 
And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water, 
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
The surge most swoln that met him ; his bold 

head 

'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke 
To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd, 
As stooping to relieve him ; I not doubt 
He came alive to land. 

Alon. . No, no, he 's gone. 

Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this 
great loss ; [daughter, 

That would not bless our Europe with your 
But rather lose her to an African ; 
Where she, at least, is banish'd from your eye, 
Who hath cause to wet the grief on 't. 

-Alon. Pr'ythee, peace. 



Seb. You were kneel'd to, and importun'd 

otherwise 

By all of us ; and the fair soul herself 
Weigh'd, between lothness and obedience, at 
Which end o' the beam she 'd bow. We have 

lost your son, 

I fear, for ever : Milan and Naples have 
More widows in them of this business' making, 
Than we bring men to comfort them : the fault 's 
Your own. 

Alon. So is the dearest of the loss. 

Gon. My lord Sebastian, 

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, 
And time to speak it in ; you rub the sore, 
When you should bring the plaster. 

Seb. Very well. 

Ant. And most chirurgeonly. 

Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 
When you are cloudy. 

Seb. Foul weather ? 

Ant. Very foul. 

Gon. Had I a plantation of this isle, my lord, 

Ant. He 'd sow it with nettle-seed. 

Seb. Or docks, or mallows. 

Gon. And were the king of it, what would I do? 

Seb. 'Scape being drunk, for want of wine. 

Gon. I' the commonwealth, I would by con- 
traries 

Execute all things : for no kind of traffic 
Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
Letters should not be known ; no use of service, 
Of riches, or of poverty ; no contracts, 
Successions; bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none: 
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil : 
No occupation ; all men idle, all ; 
And women too ; but innocent and pure : 
No sovereignty : 

Seb. And yet he would be king on 't. 

Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth 
forgets the beginning. [duce 

Gon. All things in common nature should pro- 
Without sweat or endeavour : treason, felony, 
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 
Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth, 
Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, 
To feed my innocent people. 

Seb. No marrying 'mong his subjects ? 
. Ant. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves. 

Gon. I would with such perfection govern, sir. 
To excel the golden age. 

Seb. Save his majesty ! 

Ant. Long live Gonzalo ! 

Gon. And, do you mark me, sir ? 

Alon. Pr'ythee, no more: thou dost talk 
nothing to me. 

Gon. I do well believe your highness ; and 
did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, 



10 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT ii. 



who are of such sensible and nimble lungs, that 
they always use to laugh at nothing. 

Ant. 'Twas you we laugh'd at. 

Gon. Who, in this kind of merry fooling, am 
nothing to you : so you may continue, and 
laugh at nothing still. 

Ant. What a blow was there given ! 

Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long. 

Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle ; you 
would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she 
would continue in it five weeks without changing. 

Enter ARIEL invisible^ playing solemn music. 

Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling. 

Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. 

Gon. No, I warrant you ; I will not adven- 
ture my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh 
me asleep, for I am very heavy ? 

Ant. Go sleep, and hear us. 

[All sleep but ALON. SEB. and ANT. 

Alon. What, all so soon asleep ! I wish mine 
eyes [I find 

Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts : 
They are inclined to do so. 

Seb. Please you, sir, 

Do not omit the heavy offer of it : 
It seldom visits sorrow ; when it doth, 
It is a comforter. 

Ant. We two, my lord, 

Will guard your person, while you take your rest, 
And watch your safety. 

Alon. Thank you : wondrous heavy. 

[ALONSO sleeps. Exit ARIEL. 

Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses 
them? 

Ant. It is the quality o' the climate. 

Seb. Why 

Doth it not then our eyelids sink ! I find not 
Myself disposed to sleep. 

Ant. Nor I ; my spirits are nimble. 

They fell together all, as by consent ; 
They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What 
might, [more : 

Worthy Sebastian? O, what might? No 
And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face, 
What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks 

thee ; and 

My strong imagination sees a crown 
Dropping upon thy head. 

Seb. What, art thou waking ? 

Ant. Do you not hear me speak ? 

Seb. I do ; and, surely, 

It is a sleepy language ; and thou speak'st 
Out of thy sleep : What is it thou didst say ? 
This is a strange repose, to be asleep [ing, 
With eyes wide open, standing, speaking, mov- 
And yet so fast asleep. 



Ant. Noble Sebastian, [wink'st 

Thou lett'st. thy fortune sleep die rather ; 
Whiles thou art waking. 

Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly ; 

There 's meaning in thy snores. 

Ant. I am more serious than my custom : you 
Must be so too, if heed me ; which to do 
Trebles thee o'er. 

Seb. Well, I am standing water. 

Ant. I '11 teach you how to flow. 

Seb. Do so : to ebb, 

Hereditary sloth instructs me. 

Ant. O, 

If you but knew, how you the purpose cherish, 
Whiles thus you mock it ! how, in stripping it, 
You more invest it ! Ebbing men, indeed, 
Most often do so near the bottom run, 
By their own fear, or sloth. 

Seb. Pr'ythee, say on : 

The setting of thine eye, and cheek, proclaim 
A matter from thee ; and a birth, indeed, 
Which throes thee much to yield. 

Ant. Thus, sir : 

Although this lord of weak remembrance, this, 
Who shall be of as little memory 
When he is earth'd, hath here almost persuaded 
(For he 's a spirit of persuasion only) 
The king, his son 's alive : 'tis as impossible 
That he's undrown'd as he that sleeps here 

Seb. I have no hope [swims. 

That he's undrown'd. 

Ant. O, out of that no hope, 

What great hope have you ! no hope, that way, is 
Another way so high an hope, that even 
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, 
But doubts discovery there. Will you grant, 

with me, 
That Ferdinand is drown'd ? 

Seb. He 's gone. 

Ant. Then, tell me, 

Who 's the next heir of Naples ? 

Seb. Claribel. 

Ant. She that is queen of Tunis: shethatdwells 
Ten leagues beyond man's life ; she that from 

Naples 

Can have no note, unless the sun were post 
(The man i' the moon's too slow,) till new-born 
Be rough and razorable ; she, from whom [chins 
We were all sea-swallow'd, though some cast 

again ; 

And, by that, destined to perform an act, 
Whereof what's past is prologue ; what to come, 
In yours and my discharge. 

Seb. What stuff is this ? How say you ? 
'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of Tunis: 
So is she heir of Naples ; 'twixt which regions 
There is some space. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



ii 



Ant. A space whose every cubit 

Seems to cry out, How shall that Claribel 
Measure tis back to Naples ? Keep in Tunis, 
And let Sebastian wake ! Say, this were death 
That now hath seized them ; why, they were 

no worse 
Than now they are: There be, that can rule 

Naples, 

As well as he that sleeps ; lords, that can prate 
As amply and unnecessarily 
As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make 
A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore 
The mind that I do ! what a sleep were this 
For your advancement! Do you understand me? 

Seb. Methinks, I do. 

Ant. And how does your content 

Tender your own good fortune ? 

Seb. I remember, 

You did supplant your brother Prospero. 

Ant. True : 

And, look, how well my garments sit upon me ; 
Much feater than before : My brother's servants 
Were then my fellows, now they are my men. 

Seb. But, for your conscience 

Ant. Ay, sir ; where lies that ? if it were a 

kybe, 

'Twould put me to my slipper : But I feel not 
This deity in my bosom ; twenty consciences, 
That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be 
they, [brother, 

And melt, ere they molest ! Here lies your 
No better than the earth he lies upon, 
If he were that which now he 's like : whom I, 
With this obedient steel, three inches of it, 
Can lay to bed for ever : whiles you, doing thus 
To the perpetual wink for aye might put 
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who 
Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, 
They '11 take suggestion, as a cat laps milk ; 
They '11 tell the clock to any business that 
We say befits the hour. 

Seb. Thy case, dear friend, 

Shall be my precedent ; as thou gott'st Milan, 
I '11 come by Naples. Draw thy sword : one 
stroke [pay'st ; 

Shall free thee from the tribute which thou 
And I the king shall love thee. 

Ant. Draw together : 

And when I rear my hand, do you the like, 
To fall it on Gonzalo. 

Seb. O, but one word. 

[ They converse apart. 

Music. Re-enter ARIEL, invisible. 
Art. My master through his art foresees the 
danger [forth, 

That these his friends, are in ; and sends me 



For else his project dies, to keep the living. 
[Sings in GONZALO'S ear. 

While you here do snoring lie. 
Open-eyed conspiracy 

His time doth take : 
If of life you keep a care, 
Shake off slumber, and beware : 

Awake ! Awake ! 

Ant. Then let us both be sudden. 

Con. Now, good angels, preserve the king ! 
[ They awake. 

Alon. Why, how now, ho ! awake ! Why 

are you drawn ? 
Wherefore this ghastly looking ? 

Gon. What's the matter ? 

Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your 

repose, 

Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing 
Like bulls, or rather lions ; did it not wake you? 
It struck mine ear most terribly. 

Alon. I heard nothing. 

Ant. O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear; 
To make an earthquake ! sure it was the roar 
Of a whole herd of Jions. 

Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo ? 

Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a 

humming, [me : 

And that a strange one too, which did awake 

I shaked you, sir, and cried ; as mine eyes open'd, 

I saw their weapons drawn : there was a noise, 

That 's verity : 'Best stand upon our guard ; 

Or that we quit this place : let 's draw our 

weapons. [further search 

Alon. Lead off this ground ; and let 's make 
For my poor son. 

Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts ! 
For he is, sure, i' the island. 

Alon. Lead away. 

Ari. Prospero my lord shall know what I 

have done : [Aside. 

So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. Another part of the Island. 
Enter CALIBAN, with a burden of wood. 

A noise of thunder heard. 
Cal. All the infections that the sun sucks up 
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and 

make him 

By inch-meal a disease ! His spirits hear me, 
And yet I needs must curse. But they '11 nor 
pinch, [mire, 

Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i' the 
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark 
Out of my way, unless he bid them ; but 
For every trifle they are set upon me : 
Sometime like apes, that moe and chatter at me, 



12 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT ii. 



And after, bite me ; then like hedge-hogs, which 
Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount 
Their pricks at my foot-fall ; sometime am I 
All wound with adders, who, with cloven 

tongues, 
Do hiss me into madness : Lo ! now ! lo ! 

Enter TRINCULO. 

Here comes a spirit of his ; and to torment me, 
For bringing wood in slowly : I'll fall flat ; 
Perchance he will not mind me. 

Trin. Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear 
off any weather at all, and another storm brew- 
ing ; I hear it sing i' the wind ; yond same 
black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul 
bumbard that would shed his liquor. If it 
should thunder, as it did before, I know not 
where to hide my head : yond same cloud can- 
not choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we 
here ? a man or a fish ? dead or alive ? A fish: 
he smells like a fish : a very ancient and fish- 
like smell ; a kind of, not of the newest, Poor- 
John. A strange fish ! Were I in England 
now (as once I was), and had but this fish 
painted, not a holiday fool there but would give 
a piece of silver : there would this monster 
make a man ; any strange beast there makes a 
man : when they will not give a doit to relieve 
a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a 
dead Indian. Legg'd like a man ! and his fins 
like arms ! Warm, o' my troth ! I do now 
let loose my opinion, hold it no longer ; this is 
no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered 
by a thunder-bolt. [Thunder.'} Alas! the 
storm is come again : my best way is to creep 
under his gaberdine ; there is no other shelter 
hereabout : Misery acquaints a man with 
strange bedfellows. I will here shroud, till 
the dregs of the storm be past. 

Enter STEPHANO singing ; a bottle in kis hand. 

Ste. I shall no more to sea, to sea, 

Here shall I die ashore 5 

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's 
funeral : Well, here's my comfort. [Drinks. 

The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, 
The gunner, and his mate, 

Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,. 
But none of us car'd for Kate : 
For she had a tongue with a tang, 
Would cry to a sailor, Go, hang; 

She lov'd not the savour of tar nor of pitch, 

Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch : 
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang. 

This is a scurvy tune too : But here 's my comfort. 

Cat. Do not torment me : Oh ! [Drinks. 

Ste. What's the matter? Have we devils 
here ? Do you put tricks upon us with savages, 
and men of Inde ? Ha ! I have not 'scaped 



drowning, to be afeard now of your four legs ; 
for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever 
went on four legs cannot make him give ground: 
and it shall be said so again, while Stephano 
breathes at nostrils. 

Cat. The spirit torments me : Oh ! 

Ste. This is some monster of the isle, with 
four legs : who hath got, as I take it, an ague : 
Where the devil should he learn our language ? 
I will give him some relief, if it be but for that : 
If I can recover him, and keep him tame, and 
get to Naples with him, he 's a present for any 
emperor that ever trod on neat's leather. 

Cal. Do not torment me, pr'ythee ; 
I '11 bring my wood home faster. 

Ste. He 's in his fit now ; and does not talk 
after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle : 
if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go 
near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, 
and keep him tame, I will not take too much 
for him : he shall pay for him that hath him, 
and that soundly. [wilt 

Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt ; thou 
Anon ; I know it by thy trembling ; 
Now Prosper works upon thee. 

Ste. Come on your ways ; open your mouth: 
here is that which will give language to you, 
cat; open your mouth: this will shake your shak- 
ing, I can tell you, and that soundly : you cannot 
tell who 's your friend : open your chaps again. 

Trin. I should know that voice : It should 
be But he is drowned ; and these are devils : 
Oh ! defend me ! 

Ste. Four legs and two voices ; a most deli- 
cate monster ! His forward voice now is to 
speak well of his friend ; his backward voice is 
to utter foul speeches, and to detract. If all 
the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will 
help his ague : Come Amen ! I will pour some 
in thy other mouth. 

Trin. Stephano, 

Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy! 
mercy ! This is a devil, and no monster : I 
will leave him ; I have no long spoon. 

Trin. Stephano ! if thou beest Stephano, 
touch me, and speak to me ; for I am Trinculo; 
be not afeard, thy good friend Trinculo. 

Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth ; I'll 
pull thee by the lesser legs : if any be Trinculo's 
legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo 
indeed : How cam'st thou to be the siege of 
this moon-calf? Can he vent Trinculos ? 

Trin. I took him to be killed with a thunder- 
stroke : But art thou not drowned, Stephano ? 
I hope, now, thou art not drowned. Is the 
storm over-blown ? I hid me under the dead 
moon-calf s gaberdine for fear of the storm. 



SCENE II.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



And art thou living, Stephano ? O Stephano, 
two Neapolitans 'scaped ! 

Ste. Pr'ythee, do not turn me about ; my 
stomach is not constant. [sprites, 

CaL These be fine things, and if they be not 
That 's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor : 
I will kneel to him. 

Ste. How didst thou 'scape? how cam'st 
thou hither? swear by this bottle, how thou 
cam'st hither. I escaped upon a butt of sack, 
which the sailors heaved overboard, by this 
bottle ! which I made of the bark of a tree, 
with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore. 

CaL I '11 swear, upon that bottle, to be thy 
True subject ; for the liquor is not earthly. 

Ste. Here ; swear then how thou escap'dst. 

Trin. Swam ashore, man, like a duck ; I 
can swim like a duck, I'll be sworn. 

Ste. Here, kiss the book : Though thou 
canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a 
goose. 

Trin. O Stephano, hast any more of this ? 

Ste. The whole butt, man ; my cellar is in a 
rock by the sea-side, where my wine is hid. 
How now, moon-calf? how does thine ague? 

Cat. Hast thou not dropped from heaven ? 

Ste. Out o' the moon, I do assure thee : I 
was the man i' the moon, when time was. 

Cat. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore 

thee ; 

My mistress showed me thee, and thy dog and 
bush. 

Ste. Come, swear to that ; kiss the book : I 
will furnish it anon with new contents : swear. 

Trin. By this good light, this is a very shal- 
low monster: I afeard of him? a very weak 
monster ; The man i' the moon ! a most poor 
credulous monster: Well drawn, monster, in 
good sooth. 

CaL I '11 show thee every fertile inch o' the 

island ; 
And kiss thy foot : I pr'ythee, be my god. 

Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and 
drunken monster ; when his god 's asleep, he '11 
rob his bottle. 

CaL I '11 kiss thy foot : I '11 swear myself thy 
subject. 

Ste. Come on, then ; down, and swear. 

Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this 
puppy- headed monster : a most scurvy monster ! 
I could find in my heart to beat him, 

Ste. Come, kiss. 

Trin. but that the poor monster's in drink; 
An abominable monster ! 

CaL I '11 show thee the best springs ; I '11 

pluck thee berries ; 
I '11 fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 



A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! 

I '11 bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 

Thou wondrous man. 

Trin. A most ridiculous monster ! to make 
a wonder of a poor drunkard. 

CaL I pr'ythee, let me bring thee where 

crabs grow ; 

And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts; 
Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
To snare the nimble marmozet ; I '11 bring thee 
To clust'ring filberts, and sometimes I '11 get thee 
Young sea-mells from the rock : Wilt thou go 

with me ? 

Ste. I pr'ythee now lead the way, without 
any more talking. Trinculo, the king and all 
our company else being drowned, we will in- 
herit here. Here ; [To CAL.] bear my bottle. 
Fellow Trinculo, we '11 fill him by and by again. 
CaL Farewell^ master : farewell, farewell. 

[Sings drunkenly. 

Trin. A howling monster; a drunken monster. 
CaL No more dams I '// make for fish / 
Nor fetch in firing 
At requiring, 

Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish ; 
'Ban 'Ban, Ca- -Caliban, 
Has a new master Get a new man. 
Freedom, hey-day ! hey-day, freedom ! freedom, 

hey-day, freedom ! 
Ste. O brave monster ! lead the way. {Exeunt. 

ACT III. 

SCENE I. Before PROSPERO'S Cell. 
Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log. 

Fer. There be some sports are painful, and 

their labour 

Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness 
Are nobly undergone ; and most poor matters 
Point to rich ends. This my mean task would be 
As heavy to me, as 'tis odious ; but 
The mistress which I serve quickens what 's dead, 
And makes my labours pleasures : Oh, she is 
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed; 
And he's composed of harshness. I must remove 
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, 
Upon a sore injunction : My sweet mistress 
Weeps when she sees me work ; and says such 

baseness 

Had never like executor. I forget : [labours ; 
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my 
Most busy, least when I do it. 

Enter MIRANDA, and PROSPERO at a distance. 
Mira. Alas, now ! pray you, 

Work not so hard : I would the lightning had 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT in. 



Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin'd to pile ! 
Pray, set it down, and restyou : when this burns, 
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father 
Is hard at study ; pray, now, rest yourself; 
He 's safe for these three hours. 

Fer. O most dear mistress, 

The sun will set before I shall discharge 
What I must strive to do. 

Mir a. If you '11 sit down, 

I '11 bear your logs the while : pray, give me that; 
I '11 carry it to the pile. 

Fer. No, precious creature : 

I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, 
Than you should such dishonour undergo, 
While I sit lazy by. 

Mira. It would become me 

As well as it does you : and I should do it 
With much more ease ; for my good will is to it, 
And yours against. 

Pro. [Aside.'] Poor worm ! thou art infected ; 
This visitation shows it. 

Mira. You look wearily. 

Fer. No, noble mistress ; 'tis fresh morning 

with me 

When you are by at night. I do beseech you, 
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers, 
What is your name? 

Mira. Miranda : O my father, 

I have broke your 'hest to say so ! 

Fer. Admh'd Miranda ! 

Indeed the top of admiration ; worth 
What 's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady 
I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time 
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues 
Have I lik'd several women : never any 
With so full soul, but some defect in her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, 
And put it to the foil : but you, O you, 
So perfect and so peerless, are created 
Of every creature's best. 

Mira. I do not know 

One of my sex ! no woman's face remember, 
Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen 
More that I may call men, than you, good friend, 
And my dear father : how features are abroad, 
I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty, 
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish 
Any companion in the world but you ; 
Nor can imagination form a shape, 
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle 
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts 
Therein forget. 

Fer. I am, in my condition, 

A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king, 
I would, not so ! and would no more endure 
This wooden slavery than I would suffer 



The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul 

speak : 

The very instant that I saw you, did 
My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake 
Am I this patient log-man. 

Mira. Do you love me? 

Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this 

sound, 

And crown what I profess with kind event, 
If I speak true ! if hollowly, invert 
What best is boded me to mischief! I, 
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, 
Do love, prize, honour you. 

Mira. I am a fool 

To weep at what I am glad of. 

Pro. [Aside.] Fair encounter 

Of two most rare affections ! Heavens rain grace 
On that which breeds between them ! 

Fer. Wherefore weep you? 

Mira. Atmineunworthiness, that dare not offer 
What I desire to give ; and much less take 
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling : 
And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cun- 
ning; 

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
If not, I '11 die your maid : to be your fellotf 
You may deny me ; but I '11 be your servant 
Whether you will or no. 

Fer. My mistress, dearest, 

And I thus humble ever. 

Mira. My husband, then ? 

Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing 
As bondage e'er of freedom : here 's my hand. 

Mira. And mine, with my heart in't: and 

now farewell 
Till half an hour hence. 

Fer. A thousand ! thousand ! 

[Exeunt FERD. and MIRA. 

Pro. So glad of this as they I cannot be, 
Who are surprised withal ; but my rejoicing 
At nothing can be more. I '11 to my book ; 
For yet, ere supper time, must I perform 
Much business appertaining. [Exit. 

SCENE II. Another part of the Island. 

Enter STEPHANO and TRINCULO ; CALIBAN 
following with a bottle. 

Ste. Tell not me ; when the butt is out, we 
will drink water ; not a drop before : therefore 
bear up, and board 'em: Servant-monster, 
drink to me. 

Trin. Servant-monster! the folly of this 
island! They say there's but five upon this 



SCENE II.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



isle : we are three of them ; if the other two be 
brained like us, the state totters. 

Sle. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: 
thy eyes are almost set in thy head. 

Trin. Where should they be set else? he 
were a brave monster indeed, if they were set 
in his tail. 

Sle. My man-monster hath drowned his 
tongue in sack: for my part, the sea cannot 
drown me : I swam, ere I could recover the 
shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and on, by 
this light. Thou shalt be my lieutenant, mon- 
ster, or my standard. [standard. 

Trin. Your lieutenant, if you list; he's no 

Ste. We '11 not run, monsieur-monster. 

Trin. Nor go neither : but you '11 lie, like 
dogs; and yet say nothing neither. 

Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou 
beest a good moon-calf. 

Cal. How does thy honour? Let me lick 

thy shoe. 
I '11 not serve him ; he is not valiant. 

Trin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I 
am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou 
deboshed fish thou, was there ever a man a 
coward that hath drunk so much sack as I to- 
day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being 
but half a fish and half a monster? 

Cal. Lo, how he mocks me ! wilt thou let 
him, my lord? 

Trin. Lord, quoth he ! that a monster 
should be such a natural ! 

Cal. Lo, loagain ! bite him to death, I pr'y thee. 

Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your 
head : if you prove a mutineer, the next tree. 
The poor monster 's my subject, and he shall 
not suffer indignity. 

Cal. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be 
pleased to hearken once again to the suit I 
made thee? 

Ste. Marry will I: kneel and repeat it; I 
will stand, and so shall Trinculo. 

Enter ARIEL, invisible. 

Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a 
tyrant; a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath 
cheated me of this island. 

Ari. Thou liest. 

Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou ; 
I would my valiant master would destroy thee! 
I do not lie. 

Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more 
in his tale, by this hand, I will supplant some 
of your teeth. 

Trin. Why, I said nothing. 

Ste. Mum,then,and no more. [ To CALIBAN. ] 
Proceed. 



Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle ; 
From me he got it. If thy greatness will 
Revenge it on him for I know thou dar'st, 
But this thing dare not. 

Ste. That 's most certain. 

Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it, and I '11 serve thee. 

Ste. How now shall this be compassed? 
Canst thou bring me to the party? [asleep, 

Cal. Yea, yea my lord ; I '11 yield him thee 
Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. 

Ari. Thou liest ; thou canst not. 

Cal. What a pied ninny 's this? Thou scurvy 

patch ! 

I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows, 
And take his bottle from him : when that 's gone 
He shall drink nought but brine; for I '11 not 

show him 
Where the quick freshes are. 

Ste. Trinculo, run into no further danger; 
interrupt the monster one word further, and, 
by this hand, I '11 turn my mercy out of doors, 
and make a stock -fish of thee. 

Trin. Why, what did I? I did nothing. 
I '11 go further off. 

Ste. Didst thou not say, he lied? 

Ari. Thou liest. 

Ste. Do I so? take thou that. [Strikes htm.} 
As you like this, give me the lie another time. 

Trin. I did not give the lie. Out o' your 

wits and hearing too? A pox o' your bottle ! 

this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on 
your monster, and the devil take your fingers ! 

Cal. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Ste. Now, forward with your tale. Pr'ythee, 
stand further off. 

Cal. Beat him enough : after a little time, 
I '11 beat him too. 

Ste. Stand further. Come, proceed. 

Cal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him 
I' the afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain 

him, 

Having first seized his books ; or with a log 
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, 
Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember, 
First to possess his books ; for without them 
He 's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not 
One spirit to command : they all do hate him 
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. 
He has brave utensils, for so he calls them, 
Which, when he has a house, he '11 deck withaf. 
And that most deeply to consider is 
The beauty of his daughter ; he himself 
Calls her a nonpareil ; I never saw woman, 
But only Sycorax my dam and she ; 
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax, 
As great'st does least. 

Ste. Is it so brave a lass? 



i6 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT III. 



Cal. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I war- 
rant, 
And bring thee forth brave brood. 

Ste. Monster, I will kill this man : his 
daughter and I will be king and queen ; save 
our graces ! and Trinculo and thyself shall be 
viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo ? 

Trin. Excellent. 

Ste. Give me thy hand ; I am sorry I beat 
thee : but while thou livest, keep a good tongue 
in thy head. 

Cal. Within this half hour will he be asleep ; 
Wilt thou destroy him then ? 

Ste. Ay, on mine honour. 

Ari. This will I tell my master. 

Cal. Thou mak'st me merry : I am full of 

pleasure ; 

Let us be jocund : will you troll the catch 
You taught me but while-ere ? 

Ste, At thy request, monster, I will do reason, 
any reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. 

[Sings. 

Flout 'em, and scout 'em; and scout 'em and flout ' em; 
Thought is free. 

Cal. That 's not the tune. 
[ARiEL//ay/.r the tune on a tabor and pipe. 

Ste. What is this same ? 

Trin. This is the tune of our catch, played 
by the picture of Nobody. 

Ste. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy 
likeness : if thou beest a devil, take 't as thou 
list. 

Trin. O, forgive me my sins ! 

Ste. He that dies, pays all debts: I defy 
thee : Mercy upon us ! 

Cal. Art thou afeard ? 

Ste. No, monster, not I. 

Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises, 
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and 

hurt not. 

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, 
That, if I then had waked after long sleep, 
Will make me sleep again ; and then, in 
dreaming, [riches 

The clouds, methought, would open and show 
Ready to drop upon me : that, when I waked, 
I cried to dream again. 

Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, 
where I shall have my music for nothing. 

Cal. When Prospero is destroyed. 

Ste. That shall be by and by : I remember 
the story. 

Trin. The sound is going away : let 's follow 
it, and after, do our work. 

Ste. Lead, monster, we '11 follow. I would 
I could see this taborer : he lays it on. 



Trin. Wilt come ? I '11 follow, Stephano. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE III. Another part of the Island. 

Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, 
GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others. 

Gon. By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir ; 
My old bones ache : here 's a maze trod, indeed, 
Through forth-rights and meanders ! by your 
I needs must rest me. [patience. 

Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, 

Who am myself attach'd with weariness, 
To the dulling of my spirits : sit down, and rest. 
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it 
No longer for my flatterer : he is drown'd 
Whom thus we stray to find : and the sea mocks 
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. 

Ant. I am right glad that he 's so out of hope. 
{Aside to SEE. 

Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 
That you resolved to effect. 

Seb. The next advantage 

Will we take thoroughly. {Aside to ANT. 

Ant. [Aside to SEE.] Let it be to-night ; 
For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they 
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance, 
As when they are fresh. 

Seb. [Aside to ANT. ] I say to-night ; no more. 
Solemn and strange music ; and PROSPERO 

above, invisible. Enter several strange 

Shapes, bringing in a banquet ; they dance 

about it with gentle actions of salutation, 

and inviting the King, &c., to eat, they 

depart. 

Alon. What harmony is this? My good 
friends hark ! 

Gon. Marvellous sweet music ! 

Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens ! What 
were these ? 

Seb. A living drollery : now I will believe, 
That there are unicorns ; that, in Arabia 
There is one tree, the phoenix' throne ; one 
At this hour reigning there. [phoenix 

Ant. I'll believe both ; 

And what does else want credit, come to me, 
And I '11 be sworn 'tis true : travellers ne'er did lie, 
Though fools at home condemn them. 

Gon. If in Naples 

I should report this now, would they believe me? 
If I should say, I saw such islanders, 
For, certes, these are people of the island, 
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, 

note, 

Their manners are more gentle-kind than of 
Our human generation you shall find 
Many, nay, almost any. 



SCENE III.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



Pro. Honest lord, 

Thou hast said well; for some of you there 

present 
Are worse than devils. [Aside. 

Alon. I cannot toe much muse, 

Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, 

expressing, , 

Although they want the use of tongue, a kind 
Of excellent dumb discourse. 

Pro. Praise in departing. [A side. 

Fran. They vanish'd strangely. 

Seb. No matter, since 

They have left their viands behind ; for we have 

stomachs, 
Will 't please you taste of what is here? 

Alon. Not I. 

Gon. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When 
we were boys, [eers, 

Who would believe that there were mountain- 
Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hang- 
ing at them 

Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men, 
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now 

we find, 

Each putter-out of one for five, will bring us 
Good warrant of. 

Alon. I will stand to, and feed, 

Although my last : no matter, since I feel, 
The best is past: Brother, my lord the duke, 
Stand to, and do as we. 

Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL like a 
harpy ; claps his wings upon the table, and 
with a quaint device the banquet vanishes. 

Art. You are three men of sin, whom destiny, 
That hath to instrument this lower world, 
And what is in 't, the never-surfeited sea 
Hath caused to belch up ; and on this island 
Where man doth not inhabit ; you 'mongst men 
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad ; 
And even with such like valour, men hang and 
Their proper selves. [drown 

[ALON., SEB. &c., draw thtir swords. 
You fools! I and my fellows 
Are ministers of fate ; the elements, 
Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well 
Wound the loud winds, orwithbemock'd-at stabs 
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 
One dowle that 's in my plume ; my fellow- 
ministers 

Are like invulnerable ; if you could hurt, 
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths, 
And will not be uplifted. But, remember, 
For that 's my business to you, that you three 
From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; 
Expos'd unto the sea, which hath requit it, 
Him, and his innocent child : for which foul deed 



The powers, delaying, not forgetting have 
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the 

creatures. 

Against your peace : Thee, of thy son, Alonso, 
They have bereft ; and do pronounce by me, 
Ling'ring perdition, worse than any death 
Can be at once, shall step by step attend 
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard 

you from, 

Which here, in this most desolate isle ; else falls 
U pon your heads, is nothing but heart's sorrow, 
And a clear life ensuing, 

He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, 
enter the Shapes again, and dance with mops 
and mows, and carry out the table. 

Pro. [Aside.] Bravely the figure of this harpy 

hast thou 

Perform'd, my Ariel ; a grace it had devouring : 
Of my instruction hast thou nothing 'bated, 
In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life, 
And observation strange, my meaner ministers 
Their several kinds have done : my high charms 
And these, mine enemies, are all knit up [work, 
In their distractions : they now are in my power ; 
And in these fits I leave them, whilst I visit 
Young Ferdinand, who they suppose is 
And his and my loved darling. [drown'd, 
[Exit PROSPERO from above. 

Gon. I' the name of something holy, sir, why 
In this strange stare? [stand you 

Alon. O, it is monstrous! monstrous! 

Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; 
The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder, 
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced 
The name of Prosper ; it did bass my trespass. 
Therefore my son i' the ooze is bedded ; and 
I '11 seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded. 
And with him there lie mudded. [Exit. 

Seb. But one fiend at a time, 

I '11 fight their legions o'er. 

Ant. I '11 be thy second. 

[Exeunt SEB. and ANT. 

Gon. All three of them are desperate ; their 

great guilt, 

Like poison given to work a great time after, 
Now 'gins to bite the spirits : I do beseech you 
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly, 
And hinder them from what this ecslacy 
May now provoke them to. 

Adr. Follow, I pray you. [Exeunt. 

ACT IV. 

SCENE I. Before PROSPERO'S Cell. 

Enter PROSPERO, FERDINAND, ^ZW^MIRANDA. 

Pro. If I have too austerely punished you, 



i8 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT iv. 



Your compensation makes amends ; for I 
Have given you here a thread of mine own life, 
Or that for which I live ; who once again 
I tender to thy hand : all thy vexations 
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven, 
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, 
Do not smile at me, that I boast her off, 
Fbr thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise, 
And make it halt behind her. 

Fer. I do believe it, 

Against an oracle. 

Pro. Then, as my gift, and thine own 

acquisition 

Worthily purchas'd, take my daughter : But 
If thou dost break her virgin knot before 
All sanctimonious ceremonies may 
With full and holy rite be minister'd, 
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fal! 
To make this contract grow : but barren hate, 
Sour-eyed disdain, and discord, shall bestrew 
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly, 
That you shall hate it both : therefore, take 
As Hymen's lamps shall light you. [heed, 

Fer. As I hope 

For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, 
With such love as 'tis now; the murkiest den, 
The most opportune place, the strong' st sugges- 
Our worser Genius can, shall never melt [tion 
Mine honour into lust ; to take away 
The edge of that day's celebration, [foundev'd, 
When I shall -think, or Phoebus' steeds are 
Or night kept chain'd below. 

Pro. Fairly spoke : 

Sit, then, and talk with her, she is thine own. 
What, Ariel ; my industrious servant, Ariel ! 

Enter ARIEL. 

Art. What would my potent master? here 
I am. [service 

Pro. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last 
Did worthily perform ; and I must use you 
In such another trick : go, bring the rabble, 
O'er whom I give thee power, here, to this place: 
Incite them to quick motion ; for I must 
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 
Some vanity of mine art ; it is my promise, 
And they expect it from me. 

Art. Presently? 

Pro. Ay, with a twink. 

Ari. Before you can say, Come and go, 
And breathe twice ; and cry, so, so; 
Each one, tripping on his toe, 
Will be here with mop and mow : 
Do you love me, master ? no ? [approach 

Pro. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not 
Till thou dost hear me call. 



Ari. Well I conceive. \*Exit. 

Pro. Look thou be true: do not give dalliance 
Too much the rein : the strongest oaths are straw 
To the fire i' the blood : be more abstemious, 
Or else, good night your vow ! 

Fer. I warrant you, sir. 

The white cold virgin snow upon my heart 
Abates the ardour of my liver. 

Pro. Well. 

Now come, my Ariel : bring a corollary, 
Rather than want a spirit : appear, and pertly. 
No tongue ; all eyes ; be silent. [Soft music. 
A Masqtte. Enter IRIS. 

Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease ; 
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, 
Andflat meads thatch dwith stover, themtokeep; 
Thy banks with peonied and lilied brims, 
Which spongy April at thy 'hest betrims, 
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy 

broom groves, 

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 
Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipt vineyard ; 
And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, 
Where thou thyself dost air: The queen o' the sky 
Whose watery arch, and messenger, am I, 
Bids thee leave these ; and with her sovereign 

grace, 

Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, 
To come and sport : her peacocks fly amain 
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 
Enter CERES. 

Cer. Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that 

ne'er 

Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; 
Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers 
Diffusest honey drops, refreshing showers ; 
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 
My bosky acres, and my unshrubb'd down, 
Rich scarf to my proud earth ; why hath thy 

queen 
Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green? 

Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate ; 
And some donation freely to estate 
On the bless'd lovers. 

Cer, Tell me, heavenly bow, 

If Venus, or her son, as thou dost know, 
Do now attend the queen? since they did plot 
The means, that dusky Dis my daughter got, 
Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company 
I have forsworn. 

Iris. Of her society 

Be not afraid. I met her deity 
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos ; and her son 
Dove-drawn with her ; here thought they to have 
done 



SCENE I.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, 
Whose vows are that no bed-rite shall be paid 
Till Hymen's torch be lighted ; but in vain ; 
Mars' hot minion is return'd again ; 
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, 
Swears he will shoot no more, but play with 
And be a boy right out. [sparrows, 

Cer. Highest queen of state, 

Great Juno comes ; I know her by her gait. 

Enter JUNO. 

fun. How does my bounteous sister? Go 

with me, 

To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, 
And honour'd in their issue. 

SONG. 

fun. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, 
Long continuance, and increasing, 
Hourly joys be still upon you ! 
Juno sings her blessings on you. 

Cer. Earth's increase, and foison plenty, 
Barns and garners never empty ; 
Vines, with clust'ring bunches growing ; 
Plants, with goodly burden bowing ; 
Spring come to you, at the farthest, 
In the very end of harvest ! 
Scarcity and want shall shun you 
Ceres' blessing so is on you. 

Per. This is a most majestic vision, and 
Harmonious charmingly: May I be bold 
To think these spirits? 

Pro. Spirits, which by mine art 

I have from their confines called to enact 
My present fancies. 

Fer. Let me live here ever; 

So rare a wonder'd father, and a wise, 
Makes this place Paradise. 

QUNO and CERES whisper, and 
send IRIS on employment. 

Pro. Sweet now, silence ; 

Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ; 
There 's something else to do ; hush, and be mute, 
Or else our spell is marr'd. 

Iris. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the 
wind'ring brooks, [looks, 

With your sedged clowns, and ever harmless 
Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land 
Answer your summons : Juno does command. 
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate 
A contract of true love ; be not too late. 

Enter certain Nymphs. 

You sun-burn'd sicklemen, of August weary, 
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry ; 
Make holiday : your rye-straw hats put on, 
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
In country footing. 



Enter certain Reapers, properly habited ; they 

join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; 

towards the end whereof PROSPERO starts 

suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a 

strange, hollow, and confused noise, they 

heavily vanish. 

Pro. [Aside.] I had forgot that foul conspiracy 
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates 
Against my life; the minute of their plot-'^ 
Is almost come. [ To the Spirits. ] Well done ; 
avoid ; no more. [passion 

Fer. This is strange : your father 's in some 
That works him strongly. 

Mira. Never till this day, 

Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd. 

Pro. You do look, my son, in a moved sort, 
As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir : 
Our revels now are ended : these our actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air, into thin air: 
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision 
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind : We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd; 
Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled, 
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity ; 
If you be pleased, retire into my cell, 
And there repose ; a turn or two I 'II walk, 
To still my beating mind. 

Fer. Mira. We wish your peace. 

[Exeunt. 

Pro. Come, with a thought: I thank you; 
Ariel, come. 

Enter ARIEL. 
Art. Thy thoughts I cleave to : What 's thy 

pleasure? 

Pro. Spirit, 

We must prepare to meet with Caliban. 

Art. Ay, my commander ; when I presented 

Ceres, 

I thought to have told thee of it ; but I fear'd 

Lest I might anger thee. [varlets? 

Pro. Say again, where didst thou leave these 

Art. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with 

drinking : 

So full of valour that they smote the air 
For breathing in their faces ; beat the ground 
For kissing of their feet ; yet always bending 
Towards their project : Then I beat my tabor, 
At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their 

ears, 
Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noees, 



20 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT v. 



As they smelt music ; so I charm'd their ears, 
That, calf-like, they my lowing follow'd through 
Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and 

thorns, 

Which enter 'd their frail shins : at last I left them 
I' the filthy mantled pool beyond your cell, 
There dancing up to the chills, that the foul lake 
O'erstunk their feet. 

Pro. This was well done, my bird ; 

Thy shape invisible retain thou still : 
The trumpery in my house, go, bring it hither, 
For stale to catch these thieves. 

Art. I go, I go. [Exit. 

Pro. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature 
Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains, 
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost: 
And as, with age, his body uglier grows, 
So his mind cankers: I will plague them all, 

Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering 
apparel, &c. 

Even to roaring : Come, hang them on this line. 

PROSPERO and ARIEL remain invisible. Enter 
CALIBAN, STEPHANO, awaTTRiNCULO, all wet. 

Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind 

mole may not 
Hear a footfall : we now are near his cell. 

Ste. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a 
harmless fairy, has done little better than 
played the Jack with us. 

Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss ; at 
which my nose is in great indignation. 

Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster r If I 
should take a displeasure against you ; look you, 

Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster. 

Cal. Good, my lord, give me thy favour still : 
Be patient, for the prize I '11 bring thee to 
Shall hood- wink this mischance : therefore speak 
All 's hush'd as midnight yet. [softly, 

Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool 

Ste. There is not only disgrace and dis- 
honour in that, monster, but an infinite loss. 

Trin. That 's more to me than my wetting : 
yet this is your harmless fairy monster. 

Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be 
o'er ears for my labour. [here, 

Cal. Pr 'ythee, my king, be quiet : Seest thou 
This is the mouth o' the cell : no noise, and enter. 
Do that good mischief, which may make this 

island 

Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, 
For aye thy foot-licker. 

Ste. Give me thy hand : I do begin to have 
bloody thoughts. 

Trin. O king Stephano ! O peer ! O worthy 
Stephano ! look, what a wardrobe here is for thee. 



Cal. Let it alone, thou fool ; it is but trash. 

Trin. O, ho, monster ; we know what be- 
longs to a frippery. O king Stephano ! 

Ste. Put off that gown, Trinculo ; by this 
hand, I '11 have that gown. 

Trin. Thy grace shall have it. [mean, 

Cal. The dropsy drown this fool ! what do you 
To dote thus on such luggage ? Let 's along, 
And do the murder first : if he awake, 
From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with 

pinches ; 
Make us strange stuff. 

Ste. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, 
is not this my jerkin ? Now is the jerkin under 
the line : now, jerkin, you are like to lose your 
hair, and prove a bald jerkin. 

Trin. Do, do : We steal by line and level, 
ain 't like your grace. 

Ste. I thank thee for that jest : here 's a 
garment for 't : wit shall not go unrewarded 
while I am king of this country : Steal by line 
and level, is an excellent pass of pate ; there 's 
another garment for't. 

Trin. Monster, come, put some lime upon 
your fingers, and away with the rest. [time, 

Cal. I will have none on 't : we shall lose our 
And all be turned to barnacles, or to apes 
With foreheads villanous low. 

Ste. Monster, lay to your fingers ; help to bear 
this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I '11 
turn you out of my kingdom : go to, carry this. 

Trin. And this. 

Ste. Ay, and this. 

A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, 
in shape of hounds^ and hunt them about. 
PROSPERO and ARIEL setting them on. 

Pro. Hey, Mountain , hey ! 

Ari. Silver ! there it goes, Silver! [hark ! 

Pro. Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there ! hark, 
[CAL., STE., and TRIN. are driven out. 
Go, charge mygoblins that they grind their joints 
With dry convulsions ; shorten up their sinews 
Withaged cramps; and more pinch-spotted make 
Than pard or cat o' mountain. [them, 

Ari. Hark, they roar. 

Pro. Let them be hunted soundly : At this 
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies : [hour 

Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou 
Shalt have the air at freedom : for a little 
Follow, and do me service. [Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

SCENE 1. Before the Cell of PROSPERO. 
Enter PROSPEROZW his magic robes; and ARIEL. 
Pro. Now does my project gather to a head : 



SCENE I.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



21 



My charms crack not ; my spirits obey ; and time 
Goes upright with his carriage. How 's the day? 

Ari. On the sixth hour ; at which time, my 
You said our work should cease. [lord, 

Pro, I did say so, 

When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, 
How fares the king and 's followers ? 

Ari. Confin'd together 

In the same fashion as you gave in charge ; 
Just as you left them, sir ; all prisoners 
In the lime-grove which weather-fends your cell; 
They cannot budge till your release. The king, 
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted; 
And the remainder mourning over them, 
Brimful of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly 
Him you termed, sir, The good old lord Gonzalo; 
His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops 
From eaves of reeds : your charm so strongly 

works them, 

That if you now beheld them, your affections 
Would become tender. 

Pro. Dost thou think so, spirit? 

Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. 

Pro. And mine shall. 

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
Of their afflictions ? and shall not myself, 
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply 
Passion as they, l>e kindlier moved than thou art? 
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to 

the quick, 

Yet, with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury 
Do I take part : the rarer action is 
In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, 
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel ; 
My charms I '11 break, their senses I '11 restore, 
And they shall be themselves. 

Ari. I '11 fetch them, sir. [Exit. 

Pro. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, 

and groves ; 

And ye that on the sands with printless foot 
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 
When he comes back ; you demi-puppets that 
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, 
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime 
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice 
To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid, 
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd 
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, 
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault 
Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
With his own bolt : the strong-based promontory 
Have I made shake : and by the spurs pluck'd up 
The pine and cedar : graves, at my command, 
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let them 
forth 



By my so potent art. But this rough magic 
I here abjure : and, when I have required 
Some heavenly music, which even now I do, 
To work mine end upon their senses, that 
This airy charm is for, I '11 break my staff, 
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, . 
And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
I '11 drown my book. [Solemn music. 

Re-enter ARIEL : after him ALONSO, with a 
frantic gesture , attended by GONZALO; SEBAS- 
TIAN and ANTON 10 in like manner, attended by 
ADRIAN and FRANCISCO : they all enter the 
circle which PROSPERO had made, and there 
stand charmed ; which PROSPERO observing, 
speaks. 

A solemn air, and the best comforter 
To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains, [stand, 
Now useless, boil'd within thy skull ! There 
For you are spell-stopp'd. 
Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, 
Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, 
Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace ; 
And as the morning steals upon the night, 
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, 
My true preserver, and a loyal sir 
To him thou follow'st ; I will pay thy graces 
Home, both in word and deed. Most cruelly 
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter : 
Thy brother was a furtherer in the .act ; 
Thou 'rt pinch 'd for 't now, Sebastian, flesh and 

blood. 

You brother mine, that entertain ambition, 
Expell'd remorse and nature ; who, with Sebas- 
tian, [strong, 
Whose inward pinches therefore are most 
Would here have kill'd your king ; I do forgive 
thee, [ing 
Unnatural though thou art. Their understand- 
Begins to swell ; and the approaching tide 
Will shortly fill the reasonable shore 
That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them 
That yet looks on me, or would know me. Ariel, 
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell ; 

[Exit ARIEL. 

I will disease me, and myself present 
As I was sometime Milan : quickly, spirit ; 
Thou shalt ere long be free. 

ARIEL re-enters, singing, and helps to attire 
PROSPERO. 

Art. Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
In the cowslip's bell I lie : 
There I couch when owls do cry. 
On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer merrily : 
Merrily, merrily shall I live now, 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 



22 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT v. 



Pro. Why, that 3 s my dainty Ariel : I shall 

miss thee; 

But yet thou shalt have freedom : so, so, so. 
To the king's ship, invisible as thou art : 
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep 
Under the hatches ; the master and the boatswain 
Being awake, enforce them to this place ; 
And presently, I pr'ythee. 

Ari. I drink the air before me, and return 
Or e'er your pulse twice beat. [Exit ARIEL. 

Gon, All torment, trouble, wonder, and 

amazement 

Inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us 
Out of this fearful country ! 

Pro. Behold, sir king, 

The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero : 
For more assurance that a living prince 
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ; 
And to thee and thy company I bid 
A hearty welcome. 

Alon. Whether thou beest he or no, 

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, 
As late I have been, I not know : thy pulse 
Beats, as of flesh and blood ; and, since I saw 

thee, 

The affliction of my mind amends, with which, 
I fear, a madness held me: this must crave, 
An if this be at all, a most strange story. 
Thy dukedom I resign ; and do entreat 
Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should 

Prospero 
Be living and be here? 

Pro. First, noble friend, 

Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot 
Be measured or confined. 

Gon. Whether this be 

Or be not, I '11 not swear. 

Pro. You do yet taste 

Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you 
Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends, 
all : [Aside to SEE. and ANT. 

But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, 
I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you, 
And justify you traitors ; at this time 
I '11 tell no tales. 

Seb. The devil speaks in him. [Aside. 

Pro. No: 

For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive 
Thy rankest fault, all of them; and require 
My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I know 
Thou must restore. 

Alon. If thou beest Prospero, 

Give us particulars of thy preservation : 
How thov. hast met us here, who three hours since 
Were wreck'd upon this shore ; where I have 
lost- 



How sharp the point of this remembrance is !-" 
My dear son Ferdinand. 

Pro. I am woe for 't, sir. 

Alon. Irreparable is the loss ; and patience 
Says it is past her cure. 

Pro. I rather think 

You have not sought her help ; of whose soft grace 
For the like loss I have her sovereign aid, 
And rest myself content. 

Alon. You the like loss? 

Pro. As great to me as late ; and, supportable 
To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker 
Than you may call to comfort you ; for I 
Have lost my daughter. 

Alon. A daughter ! 

heavens, that they were living both in Naples, 
The king and queen there ! that they were, I wish 
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed 
Where my son lies. When did you lose your 

daughter? [lords 

Pro. In this last tempest. I perceive these 
At this encounter do so much admire 
That they devour their reason, and scarce think 
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words 
Are natural breath : but, howsoe'er you have 
Been justled from your senses, know for certain 
That I am Prospero, and that very duke 
Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most 

strangely [landed, 

Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was 
To be the lord on 't. No more yet of this ; 
For 'tis a chronicle of day by day, 
Not a relation for a breakfast, nor 
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir ; 
This cell 's my court : here have I few attendants, 
And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. 
My dukedom since you have given me again, 

1 will requite you with as good a thing : 

At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye 
As much as me my dukedom. 

The entrance of the Cell opens ^ and discovers 
FERDINAND and MIRANDA playing at chess. 

Mira. Sweet lord, you play me false. 
Fer. No, my dearest love, 

I would not for the world. 

Mira. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should 

wrangle, 
And I would call it fair play. 

Alon. If this prove 

A vision of the island, one dear son 
Shall I twice lose. 

Seb. A most high miracle ! 

Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are merci- 
ful : 
I have cursed them without cause. 

[FfiRD. kneels to ALON. 



SCENE I.] 



THE TEMPEST. 



A Ion. Now all the blessings 

Of a glad fatner compass thee about I 
Arise and say how thou cam'st here. 

Mira. O, wonder ! 

How many goodly creatures are there here ! 
How beauteous mankind is ! O brave new world, 
That hath such people in \ ! 

Pro. 'Tis new to thee. 

Alon. What is this maid, with whom thou 

wast at play ? 

Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours: 
Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us, 
And brought us thus together ? 

Fer. Sir, she 's mortal ; 

But by immortal providence she 's mine ; 
I chose her when T could not ask my father 
For his advice, nor thought I had one : she 
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, 
Of whom so often I have heard renown 
But never saw before ; of whom I have 
Received a second life ; and second father 
This lady makes him to me. 

A Ion. I am hers : 

But O, how oddly will it sound that I 
Must ask my child forgiveness ! 

Pro. There, sir, stop ; 

Let us not burden our remembrances 
With a heaviness that 's gone. 

Gon. I have inly wept, 

Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you 

gods, 

And on this couple drop a blessed crown ; 
For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way 
Which brought us hither ! 

Alon. I say, Amen, Gonzalo ! 

Gon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his 

issue 

Should become kings of Naples ? O, rejoice 
Beyond a common joy ; and set it down 
With gold on lasting pillars : in one voyage 
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis ; 
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 
Where he himself was lost ; Prospero his duke- 
In a poor isle ; and all of us ourselves [dom 
When no man was his own. 

Alon. Give me your hands : 

[70FERD. and MIR. 

Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart 
That doth not wish you joy ! 

Gon. Be 't so ! Amen ! 

Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boat- 
swain amazedly following. 

look, sir, look, sir ; here are more of us ! 

1 prophesied, if a gallows were on land, 

This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, 



That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on 

shore? 

I last thou no mouth by land ? What is the news ? 
Boats. The best news is, that we have safely 

found 

Our king and company : the next, our ship, 
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split, 
Is tight, and yare, and bravely rigg'd, as when 
We first put out to sea. 

Ari. Sir, all this service "| 

Have I done since I went. \ Aside. 

Pro. My tricksy spirit ! j 

Alon. These are not natural events ; they 

strengthen [hither ? 

From strange to stranger : Say, how came you 

Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, 

I 'd strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, 

And, how, we know not, all clapp'd under 

hatches, [noises 

Where, but even now, with strange and several 
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, 
And more diversity of sounds, all horrible, 
We were awaked ; straightway, at liberty : 
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 
Our royal, good, and gallant ship ; our master 
Capering to eye her : on a trice, so please you, 
Even in a dream, were we divided from them, 
And were brought moping hither. 
Ari. Was 't well done?] 

Pro. Bravely, my diligence. Thou > Aside. 

shalt be free. J 

Alon. This is as strangeamaze as e'er men trod: 
And there is in this business more than nature 
Was ever conduct of: some oracle 
Must rectify our knowledge. 

Pro. Sir, my liege, 

Do not infest your mind with beating on 
The strangeness of this business: atpick'd leisure, 
Which shall be shortly, single I '11 resolve you, 
Which to you shall seem probable, of ever)' 
These happen'd accidents: till when, be cheerful, 
And think of each thing well. Come hither, 

spirit ; [Aside. 

Set Caliban and his companions freai 
Untie the spell. [Exit ARIEL.] How fares 

my gracious sir ? 

There are yet missing of your company 
Some few odd lads that you remember not. 

Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STE- 
PHANO, and TRINCULO, in their stolen 
apparel. 

Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let 
no man take care for himself; for all is but for- 
tune : Coragio, bully-monster, coragio ! 

Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in 
my head, here 's a goodly sight. 



THE TEMPEST. 



[ACT v. 



Cal. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed ! 
How fine my master is ! I am afraid 
He will chastise me. 

Seb. Ha, ha; 

What things are these, my lord Antonio ! 
Will money buy them ? 

Ant. Very like ; one of them 
Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. 

Pro. Mark but the badges of these men, my 

lords, [knave, 

Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen 
His mother was a witch ; and one so strong 
That could control the moon, make flows and 

ebbs, 

And deal in her command, without her power : 
These three have robb'd me: and this demi- 

devil, 

For he 's a bastard one, had plotted with them 
To take my life : two of these fellows you 
Must know and own ; this thing of darkness I 
Acknowledge mine. 

Cal. I shall be pinch'd to death. 

A Ion. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler? 

Seb. He is drunk now : where had he wine ? 

Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where 

should they 

Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them? 
How cam'st thou in this pickle? 

Trin. I have been in such a pickle since I 
saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of 
my bones : I shall not fear fly-blowing. 

Seb. Why, how now, Stephano ? 

Ste. O, touch me not ; I am not Stephano, 
but a cramp. 

Pro. You'd be king of the isle, sirrah ! 

Ste. I should have been a sore one then. 

Alon. This is as strange a thing as e'er I 
look'd on. {Pointing to CALIBAN. 

Pro. He is as disproportioned in his manners 
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell ; 
Take with you your companions ; as you look 
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 

Cal. Ay, that I will ; and I '11 be wise here- 
after, 

And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass 
Was I to take this drunkard for a god, 
And worship this dull fool ! 

Pro. Go to ; away ! 

Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage 
where you found it. 



Seb. Or stole it, rather. 

{Exeunt CAL., STE.*, an 

Pro. Sir, I invite your highness and your train 
To my poor cell : where you shall take your rest 
For this one night ; which (part of it) I'll waste 
With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall 

make it 

Go quick away, the story of my life, 
And the particular accidents gone by 
Since I came to this isle : and in the morn 
I '11 bring you to your ship, and so to Naples. 
Where I have hope to see the nuptial 
Of these our dear-beloved solemniz'd ; 
And thence retire me to my Milan, where 
Every third thought shall be my grave. 

Alon. I long 

To hear the story of your life, which must 
Take the ear strangely. 

Pro. I '11 deliver all ; 

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, 
And sail so expeditious, that shall catch 
Your royal fleet afar off. My Ariel, chick, 
That is thy charge : then to the elements 
Be free, and fare thou well ! {Aside. ] Please 
you, draw near. {Exeunt. 



EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY PROSPERO. 



Now my charms are all o'erthrown, 
And what strength I have 's mine own. 
Which is most faint : now 'tis true, 
I must be here confined by you, 
Or sent to Naples. Let me not, 
Since I have my dukedom got, 
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell 
In this bare island by your spell ; 
But release iue from my bands 
With the help of your good hands. 
Gentle breath of yours my sails 
Must fill, or else my project fails, 
Which was to please. Now I want 
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant ; 
And my ending is despair 
Unless I be relieved by prayer ; 
Which pierces so, that it assaults 
Mercy itself, and frees all faults. 
As you from crimes would pardon'd be, 
Let your indulgence set me free. 









TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
DUKE OF MILAN, Father to SILVIA. 



ANTONIO, Father to PROTEUS. 
THURIO, a foolish Rival to VALENTINE. 
EGLAMOUR, Agent for SILVIA in her escape. 
SPEED, a clownish Servant to VALENTINE. 
LAUNCE, Servant to PROTEUS. 
PANTHINO, Servant to ANTONIO. 



Host, where JULIA lodges in Milan. 
Outlaws. 

JULIA, a Lady of Verona, beloved by PROTEUS. 
SILVIA, the Duke's daughter t beloved by 

VALENTINE. 
LUCETTA, Waiting-woman to JULIA. 

Servants. Musicians. 



SCENE, Sometimes in VERONA ; sometimes in MILAN ; and on the frontiers / MANTUA. 



ACT I. 

SCENE \.-An open place in VERONA. 
Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS. 

VaL Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus ; 
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits ; 
Wer 't not affection chains thy tender days 
To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love, 
I rather would entreat thy company 
To see the wonders of the world abroad, 
Than, living dully siuggardiz'd at home, 
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. 
But since thoulov'st, love still, and thrive therein, 
Even as I would, when I to love begin, [adieu ! 
Pro. Wilt thou be gone ? Sweet Valentine, 
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest 
Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel : 
Wish me partaker in thy happiness 
When thou dost meet good hap : and in thy 

danger, 

If ever danger do environ thee, 
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. 

VaL And on a love-book pray for my success. 
Pro. Upon some book I love I '11 pray for thee. 

Val. That'sonsomeshallowstory of deep love, 
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. 

Pro. That 's a deep story of a deeper love ; 
For he was more than over shoes in love. 

VaL 'Tis true ; for you are over boots in love, 
And yet you never swam the Hellespont. 

Pro. Over the boots ! nay, give me not the 
boots. 

VaL No, I will not, for it boots thee not. 

Pro. What ? 

Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought 
with groans ; 



Coy looks with heart-sore sighs ; one fading 

moment's mirth 

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights : 
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain ; 
If lost, why then a grievous labour won ; 
However, but a folly bought with wit, 
Or else a wit by folly vanquished. [fool. 

Pro. So, by your circumstance, you call me 
VaL So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll 
ve. 



Pro. 'Tis love you cavil at ; I am not Love. 

Val. Love is your master, for he masters you : 
And he that is so yoked by a fool, 
Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. 

Pro. Yet writers say, As in the sweetest bud 
The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
Inhabits in the finest wits of all. [bud 

VaL And writers say, As the most forward 
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, 
Even so by love the young and tender wit 
Is turn'd to folly ; blasting in the bud, 
Losing his verdure even in the prime, 
And all the fair effects of future hopes. 
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee 
That art a votary to fond desire ? 
Once more adieu : my father at the road 
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd. 

Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 

VaL Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our 

leave. 

At Milan let me hear from thee by letters 
Of thy success in love, and what news else 
Betideth here in absence of thy friend ; 
And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 

Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan ! 

VaL As much to you at home ! and so fare- 
well. [Exit VALENTINE. 

Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love : 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT i. 



He leaves his friends to dignify them more ; 
I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. 
Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos'd me ; 
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, 
War with good counsel, set the world at nought : 
Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with 
thought. 

Enter SPEED. 

Speed. Sir Proteus, save you. Saw you my 
master ? 

Fro. But now he parted hence, to embark for 
Milan. 

Speed. Twenty to one, then, he is shipp'd 

already ; 
And I have play'd the sheep in losing him. 

Pro. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray 
An if the shepherd be awhile away. 

Speed. You conclude that my master is a 
shepherd, then, and I a sheep ? 

Pro. I do. 

Speed. Why, then, my horns are his horns 
whether I wake or sleep. 

Pro. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. 

Speed. This proves me still a sheep. 

Pro. True ; and thy master a shepherd. 

Speed. Nay ; that I can deny by a circum- 
stance. 

Pro. It shall go hard but I '11 prove it by 
another. 

Speed. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not 
the sheep the shepherd ; but I seek my master, 
and my master seeks not me : therefore, I am 
no sheep. 

Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the shep- 
herd, the shepherd for food follows not the 
sheep ; thou for wages followest thy master, 
thy master for wages follows not thee : there- 
fore, thou art a sheep. 

Speed. Such another proof will make me cry 
baa. 

Pro. But dost thou hear? gav'st thou my 
letter to Julia ? 

Speed. Ay, sir ; I, a lost mutton, gave your 
letter to her, a laced mutton ; and she, a laced 
mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for 
my labour ! 

Pro. Here 's too small a pasture for such a 
store of muttons. 

Speed. If the ground be overcharged you 
were best stick her ? 

Pro. Nay ; in that you are astray ; 'twere 
best pound you. 

Speed. Nay, sir; less than a pound shall 
serve me for carrying your letter. 

Pro. You mistake; I mean the pound, a 
pinfold. 



Speed. From a pound to a pin ? fold it over 

and over, [your lover. 

'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to 

Pro. But what said she ? did she nod ? 

Speed. {Nodding.} Ay. 

Pro. Nod Ay why, that 's noddy. 

Speed. You mistook, sir ; I say she did nod : 
and you ask me if she did nod ; and I say, Ay. 

Pro. And that set together is noddy. 

Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set 
it together, take it for your pains. 

Pro. No, no ; you shall have it for bearing 
the letter. 

Speed. Well, I perceive I must be fain to 
bear with you. 

Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me ? 

Speed. Marry, sir, the letter very orderly : 
having nothing but the word noddy for my 
pains. 

Pro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. 

Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow 
purse. 

Pro. Come, come ; open the matter in brief: 
what said she ? 

Speed. Open your purse, that" the money and 
the matter may be both at once delivered. 

Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains : what 
said she? 

Speed. Truly, sir, I think you '11 hardly win 
her. 

Pro. Why, couldst thou perceive so much 
from her ? 

Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all 
from her ; no, not so much as a ducat for de- 
livering your letter : and being so hard to me 
that brought your mind, I fear she '11 prove as 
hard to you in telling her mind. Give her no 
token but stones ; for she 's as hard as steel. 

Pro. What! said she nothing ? 

Speed. No, not so much as Take this for thy 
pains. To testify your bounty, I thank you, 
you have testern'd me ; in requital whereof, 
hei._'eforth carry your letters yourself: and so, 
sir, I '11 commend you to my master, [wreck, 

Pro. Go, go ; begone, to save your ship from 
Which cannot perish, having thee aboard, 
Being destined to a drier death on shore. 
I must go send some better messenger : 
I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, 
Receiving them from such a worthless post. 

[Exeuril. 

SCENE II.- The same. Garden of JULIA'S 

House. 

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA. 

Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, 

Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love ? 



SCENE II.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



Luc. Ay, madam ; so you stumble not un- 

heedfully. 

Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 
That every day with parle encounter me, 
In thy opinion which is worthiest love? 

Luc. Please you, repeat their names ; I '11 

show my mind 

According to my shallow simple skill. 
Jul. What think'st thou of the fair Sir 
Eglamour ? [fine ; 

Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and 
But, were I you, he never should be mine. 
Jul. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio? 
Lite. Well of his wealth ; but of himself, so so. 
Jtd. What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus? 
Luc. Lord, lord ! to see what folly reigns 

in us ! 

Jul. How now ! what means this passion at 
his name ? [shame 

Luc. Pardon, dear madam ; 'tis a passing 
That I, unworthy body as I am, 
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. 
Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest ? 
L^^c. Then thus : of many good I think him best. 
Jttl. Your reason ? 

Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason ; 

I think him so, because I think him so. 

Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast my love 

on him ? [away. 

Luc, Ay, if you thought your love not cast 

Jul. Why, he of all the rest hath never 

moved me. [loves ye. 

Luc. Yet he of all the rest, I think, best 

Jul. His little speaking shows his love but 

small. 

Luc. Fire that is closest keptburnsmost of all. 
Jul. They do not love that do not show their 
love. [their love. 

Luc. O, they love least that let men know 
Jul. I would I knew his mind. 
Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. 

[ Gives a letter. 

Jttl. [reads'] ' To Julia? Say, from whom? 
Luc. That the contents will show. 
Jul. Say, say ; who gave it thee ? 
Luc. Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, 
from Proteus : [the way, 

He would have given it you ; but I, being in 
Did in your name receive it ; pardon the fault, 

I pray. 

Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker ! 
Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines ? 
To whisper and conspire against my youth ? 
Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth, 
And you an officer fit for the pkce. 
There, take the paper ; see it be return'd ; 
Or else return no more into my sight. 



Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee 

Jul. Will you be gone ? [than hate. 

Luc. That you may ruminate. [Exit. 

Jul. And yet, I would I had o'erlook'd the 
It were a shame to call her back again, [letter. 
And pray her to a fault for^ which I chid her. 
What fool is she, that knows I am a maid, 
And would not force the letter to my view ? 
Since maids, in modesty, say No to that 
Which they would have the profferer construe Ay. 
Fie, fie ! how wayward is this foolish love, 
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, 
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod ! 
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, 
When willingly I would have had her here ! 
How angrily I taught my brow to frown, 
When inward joy enforced my heart to smile ! 
My penance is to call Lucetta back, 
And ask remission for my folly past : 
What, ho ! Lucetta ? 

Re-enter LUCETTA. 

Luc. What would your ladyship ? 

Jul. Is it near dinner time ? 

Luc. I would it were ; 

That you might kill your stomach on your mtat, 
And not upon your maid. 

Jul. What is 't you took up 

So gingerly ? 

Luc. Nothing. 

Jul. Why didst thou stoop then ? 

Luc. To take a paper up that I let fall. 

Jul. And is that paper nothing ? 

Luc. Nothing concerning me. 

Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. 

Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, 
Unless it have a false interpreter. 

Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in 
rhyme. 

Luc. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune : 
Give me a note : your ladyship can set. 

Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible ; 
Best sing it to the tune of Light o' love. 

Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. 

Jul. Heavy! belike ithath some burden, then. 

Luc. Ay ; and melodious were it, would you 
sing it. 

Jul. And why not you ? 

Lite. I cannot reach so high. 

Jul. Let 's see your song. How now, 
minion ? [it out : 

Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing 
And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 

Jul. You do not ? 

Luc. No, madam ; it is too sharp. 

Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. 

Luc. Nay, now you are too flat, 



28 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT I. 



And mar the concord with too harsh a descant ; 
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 
Jul. The mean is drown'd with your unruly 

base. 

Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus, [me. 
Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble 
Here is a coil with protestation ! 

\Tears the letter. 

Go, get you gone ; and let the papers lie : 
You would be fingering them, to anger me. 
Lw. She makes it strange ; but she would 

be best pleased 

To be so anger'd with another letter. [Exit. 
Jul. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the 
same ! 

hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! 
Injurious wasps ! to feed on such sweet honey, 
And kill the bees that yield it, with your stings ! 

1 '11 kiss each several paper for amends. 

And here is writ kind Julia; unkind Julia! 
As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 
I throw thy name against the bruising stones, 
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 
Look, here is writ love-wounded Proteus : 
Poor wounded name ! my bosom, as a bed, 
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly 

heal'd ; 

And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss, 
But twice or thrice was Proteus written d >wn : 
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away 
Till I have found each letter in the letter, [bear 
Except mine own name ; that some whirlwind 
Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock, 
And throw it thence into the raging sea ! 
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, 
Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, 
To the sweet Julia; that I '11 tear away; 
And yet I will not, sith so prettily 
He couples it to his complaining names. 
Thus will I fold them one upon another ; 
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. 

Re-enter LUCETTA. [stays. 

Luc. Madam, dinner 's ready, and your father 
ful. Well, let us go. 

Luc. What ! shall these papers lie like tell- 
tales here? [up. 
Jul. If you respect them, best -to take them 
Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them 

down ; 

Yet here they shall not lie for catching cold. 
Jul. I see you have a month's mind to them. 
Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights 

you see ; 

I see things too, although you judge I wink. 
Jul. Come, come ; wilt please you go ? 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE III. The same. A Room in 
ANTONIO'S Hotise. 

Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO. 

Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was 

that 
Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? 

Pan. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. 

Ant. Why, what of him? 

Pan. He wonder'd that your lordship 

Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, 
While other men, of slender reputation, 
Put forth their sons to seek preferment out : 
Some to the wars, to try their fortune there ; 
Some to discover islands far away ; 
Some to the studious universities. 
For any, or for all these exercises, 
He said that Proteus, your son, was meet ; 
And did re ;uest me to importune you 
To 1 t him spend his time no more at home, 
Which would be great impeachment to his age, 
In having known no travel in his youth, [that 

Ant. Nor need'st thou much importune me to 
Whereon this month I have been hammering. 
I have consider'd well his loss of time, 
And how he cannot be a perfect man, 
Not being tried and tutor'd in the world : 
Experience is by industry achieved, 
And perfected by the swift course of time : 
Then tell me, whither were I best to send him? 

Pan. I think your lordship is not ignorant 
How his companion, youthful Valentine, 
Attends the emperor in his royal court. 

Ant. I know it well. [him thither: 

Pan. 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent 
There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, 
Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, 
And be in eye of every exercise 
Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. 

Ant. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised: 
And that thou may'st perceive how well I like it, 
The execution of it shall make known ; 
Even with the speediest execution 
I will dispatch him to the emperor's court. 

Pan. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Al- 
With other gentlemen of good esteem, [phonso, 
Are journeying to salute the emperor, 
And to comrnend their service to his will. 

Ant. Good company; with them shall Pro- 
teus go. [him. 
And in good time ; now will we break with 

tsI 



Enter PROTEUS. 



Pro. Sweet love ! sweet lines ! sweet life ! 
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart ; 
Her- is her oath for love, her honour's pawn : 
O that our fathers would applaud our loves, 



SCENE II.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



29 



To seal our happiness with their consents ! 

heavenly Julia ! [there ? 
Ant. How now? what letter are you reading 
Pro. May 't please your lordship, 'tis a word or 

Of commendation sent from Valentine, [two 
Deliver'd by a friend that came from him. 

Ant. Lend me the letter; let me see what news. 

Pro. There is no news, my lord ; but that he 

writes 

How happily he lives, how well-beloved 
And daily graced by the emperor ; 
Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. 

Ant. And how stand you affected to his wish? 

Pro. As one relying on your lordship's will, 
And not depending on his friendly wish. 

Ant. My will is something sorted with his wish . 
Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed ; 
For what I will, I will, and there an end. 

1 am resolved that thou shalt spend some time 
With Valentinus in the emperor's court ; 
What maintenance he from his friends receives, 
Like exhibition shalt thou have from me. 
To-morrow be in readiness to go : 

Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. 

Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided; 
Please you, deliberate a day or two. [after thee : 

Ant. Look, what thou want'st shall be sent 
No more of stay ; to-morrow thou must go. 
Come on, Panthino ; you shall be employ 'd 
To hasten on his expedition. 

{Exeunt ANT. and PAN. 

Pro. Thus have I shunn'd the fire, for fear of 
burning, [drown'd ; 

And drench'd me in the sea, where I am 
I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter, 
Lest he should take exceptions to my love ; 
And with the vantage of mine own excuse 
Hath he excepted most against my love. 
O, how this spring of love resembleth 
The uncertain glory of an April day ; 
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
And by and by a cloud takes all away ! 

Re-enter PANTHINO. 

Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you ; 
He is in haste ; therefore, I pray you, go. 

Pro. Why, this it is! my heart accords thereto; 
And yet a thousand times it answers no. 

{Exeunt. 

ACT II. 

SCENE I. MILAN. An apartment in the 
DUKE'S Palace. 

Enter VALENTINE and SPEED. 
Speed. [Picking ttp a glove.] Sir, your glove. 
Val. Not mine ; my gloves are on. 



Speed. Why, then, this may be yours; for this 
is but one. [mine : 

Val. Ha ! let me see : ay, give it me ; it 's 
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine ! 
Ah, Silvia ! Silvia ! [Silvia ! 

Speed. [Calling.'] Madam Silvia ! Madam 

Val. How now, sirrah ? 

Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. 

Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her? 

Speed. Your worship, sir ; or else I mistook. 

Val. Well, you '11 still be too forward. 

Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too 
slow. [Silvia ? 

Val. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know Madam 

Speed. She that your worship loves ? 

Val. Why, how know you that I am in love? 

Speed. Marry, by these special marks : first 
you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreath your 
arms like a mal-content ; to relish a love-song, 
like a robin redbreast ; to walk alone, like one 
that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school -boy 
that had lost his A B C ; to weep, like a young 
wench that had buried her grandam ; to fast, like 
one that takes diet ; to watch, like one that fears 
robbing ; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hal- 
lowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to 
crow like a cock ; when you walked, to walk like 
one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently 
after dinner ; when you looked sadly, it was for 
want of money: and now you are metamorphosed 
with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can 
hardly think you my master. 

Val. Are all these things perceived in me ? 

Speed. They are all perceived without you. 

Val. Without me ? they cannot. 

Speed. Without you ? nay, that 's certain ; for, 
without you were so simple, none else would: but 
you are so without these follies, that these follies 
are within you, and shine through you like the 
water in a urinal ; that not an eye that sees you 
but is a physician to comment on your malady. 

Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady 
Silvia? 

Speed. She that you gaze on so, as she sits at 
supper ? 

Val. Hast thou observed that? even she I mean. 

Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 

Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on 
her, and yet knowest her not ? 

Speed. Is she not hard favoured, sir ? 

Val. Not so fair, boy, as well favoured. 

Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 

Val. What dost thou know ? 

Speed. That she is not so fair as (of you) well 
favoured. 

Val. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but 
her favour infinite. 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT ii. 



Speed. That 's because the one is painted and 
the other out of all count. 

Val. How painted? and how out of count? 

Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her 
fair, that no man counts of her beauty. 

Val. How esteemest thou me ? I account of 
her beauty. 

Speed. You never saw her since she was de- 
formed. 

Val. How long hath she been deformed? 

Speed. Ever since you loved her. 

Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her ; 
and still I see her beautiful. 

Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 

Val. Why? 

Speed. Because love is blind. O that you had 
mine eyes ; or your own eyes had the lights they 
were wont to have when you chid at Sir Pro- 
teus for going ungartered ! 

Val. What should I see then ? 

Speed. Your own present folly and her pass- 
ing deformity ; for he, being in love, could not 
see to garter his hose ; and you, being in love, 
cannot see to put on your hose. 

Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love: for last 
morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. 

Speed. True, sir ; I was in love with my bed ; 
I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which 
makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. 

Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 

Speed. I would you were set ; so your affec- 
tion would cease. 

Val. Last night she enjoined me to write 
some lines to one she loves. 

Speed. And have you ? 

Val. I have. 

Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? 

Val. No, boy, but as well as I can do them ; 
Peace ; here she comes. 

Speed. O excellent motion ! O exceeding 
puppet ! now will he interpret to her. 

Enter SILVIA. 

Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good- 
morrows. 

Speed. O, give you good even ! Here's a 
million of manners. [Aside. 

Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two 
thousand. 

Speed. He should give her interest, and she 
gives it him. [Aside. 

Val. As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter 
Unto the secret nameless friend of yours ; 
Which I was much unwilling to proceed in 
But for my duty to your ladyship. 

Stl. I thank you , gentle servant ; 'tis very clerkly 
done. 



Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; 
For, being ignorant to whom it goes 
I writ at random, very doubtfully. [pains ? 

Sil. Perchance you think too much of so much 

Val. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, 
Please you command, a thousand times as much; 
And yet ; 

Sil. A pretty period ! Well, I guess the sequel; 
And yet I will not nameit: and yet I care not; 
And yet take this again ; and yet I thank you ; 
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 

Speed. And yet you will; and yet another yet. 

[Aside. 

Val. What means your ladyship? do you not 
like it ? 

Sil. Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ: 
But since unwillingly, take them again ; 
Nay, take them. [Gives back the letter. 

Val. Madam, they are for you. 

Sil. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request; 
But I will none of them ; they are for you : 
I would have had them writ more movingly. 

Val. Please you, I '11 write your ladyship 
another. [over ; 

Sil. And when it 's writ, for my sake read it 
And if it please you, so ; if not y why, so. 

Val. If it please me, madam ! what then ? 

Stl. Why, if it please you, take it for your 

labour. 
And so good morrow, servant. [Exit SILVIA. 

Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, 
As a nose on a man's face, or a weather-cock on 

a steeple ! 
My master sues to her ; and she hath taught her 

suitor, 

He being her pupil, to become her tutor. 
O excellent device! was there ever heard a better? 
That my master, being scribe, to himself should 
write the letter ? 

Val. How now, sir ? what are you reasoning 
with yourself? 

Speed. Nay, I was rhyming: 'tis you that have 
the reason. 

Val. To do what ? 

Speed. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia? 

Val. To whom ? 

Speed. To yourself : why, she woos you by a 
figure. 

Val. What figure ? 

Speed. By a letter, I should say. 

Val. Why, she hath not writ to me ? 

Speed. What need she when she hath made 

you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive 

Val. No, believe me. [the jest ? 

Speed. No believing you indeed, sir. But did 
you perceive her earnest ? 

Val. She gave me none except an angry word. 



SCENE II. J 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter. 

Val. That 's the letter I writ to her friend. 

Speed. And that letter hath she deliver'd, 
and there an end. 

Val. I would it were no worse. 

Speed. I '11 warrant you 'tis as well. 
For often you have writ to her ; and she, in 

modesty, 
Or else for want of idle time, could not again 

reply; 

Or fearing else some messenger that might her 
mind discover, [her lover. 

Herself hath taught her love himself to writeunto 
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. 
Why muse you, sir ? 'tis dinner time. 

Val. I have dined. 

Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir ; though the 
cameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that 
am nourished by my victuals, and would fain 
have meat ; O, be not like your mistress ; be 
moved, be moved. [Exetint. 

SCENE II. VERONA. A Room in JULIA'S 
House. 

Enter PROTEUS and JULIA. 

Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. 

Jul. I must, where is no remedy. 

Pro. When possibly I can I will return. 

Jul. If you turn not you will return the sooner: 
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. 

{Giving a ring. 

Pro. Why, then, we '11 make exchange ; here, 
take you this. 

Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. 

Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy; 
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day 
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance 
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! 
My father stays my coming ; answer net : 
The tide is now : nay, not thy tide of tears ; 
That tide will stay me longer than I should : 

[Exit JULIA. 

Julia, farewell. What ! gone without a word? 
Ay ; so true love should do : it cannot speak ; 
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. 

Enter PANTHINO. 
Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for. 
Pro. Go ; I come, I come : 
Alas ! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. The same. A Street. 

Enter LAUNCE, hading a dog. 
Latin. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done 
weeping ; all the kind of the Launces have this 



very fault : I have received my proportion, like 
the prodigiou.' son, and am going with Sir Pro- 
teus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab my 
dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives : my 
mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister 
crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her 
hands, and all our house in a great perplexity ; 
yet did not this cruel -hearted cur shed one tear : 
he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no 
more pity in him than a dog : a Jew would have 
wept to have seen our parting ; why, my grand- 
am having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind 
at my parting. Nay, I '11 show you the manner 
of it : this shoe is my father ; no, this left shoe 
is my father; no, no, this left shoe is my 
mother ; nay, that cannot be so neither ; yes, it 
is so, it is so ; it hath the worser sole. This shoe 
with the hole in it is my mother, and this my 
father. A vengeance on 't ! there 'tis. Now, 
sir, this staff is my sister ; for, look you, she is 
as white as a lily and as small as a wand ; this 
hat is Nan our maid ; I am the dog : no, the 
dog is himself, and I am the dog, O, the dog 
is me, and I am myself ; ay, so, so. Now come 
I to my father; Father, your blessing ; now 
should not the shoe speak a word for weeping ; 
now should I kiss my father ; well, he weeps on : 
now come I to my mother (O, that she could 
speak now !) like a wood woman ; well, I kiss 
her : why there 'tis ; here 's my mother's breath 
up and down ; now come I to my sister ; mark 
the moan she makes : now the dog all this while 
sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word ; but see 
how I lay the dust with my tears. 

Enter PANTHINO. 

Pan. Launce, away, away about d ; thy mas- 
ter is shipped, and thou art to jpost after with 
oars. What 's the matter ! why weep'st thou, 
man? Away, ass; you will lose the tide if you 
tarry any longer. 

Laun. It is no matter if the tied were lost ; 
for it is the unkindest tied that ever man tied. 

Pan. What's the unkindest tide? [dog. 

Laun. Why, he that 's tied here : Crab, my 

Pan. Tut, man ; I mean thou 'It lose the flood : 
and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage ; and, in 
losing thy voyage, lose thy master ; and in los- 
ing thy master, lose thy service ; and, in losing 
thy service, Why dost, thou stop my mouth ? 

Laun. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. 

Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? 

Laun. In thy tale. 

Pan. In thy tail ? 

Laun. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the 
master, and the service ? The tide ! Why, 
man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT II. 



with my tears ; if the wind were down, I could 
drive the boat with my sighs. 

Pan. Come, come away, man ; I was sent 
to call thee. 

Laun. Sir, call me what thou darest. 

Pan. Wilt thou go ? 

Laun. Well, I will go. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. MILAN. An Apartment in the 

DUKE'S Palace. 

Enter VALENTINE, SILVIA, THURIO, and 
SPEED. 

Sil. Servant 

Val. Mistress? 

Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. 

Val. Ay, boy, it 's for love. 

Speed. Not of you. 

Val. Of my mistress, then. 

Speed. 'Twere good you knocked him. 

Sil. Servant, you are sad. 

Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. 

Thu. Seem you that you are not ? 

Val. Haply I do. 

Thu. So do counterfeits. 

Val. So do you. 

Thu. What seem I that I am not ? 

Val. Wise. 

Thu. What instance of the contrary ? 

Val. Your folly. 

Thu. And how quote you my folly ? 

Val. I quote it in your jerkin. 

Thu. My jerkin is a doublet. 

Val. Well, then, I '11 double your folly. 

Thu. How? 

Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio? do you change 
Colour ? 

Val. Give him leave, madam : he is a kind of 
cameleon. 

Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your 
blood than live in your air. 

Val. You have said, sir. 

Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. 

Val. I know it well, sir ; you always end ere 
you begin. [quickly shot off. 

Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and 

Val. 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver. 

Sil. Who is that, servant ? . 

Val. Yourself, sweet lady ; for you gave the 
fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your 
ladyship's looks, and spends what he borrows 
kindly in your company. 

Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with 
me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. 

Val. I know it well, sir ; you have an ex- 
chequer of words, and, I think, no other trea- 
sure to give your followers; for it appears by their 
bare liveries that they live by your bare words. 



Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more ; here 
comes my father. 

Enter DUKE. 

Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard 

beset. 

Sir Valentine, your father 's in good health : 
What say you to a letter from your friends 
Of much good news ? 

Val. My lord, I will be thankful 

To any happy messenger from thence. 

Duke. Knowyou Don Antonio, your country- 
man ? [man 

Val. Ay, my good lord ; I know the gentle- 
To be of worth, and worthy estimation, 
And not without desert so well reputed. 

Duke. Hath he not a son ? [serves 

Val. Ay, my good lord ; a son that well de- 
The honour and regard of such a father. 

Duke. You know him well ? 

Val. I knew him as myself; for from our infancy 
We have con versed and spent our hours together; 
And though myself have been an idle truant, 
Omitting the sweet benefit of time 
To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection. 
Yet hath Sir Proteus for that 's his name 
Made use and fair advantage of his days ; 
His years but young, but his experience old ; 
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe ; 
And, in a word, for far behind his worth 
Come all the praises that I now bestow, 
He is complete in feature and in mind, 
With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 

Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this 
He is as worthy for an empress' love [good, 
As meet to be an emperor's counsellor. 
Well, sir ; this gentleman is come to me, 
With commendation from great potentates ; 
And here he means to spend his time awhile : 
I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you. [he. 

Val. Should I have wished a thing it had been 

Duke. Welcome him, then, according to his 

worth ; 

Silvia, I speak to you ; and you, Sir Thurio:- 
For Valentine, I need not 'cite him to it : 
I '11 send him hither to you presently. 

[Exit DUKE. 

Val. This is the gentleman I told your lady sh i p 
Had come along with me, but that his mistress 
Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. 

Sil. Belike that now she hath enfranchised 
Upon some other pawn for fealty. [them 

Val. Nay, sure, I think she holds them 
prisoners still. [blind, 

Sil. Nay, then, he should be blind ; and, being 
How could he see his way to seek out you ? 

Val. Why r lady, love hath twenty pair of eyes. 



SCENE IV.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



Thu. They say that love hath not an eye at all. 
VaL To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself ; 
Upon a homely object love can wink. 

Enter PROTEUS. 

SiL Have done, have done ; here comes the 
gentleman. [seech you 

VaL Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I be- 
Confirm his welcome with some special favour. 

SiL His worth is warrant for his welcome 

hither, 
If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from. 

VaL Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him 
To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. 

SiL Too low a mistress for so high a servant. 

Pro. Not so, sweet lady; but toomeanaservant 
To have a look of such a worthy mistress. 

VaL Leave off discourse of disability: 
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. 

Pro. My duty will I boast of, nothing else. 

SiL And duty never yet did want his meed. 
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. 

Pro. I '11 die on him that says so but yourself. 

SiL That you are welcome ? 

Pro. No ; that you are worthless. 

Enter Servant 
Ser. Madam , my lord your father would speak 

with you. 

SiL I '11 wait upon his pleasure. [Exit Servant. 
Come, Sir Thurio, 

Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome. 

I '11 leave you to confer of home affairs ; 

When you have done we look to hear from you. 

Pro. We '11 both attend upon your ladyship. 

[Exeunt SIL., THU., and SPEED. 

VaL Now, tell me, how do all from whence 

you came ? [much commended. 

Pro. Your friends are well, and have them 

VaL And how do yours ? 

Pro. I left them all in health. 

VaL How does your lady ? and how thrives 

your love ? 

Pro. My tales of love were wont to' weary you; 
I know you joy not in a love-discourse. 

VaL Ay, Proteus; but that life is alter'd now: 
I have done penance for contemning love ; 
Whosehighimperiousthoughtshave punish'd me 
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs ; 
For, in revenge of my contempt of love, 
Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes, 
And made them watchers of mine own heart's 

sorrow. 

O, gentle Proteus, love's a mighty lord ; 
And hath so humbled me, as I confess, 
There is no woe to his correction, 



Nor, to his service, no such joy on earth ! 
Now no discourse, except it be of love ; 
Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, 
Upon the very naked name of love. 

Pro. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye: 
Was this the idol that you worship so r 

VaL Even she ; and is she not a heavenly saint? 

Pro. No ; but she is an earthly paragon. 

VaL Call her divine. 

Pro. I will not natter her. 

VaL O, flatter me; for love delights in praises. 

Pro. When I was sick you gave me bitter pills, 
And I must minister the like to you. 

VaL Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, 
Yet let her be a principality, 
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. 

Pro. Except my mistress. 

VaL Sweet, except not any, 

Except thou wilt except against my love. 

Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? 

VaL And I will help thee to prefer her too : 
She shall be dignified with this high honour- 
To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth 
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, 
And, of so great a favour growing proud, 
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, 
And make rough winter everlastingly. [this ? 

'Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is 

VaL Pardon me, Proteus : all I can is nothing 
To her whose worth makes other worthies 
She is alone, [nothing ; 

Pro, Then let her alone. [own ; 

VaL Not for the world; why, man, she is mine 
And I as rich in having such a jewel 
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 
Forgive me that I do not dream on thee 
Because thou seest me dote upon my loveojp.sfir 
My foolish rival, that her father likes 
Only for his possessions are so huge, 
Is gone with her along ; and I must after, 
For love, thou know*st is full of jealousy. 

Pro. But she loves you ? 

VaL Ay, we are betroth'd : 

Nay, more ; our marriage hour, 
With all the cunning manner of our flight, 
Determined of : how I must climb her window, 
The ladder made of cords ; and all the means 
Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness. 
Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, 
In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. 

Pro. Go on before ; I shall inquire you forth : 
I must unto the road to disembark 
Some necessaries that I needs must use ; 
And then I'll presently attend you, 

VaL Will you make haste ? 

Pre. I will. [Exit VAL. 



34 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT ii. 



Even as one heat another heat expels, o^yio 1 
Or as one nail by strength drives out another, 
So the remembrance of my former love 
Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 
Is it mine eye, or Valentinus' praise, 
Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 
That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus ? 
She's fair; and so is Julia that I love, 
That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd ; 
Which like a waxen image 'gainst a fire 
Bears no impression of the thing it was. 
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, 
And that I love him not as I was wont t 

! but I love his lady too, too much ; 
And that 's the reason I love him so little. 
How shall I dote on her with more advice, 
That thus without advice begin to love her ? 
'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, 
And that hath dazzled my reason's light ; 
But when I look on her perfections, 
There is no reason but I shall be blind. 

If I can check my erring love, I will : 

If not, to compass her I '11 use my skill. [Exit. 

SCENE V. The same. A Street. 
,-,:, Enter SPEED and LAUNCE. 
Speed. Launce ! by mine honesty, welcome 
to Milan. 

Laun. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth ; for 

1 am not welcome. I reckon this always that 
a man is never undone till he be hanged ; nor 
never welcome to a place till some certain shot 
be paid and the hostess say, welcome. 

Speed. Come on, you madcap ; I '11 to the 
ale-house with you presently ; where, for one 
shot of fivepence, thou shalt have five thou- 
sand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy 
master part with Madam Julia ? 

Laun. Marry, after they closed in earnest 
they parted very fairly in jest. 

Speed. But shall she marry him ? 

Laun. No. 

Speed. How, then ? shall he marry her ? 

Laun. No, neither. 

Speed. What ! are they broken ? 

Laun. No ; they are both as whole as a fish. 

Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter 
with them ? 

Laun. Marry, thus ; when it stands well 
with him it stands well with her. 

Speed. What an ass art thou ? I understand 
thee not. 

Laun. What a block art thou, that thou 
canst not ! My staff understands me. 

Speed. What thou say'st ? 

Laun. Ay, and what I do, too ; look thee, 
I '11 but lean, and my staff understands me. 



Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. [one. 

Laun. Why, stand under and understand is all 

Speed. But tell me true, wili't be a match ? 

Laun. Ask my dog : if he say ay, it will ; if 
he say no, it will ; if he shake his tail and say 
nothing, it will. 

Speed. The conclusion is, then, that it will. 

Laun. Thou shalt never get such a secret 
from me but by a parable. 

Speed. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, 
Launce, how say'st thou that my master is 
become a notable lover? 

Laun. I never knew him otherwise. 

Speed. Than how? 

Laun. A notable lubber as thou reportest 
him to be. 

Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mis- 
takest me. 

Laun. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant 
thy master. 

Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a 
hot lover. 

Laun. Why, I tell thee I care not though he 
burn himself in love. If thou wilt go with me 
to the ale-house, so ; if not, thou art an Hebrew, 
a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. 

Speed. Why? 

Laun. Because thou hast not so much charit) 
in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. 
Wilt thou go ? 

Speed. At thy service. [Exeunt. 

SCENE VI. The same. An Apartment in 

the Palace. 
Enter PROTEUS. 

Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn : 
To love fair Silvia shall I be forsworn ; 
To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; 
And even that power which gave me first my oath 
Provokes me to this threefold perjury. 
Love bade me swear, and love bids me forswear : 

sweet-suggesting love, if thou hast sinn'd, 
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it. 
At first I did adore a twinkling star, 

But now I worship a celestial sun. 
Unheedful vows may needfully be broken ; 
And he wants wit that wants resolved will 
To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. 
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue ! to call her bad, 
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd 
With twenty-thousand-soul-confirming oaths. 

1 cannot leave to love, and yet I do ; 

But there I leave to love where I should love. 
Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose : 
If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 
If I lose them, thus find I by their loss, 
For Valentine, myself ; for Julia, Silvia. 



SCENE VII.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



35 



I to myself am dearer than a friend : 
For love is still more precious in itself : [fair ! 
And Silvia witness heaven, that made her 
Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 
I will forget that Julia is alive, 
Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead ; 
And Valentine I '11 hold an enemy, 
Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 
I cannot now prove constant to myself 
Without some treachery used to Valentine : 
This night he meaneth with a corded ladder 
To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window 
Myself in counsel, his competitor : 
Now presently I '11 give her father notice 
Of their disguising and pretended flight ; 
Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine ; 
For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter: 
But, Valentine, being gone, I '11 quickly cross, 
By some sly trick, blunt Thurio'sdull proceeding. 
Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, 
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift ! [Exit. 

SCENE VII. VERONA. A Room in JULIA'S 

House. 

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA. 
Jttl. Counsel, Lucetta ! gentle girl, assist me ! 
And, even in kind love, I do conjure thee, 
Who art the table wherein all my thoughts 
Are visibly character'd and engraved, 
To lesson me ; and tell me some good mean, 
How, with my honour, I may undertake 
A journey to my loving Proteus. 

L^lc. Alas ! the way is wearisome and long. 
Jnl. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary 
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps ; 
Much less shall she that hath love's wings to fly, 
And when the flight is made to one so dear, 
Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. 
Luc. Better forbear till Proteus make return. 
Jul. O, know'st thou not his looks are my 

soul's food ? 

Pity the dearth that I have pined in 
By longing for that food so long a time. 
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, 
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow 
As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 

Luc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot 

But qualify the fire's extreme rage, [fire ; 

Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 

Jul. The more thou damm'st it up, the more 

it burns ; 

The current that with gentle murmur glides, 
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth 

rage; 

But when his fair course is not hindered, 
He makes sweet music with theenamell'd stones, 
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 



/ 

Wit! 



/* 

Wha 



He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 

And so by many winding nooks he strays, 

With willing sport, to the wild ocean. 

Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 

I '11 be as patient as a gentle stream, 

And make a pastime of each weary step, 

Till the last step have brought me to my love ; 

And there I '11 rest as, after much turmoil, 

A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 

Luc. But in what habit will you go along ? 

Jul. Not like a woman ; for I would prevent 
The loose encounters of lascivious men ; 
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds 
As may beseem some well-reputed page. [hair. 

Luc. Why, then, your ladyship must cut your 

Jul. No, girl ; I'll knit it up in silken strings, 

ith twenty odd-conceited true-love knots : 
To be fantastic may become a youth 
Of greater time than I shall show to be. 

Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make 
your breeches ? [lord, 

T ul. That fits as well as " Tell me, good my 

hat compass will you wear your farthingale?" 
Why, even that fashion thou best lik'st, Lucetta. 

Luc. You must needs have them with a cod- 
piece, madam. 

Jul. Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour'd. 

Luc. A round hose, madam, now 's not worth 

a pin, 
Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on. 

Jul. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have 
What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly : 
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me 
For undertaking so unstaid a journey ? 
I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd. [go not. 

Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and 

Jul. Nay, that I will not. 

Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. 
If Proteus like your journey when you come, 
No matter who 's displeas'd when you are gone : 
I fear me he will scarce be pleased withal. 

Jttl. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear : 
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, 
And instances as infinite of love, 
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. 

Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. 

Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect f 
But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth : 
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles ; 
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate ; 
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart ; 
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 

Luc. Pray heaven he prove so when you 
come to him ! [wrong, 

Jttl. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that 
To bear a hard opinion of his truth ; 
Only deserve my love by loving him, 






TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT in. 



1 presently go with me to my chamber, 
take a note of what I stand in need of 



And 

To 

To furnish me upon my longing journey. 

All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, 

My goods, my lands, my reputation ; 

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence : 

Come, answer not, but to it presently ; 

I am impatient of my tarriance. [Exeunt. 

ACT III. 
SCENE I. MILAN. An Ante-room in the 

DUKE'S Palace. 
Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS. 

Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; 
We have some secrets to confer about. 

[Exit THURIO. 

Now, tell me, Proteus, what 's your will with 
me ? [discover, 

Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would 
The law of friendship bids me to conceal ; 
But, when I call to mind your gracious favours 
Done to me, undeserving as I am, 
My duty pricks me on to utter that [me. 

Which else no worldly good should draw from 
Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 
This night intends to steal away your daughter ; 
Myself am one made privy to the plot. 
I know you have determined to bestow her 
On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; 
And should she thus be stolen a\vay from you, 
It would be much vexation to your age. 
Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose 
To cross my friend in his intended drift, 
Than, by concealing it, heap on your head 
A pack of sorrows, which would press you down, 
Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. 

Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest 

care; 

Which to requite, command me while I live. 
This love of theirs myself have often seen, 
Haply when they have judged me fast asleep ; 
And oftentimes have purposed to forbid 
Sir Valentine her company and my court : 
But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err, 
And so, unworthily, disgrace the man, 
A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd, 
I gave him gentle looks ; thereby to find 
That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me. 
And, that thou may'st perceive my fear of this, 
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, 
I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, 
The key whereof myself have ever kept ; 
And thence she cannot be conveyed away, [mean 

Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devised a 
How he her chamber-window will ascend, 
And with a corded ladder fetch her down ; 



For which the youthful lover now is gone, 
And this way comes he with it presently ; 
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. 
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly, 
That my discovery be not aimed at ; 
For love of you, not hate unto my friend, 
Hath made me publisher of this pretence. 

Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know 
That I had any light from thee of this. 

Pro. Adieu, my lord ; Sir Valentine is com- 
ing. [Exit. 

Enter VALENTINE. 

Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ? 

Val. Please it your grace, there is a messenger 
That stays to bear my letters to my friends, 
And I am going to deliver them. 

Duke. Be they of much import ? 

Val. The tenor of them doth but signify 
My health and happy being at your court. 

Duke. Nay, then, no matter; stay with mo 

awhile ; 

I am to break with thee of some affairs 
That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 
'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought 
To match my friend, Sir Thurio, to my daughter. 

Val. I know it well, my lord ; and, sure, the 
match [man 

Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentle- 
Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities 
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter : 
Cannot your grace win her to fancy him ? 

Duke. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, 

froward, 

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty ; 
Neither regarding that she is my child 
Nor fearing me as if I were her father : 
And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, 
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her ; 
And, where I thought the remnant of mine age 
Should have been cherished by her child-like 

duty, 

I am now full resolved to take a wife, 
And turn her out to who will take her in : 
Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower ; 
For me and my possession she esteems not. 

Val. What would your grace have me to do 
in this? 

Duke. There is a lady, sir, in Milan, here, 
Whom I affect ; but she is nice, and coy, 
And nought esteems my aged eloquence : 
Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor, 
For long agone I have forgot to court : 
Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd ; 
How and which way I may bestow myself. 
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 

Val. Win her with gifts,if she respect not words; 



SCENE I.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



37 



Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, 
More than quick words do move a woman's mind. 

Duke, But she did scorn a present that I sent 
her. [contents her : 

Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best 
Send her another ; never give her o'er ; 
For scorn at first makes after-love the more. 
If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you, 
But rather to beget more love in you : 
If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone ; 
For why, the fools are mad if left alone. 
Take no repulse whatever she doth say : 
For, get you gone, she doth not mean away : 
Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces ; 
Though ne'er so black , say they have angels' faces. 
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, 
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 

Duke. But she I mean is promised by her 

friends 

Unto a youthful gentleman of worth ; 
And kept severely from resort of men, 
That no man hath access by day to her. 

Val. Why, then, I would resort to her by night. 

Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock'd, and keys 

kept safe, 
That no man hath recourse to her by night. 

Val. What lets but one may enter at her 
window ? [ground ; 

Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the 
And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it 
Without apparent hazard of his life. [cords, 

Val. Why, then, a ladder, quaintly made of 
To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks, 
Would serve to scale another Hero's tower, 
So bold Leander would adventure it. 

Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, 
Advise me where I may have such a ladder. 

Val. When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me 
that. 

Duke. This very night ; for love is like a child, 
That longs for everything that he can come by. 

Val. Byseven o'clock I '11 get you such a ladder. 

Duke. But, hark thee ; I will go to her alone; 
How shall I best convey the ladder thither ? 

Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may 

bear it 
Under a cloak that is of any length. [turn. 

D^tke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the 

Val. Ay, my good lord. 

Duke. Then let me see thy cloak : 
I '11 get me one of such another length, [lord. 

Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my 

Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a 

cloak ? 

I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. 
What letter is this same ? What 's here ITo 
Silvia ? 



And here an engine fit for my proceeding ! 
I '11 be so bold to break the seal for once. [Reads. 

My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly ; 
And slaves they are to me, that send them fly ing. 
O, cmtld their master come and go as lightly, 
Himself would lodge where senseless they are 

lying. 

My herald thoughts in thy piire bosom rest them, 
While I, their king, that thither them impor- 
tune, 
Do curse the grace that -with such grace hath 

bless 1 d them, 

Becaitse myself do want my servants' 'fortune: 
I ctirse myself, for they are sent by me, 
That they shmild harbour where their lord 
should be. 

What's here ? 

Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee : 
'Tis so ; and here 's the ladder for the purpose. 
Why, Phaeton, for thou art Merops' son, 
Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, 
And with thy daring folly burn the world ? 
Wilt thou reach stars because they shine on thee? 
Go, base intruder ! over-weening slave ! 
Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates ; 
And think my patience, more than thy desert, 
Is privilege for thy departure hence : 
Thank me for this, more than for all the favours 
Which, all too much, I have bestow'd on thee. 
But if thou linger in my territories 
Longer than swiftest expedition 
Will give thee time to leave our royal court, 
By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love 
I ever bore ray daughter or thyself. 
Begone, I will not hear thy vain excuse, 
But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from 

hence. [Exit DUKE. 

Val. And why not death, rather than living 

torment ? 

To die is to be banish'd from myself ; 
And Silvia is myself : banish'd from her 
Is self from self : a deadly banishment ! 
What light is light if Silvia be not seen ? 
What joy is joy if Silvia be not by ? 
Unless it be to think that she is by* >rr uxi 
And feed upon the shadow of perfection. 
Except I be by Silvia in the night 
There is no music in the nightingale ; 
Unless I look on Silvia in the day 
There is no day for me to look upon : 
She is my essence ; and I leave to be, 
If I be not by her fair influence 
Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive, 
I fly not death to fly his deadly doom : 
Tarry I here I but attend on death ; 
But fly I hence I fly away from life. 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT in. 



Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE. 

Pro, Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. 

Laun. So-ho ! so-ho ! 

Pro. What seest thou ? 

Laun. Him we go to find: there's not a hair 
on 's head but 'tis a Valentine. 

Pro. Valentine ? 

Val. No. 

Pro. Who then ? his spirit ? 

Val. Neither. 

Pro. What then.? WUM 

Val. Nothing. [strike? 

Laun. Can nothing speak? master, shall I 

Pro. Whom wouldst thou strike ? 

Laun. Nothing. 

Pro. Villain, forbear. [you, 

Laun. Why, sir, I '11 strike nothing : I pray 

Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear : Friend Valentine, 
a word. [good news, 

Val. My ears are stopp'd, and cannot hear 
So much of bad already hath possess'd them. 

Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, 
For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. 

Val. Is Silvia dead ? 

Pro. No, Valentine. 

Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia! 
Hath she forsworn me ? 

Pro. No, Valentine. [me ! 

Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn 
What is your news ? 

Laun. Sir, there 's a proclamation that you 
are vanish'd. [news ; 

Pro. That thou art banished ; O, that 's the 
From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. 

Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already, 
And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 
Doth Silvia know that I am banished ? 

Pro. Ay, ay ; and she hath offer'd to the 

doom, 

Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force, 
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears : 
Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd 
With them, upon her knees, her humble self ; 
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became 

them, 

As if but now they waxed pale for woe : 
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, 
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 
Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ; 
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. 
Besides, her intercession chafed him so, 
When she for thy repeal was suppliant, 
That to close prison he commanded her, 
With many bitter threats of 'biding there. 

Val. No more ; unless the next word that 

thou speak'st 
Have some malignant power upon my life : 



If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 

As ending anthem of my endless dolour, [help, 

Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not 
And study help for that which thou lament'st. 
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 
Here if thou stay thou canst not see thy love ; 
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 
Hope is a lover's staff ; walk hence with that, 
And manage it against despairing thoughts. 
Thy letters may be here though thou art hence : 
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd 
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 
The time now serves not to expostulate : 
Come, I '11 convey thee through the city gate ; 
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large 
Of all that may concern thy love affairs : 
As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself, 
Regard thy danger, and along with me. 

Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest 

my boy, [gate. 

Bid him make haste and meet me at the north 

Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, 
Valentine. 

Val. O my dear Silvia, hapless Valentine ! 
\Exeitnt VAL. and PRO. 

Laun. I am but a fool, look you ; and yet I 
have the wit to think my master is a kind of 
knave : but that 's all one if he be but one knave. 
He lives not now that knows me to be in love : 
yet I am in love ; but a team of horse shall not 
pluck that from me ; nor who 'tis I love, and 
yet 'tis a woman : but what woman I will not 
tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis 
not a maid, for she hath had gossips : yet 'tis a 
maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves 
for wages. She hath more qualities than a 
water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Chris- 
tian. Here is the cat-log [Pulling out a paper} 
of her conditions. Imprimis, She can fetch' and 
carry. Why, a horse can do no more : nay, a 
horse cannot fetch, but only carry ; therefore is 
she better than a jade. Item, She can milk ; 
look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean 
hands. 

Enter SPEED. 

Speed. How now, Signior Launce? what news 
with your mastership ? 

Laim. With my master's ship? why, it is at sea. 

Speed. Well, your old vice still ; mistake the 

word. 
What news, then, in your paper ? [heard'st. 

Laun. The blackest news that ever thou 

Speed. Why, man, how black ? 

Laun. Why, as black as ink. 

Speed. Let me read them. [read. 

Laun. Fie on thee, jolthead; thou canst not 

Speed. Thou liest, I can. 



SCENE II.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



39 



Laun. I will try thee : Tell me this : Who 
begot thee ? 

Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. 

Laun. O illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of 
thy grandmother : this proves that thou canst 
not read. 

Speed. Come, fool, come: try me in thy paper. 

Laun. There ; and St. Nicholas be thy speed ! 

Speed. Imprimis, She can milk. 

Laun. Ay, that she can. 

Speed. Item, She brews good ale. 

Laun. And thereof comes the proverb, 
Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale. 

Speed. Item, She can sew. 

Laun. That 's as much as to say, can she so? 

Speed. Item, She can knit. 

Laun. What need a man care for a stock 
with a wench, when she can knit him a stock. 

Speed. Item, She can wash and scour. 

Laun. A special virtue ; for then she need 
not be washed and scoured. 

Speed. Item, She can spin. 

Laun. Then may I set the world on wheels, 
when she can spin for her living. 

Speed. Item, She hath many nameless virtues. 

Laun. That 's as much as to say, bastard 
virtues ; that, indeed, know not their fathers, 
and therefore have no names. 

Speed. Here follow her vices. 

Laun. Close at the heels of her virtues. 

Speed. Item, She is not to be kissed fasting, 
in respect of her breath. 

Laun. Well, that fault may be mended with 
a breakfast. Read on. 

Speed. Item, She hath a sweet mouth. 

Laun. That makes amends for her sour breath. 

Speed. Item, She doth talk in her sleep. 

Laun. It 's no matter for that, so she sleep 
not in her talk. 

Speed. Item, She is slow in words. 

Laun. O villain, that set this down among 
her vices ! To be slow in words is a woman's 
only virtue: I pray thee, out with't; and place 
it for her chief virtue. 

Speed. Item, She is proud. 

Laun. Out with that too ; it was Eve's 
legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her. 

Speed. Item, She hath no teeth. 

Laun. I care not for that neither, because I 
love crusts. 

Speed. Item, She is curst. 
Laun. Well ; the best is, she hath no teeth to 
bite. 

Speed. Item, She will often praise her liquor. 
Laun. If her liquor be good, she shall : if 
she will not, I will ; for good things should be 
praised. 



Speed. Item, She is too liberal. 

Latin. Of her tongue she cannot ; for that 's 
writ down she is slow of: of her purse she 
shall not ; for that I '11 keep shut : now of an- 
other thing she may ; and that I cannot help. 
Well, proceed. 

Speed. Item, She hath more Jiair than wit, 
and more faults than hairs, and more -wealth 
than faults. 

Laun. Stop there ; I '11 have her : she was 
mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last 
article. Rehearse that once more. 

Speed. Item, She hath more hair than wit, 

Laun. More hair than wit, it may be ; I '11 
prove it : The cover of the salt hides the salt, 
and therefore it is more than the salt ; the hair 
that covers the wit is more than the wit ; for the 
greater hides the less. What 's next ? 

Speed. And more faults than hairs j 

Laun. That's monstrous: O, that that were 
out ! 

Speed. And more wealth than faults. 

Laun. Why, that word makes the faults 
gracious. Well, I '11 have her : and if it be a 
match, as nothing is impossible. 

Speed. What then ? 

Latin. Why, then will I tell thee, that thy 
master stays for thee at the north gate. 

Speed. For me ? 

Laun. For thee? ay: who art thou? he hath 
stay'd for a better man than thee. 

Speed. And must I go to him ? 

Laun. Thou must run to him, for thou hast 
stay'd so long that going will scarce serve the turn. 

Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? 'pox 
of your love-letters ! [Exit. 

Laun. Now will he be swinged for reading 
my letter. An unmannerly slave that will thrust 
himself into secrets ! I '11 after, to rejoice in the 
boy's correction. [Exit. 

r bftfjn!>; v / rr^> svo! ^rf bsov/ arfJ *{ 
SCENE II. The same. A Room in the 
DUKE'S Palace. 

Enter DUKE and THURIO ; PROTEUS behind. 

Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will 

love you 
Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight. 

Thu. Since his exile she hath despised me 

most, 

Forsworn my company and rail'd at me, 
That I am desperate of obtaining her. 

Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure 
Trenched in ice ; which with an hour's heat 
Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. 
A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, 
And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. HbnA 






TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT iv. 



How now, Sir Proteus ? Is your countryman, 
According to our proclamation, gone ? 

Pro. Gone, my good lord. 

Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously. 

Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. 

Duke. So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so. 
Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee. 
For thou hast shown some sign of good desert, 
Makes me the better to confer with thee. 

Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your grace, 
Let me not live to look upon your grace, [effect 

Duke. Thou know'st, how willingly I would 
The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. 

Pro. I do, my lord. 

Duke. And also I think, thou art not ignorant 
How she opposes her against my will. 

Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was 
here. 

Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. 
What might we do to make the girl forget 
The love of Valentine and love Sir Thurio ? 

Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine 
With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent ; 
Three things that women highly hold in hate. 

Duke. Ay, but she '11 think that it is spoke in 
hate. 

Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it : 
Therefore it must, with circumstance, be spoken 
By one whom she esteemeth as his friend, [him. 

Duke. Then you must undertake to slander 

Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loth to do : 
'Tis an ill office for a gentleman ; 
Especially against his very friend. [tage him 

Duke. Where your good word cannot advan- 
Your slander never can endamage him ; 
Therefore, the office is indifferent, 
Being entreated to it by your friend. [it 

Pro. You have prevail'd, my lord : if I can do 
By aught that I can speak in his dispraise, 
She shall not long continue love to him. 
But say this weed her love from Valentine, 
It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 

Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love 

from him. 

Lest it should ravel, and be good to none, 
You must provide to bottom it on me : 
Which must be done by praising me as much 
A.S you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. 

Duke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in 

this kind ; 

Because we know, on Valentine's report, 
You are already love's firm votary, 
And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. 
Upon this warrant shall you have access 
Where you with Silvia may confer at large ; 
For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, 
And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you ; 



Where you may temper her by your persuasion 
To hate young Valentine and love my friend. 

Pro. As much as I can do I will effect : 
But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough ; 
You must lay lime to tangle her desires 
By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes 
Should be full fraught with serviceable vows. 

Duke. Ay, much the force of heaven-bred 
poesy. 

Pro. Say that upon the altar of her beauty 
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart; 
Write till your ink be dry ; and with your tears 
Moist it again ; and frame some feeling line 
That may discover such integrity : 
For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews; 
Whose golden touch could soften steel and 

stones. 

Make tigers tame and huge leviathans 
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands, 
After your dire lamenting elegies, 
Visit by night your lady's chamber-window 
With some sweet concert : to their instruments 
Tune a deploring dump ; the night's dead silence 
Will well become such sweet complaining griev- 
ance. 
This, or else nothing, will inherit her. 

Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been 
in love. [practice : 

Thu. And thy advice this night I '11 put in 
Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, 
Let us into the city presently 
To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music : 
I have a sonnet that will serve the turn 
To give the onset to thy good advice. 

Duke. About it, gentlemen, [supper : 

Pro. We '11 wait upon your grace till after 
And afterward determine our proceedings. 

Duke. Even now about it ; I will pardon you. 

[Exeunt. 
ACT IV. 

SCENE I. A Forest near MANTUA. 
Enter certain Outlaws. 

1 Out. Fellows, stand fast ; I see a passenger. 

2 Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down 

with 'em. 

Enter VALENTINE and SPEED. 

3 Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you 

have about you ; 
If not, we '11 make you sit, and rifle you. 

Speed. Sir, we are undone ! these are the 

villains 

That all the travellers do fear so much. 
Val. My friends, 

1 Out. That 'snot so, sir; we are your enemies. 

2 Out. Peace ; we '11 hear him. 



SCENE II.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



3 Out. Ay, by my beard, will we ; 
For he 's a proper man. [lose ; 

Val. Then know that I have little wealth to 
A man I am crossed with adversity ; 
My riches are these poor habiliments, 
Of which if you should here disfurnish me, 
You take the sum and substance that I have. 

2 Out. Whither travel you ? 
Val. To Verona. 

I Out. Whence came you ? 
Val. From Milan. 

3 Out. Have you long sojourn'd there ? 
Val. Some sixteen months ; and longer might 

have stay'd 
If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. 

1 Out. What ! were you banish'd thence ? 
Val. I was. 

2 Out. For what offence ? [hearse ; 
Val. For that which now torments me to re- 

I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent ; 
But yet I slew him manfully in fight, 
Without false vantage or base treachery. 

1 Out. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. 
But were you banish'd for so small a fault ? 

Val. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. 

2 Out. Have you the tongues ? [happy ; 
Val. My youthful travel therein made me 

Or else I often had been miserable. [friar, 

3 Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat 
This fellow were a king for our wild faction. 

1 Out. We '11 have him ; sirs, a word. 
Speed. Master, be one of them ; 

It is an honourable kind of thievery. 

Val. Peace, villain ! [take to ? 

2 Out. Tell us this. Have you anything to 
Val. Nothing but my fortune. [men ; 

3 Out. Know, then, that some of us are gentle- 
Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth 
Thrust from the company of awful men : 
Myself was from Verona banish'd 

For practising to steal away a lady, 
An heir, and near allied unto the duke. 

2 Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman, 
Whom, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart. 

1 Out. Andlforsuch like petty crimes as these. 
But to the purpose, for we cite our faults 
That they may hold excused our lawless lives, 
And, partly, seeing you are beautified 

With goodly shape, and by your own report 
A linguist, and a man of such perfection 
As we do in our quality much want ; 

2 Out. Indeed, because you are a banish'd 

man, 

Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. 
Are you content to be our general ? 
To make a virtue of necessity, 
And live, as we do, in this wilderness ? 



3 Out. What say'st thou ? wilt thou be of our 

consort ? 

Say ay, and be the captain of us all : 
We '11 do thee homage, and be ruled by thee, 
Love thee as our commander and our king. 

1 Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy thou 

diest. [have offer'd. 

2 Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we 
Val. I take your offer, and will live with you, 

Provided that you do no outrages 
On silly women or poor passengers. 

3 Out. No ; we detest such vile base practices. 
Come, go with us, we'll bring thee to our crews, 
And show thee all the treasure we have got ; 
Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. MILAN. Court of the Palace. 
Enter PROTEUS. 

Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine, 
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. 
Under the colour of commending him 
I have access my own love to prefer ; 
But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. 
When I protest true loyalty to her 
She twits me with my falsehood to my friend : 
When to her beauty I commend my vows 
She bids me think how I have been forsworn 
In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved : 
And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips, 
The least whereof would quell a lover's hope, 
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love 
The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. 
But here comes Thurio : now must we to her 

window, 
And give some evening music to her ear. 

Enter THURIO and Musicians. 

Thu. How now, Sir Proteus ? are you crept 
before us ? [love 

Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio ; for you know that 
Will creep in service where it cannot go. [here. 

Thu. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not 

Pro. Sir, but I do ; or else I would be hence. 

Thu. Whom? Silvia? 

Pro. Ay, Silvia for your sake. [men, 

Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentle- 
Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile. 

Enter HOST, at a distance ; and JULIA, in 
boy's clothes. 

Host. Now, my young guest ! methinks 
you're allycholly ; I pray you, why is it ? 
Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be 

merry. 
Host. Come, we'll have you merry : I'll bring 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



LACT iv. 



you where you shall hear music, and see the 
gentleman that you ask'd for. 

Jul. But shall I hear him speak ? 

Host. Ay, that you shall. 

ful. That will be music. [ Mrisic plays. 

Host. Hark ! hark ! 

/if/. Is he among these ? 

Host. Ay ; but peace, let 's hear 'em.. 

SONG. 
Who is Silvia ? what is she, 

That all our swains commend her? 
Holy, fair, and wise is she, 

The heavens such grace did lend her, 
That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair ? 

For beauty lives with kindness : 
Love doth to her eyes repair, 

To help him of his blindness ; 
And, being help'd, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia, let us sing, 

That Silvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling . 
To her let us garlands bring. 

Host. How now ? are you sadder than you 

were before ? 
How do you, man ! the music likes you not. 

Jul. You mistake ; the musician likes me not. 

Host. Why, my pretty youth ? 

Jul. He plays false, father. 

Host. How ! out of tune on the strings ? 

Jul. Not so ; but yet so false that he grieves 
njy very heart-strings. 

Host. You have a quick ear. 

Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf ! it makes me 
have a slow heart. 

Host. I perceive you delight not in music. 

Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so. 

Host. Hark, what fine change is in the music. 

Jul. Ay ; that change is the spite. 

Host. You would have them always play but 
one thing ? [thing. 

Jul. I would always have one play but one 
But, host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk 
on, often re&ort unto this gentlewoman? 

Host. I '11 tell you what, Launce, his man, 
told me he loved her out of all nick. 

Jul. Where is Launce ? 

Host. Gone to seek his dog ; which, to- 
morrow, by his master's command, he must 
carry for a present to his lady. 

Jul. Peace ! stand aside ! the company parts. 

Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you ! I will so plead 
That you shall say my cunning drift excels. 
Thu. Where meet we ? 

Pro. At Saint Gregory's well. 

Thu. Farewell. 

{Exeunt THURIO and Musicians. 



SILVIA appears above, at her window. 

Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. 

Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen : 
Who is that that spake ? [truth, 

Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's 
You'd quickly learn to know him by his voice. 

Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. [vant. 

Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your ser- 

Sil. What is your will ? 

Pr . That I may compass yours. 

Sil. You have your wish; my will is even this, 
That presently you hie you home to bed, 
Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man ! 
Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, 
To be seduced by thy flattery, 
That hast deceived so many with thy vows ? 
Return, return, and make thy love amends. 
For me, by this pale queen of night I swear 
I am so far from granting thy request 
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, 
And by and by intend to chide myself 
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 

Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady ; 
But she is dead. 

Jul. 'Twere false if I should speak it ; 
For I am sure she is not buried. [Aside. 

Sil. Say that she be; yet Valentine, thy friend, 
Survives ; to whom, thyself art witness, 
I am betrothed. And art thou not ashamed 
To wrong him with thy importiinacy ? 

Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. 

Sil. And so suppose am I ; for in his grave 
Assure thyself my love is buried. 

Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. 

Sil. Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence ; 
Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. 
Jul, He heard not that. [Aside. 

Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, 
Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love ; 
The picture that is hanging in your chamber ; 
To that I '11 speak, to that I '11 sigh and weep : 
For, since the substance of your perfect self 
Is else devoted, I am but a shadow : 
And to your shadow I will make true love. 
Jul. If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, 

deceive it, 
And make it but a shadow, as I am. [Aside. 

Sil. I am very loth to be your idol, sir ; 
But, since your falsehood shall become you well 
To worship shadows and adore false shapes, 
Send to me in the morning, and I '11 send it : 
And so, good rest. 

Pro. As wretches have o'er-night. 

That wait for execution in the morn. 

[Exeunt PRO.; and SIL. , from above. 
Jul. Host, will you go ? 



SCENE 1II.J 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



43 



Host. By my hallidom, I was fast asleep. 

Jttl. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus ? 

Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I 
think 'tis almost day. 

JuL Not so ; but it hath been the longest night 
That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE III. The same. 

Enter EGLAMOUR. 

Egl. This is the hour that Madam Silvia 
Entreated me to call and know her mind ; 
There's some great matter she'd employ me in. 
Madam, madam ! 

SILVIA appears above, at her window. 

Sil. Who calls ? 

Egl. Your servant and your friend ; 

One that attends your ladyship's command. 

Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good 
morrow. 

Egl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself. 
According to your ladyship's impose, 
I am thus early come to know what service 
It is your pleasure to command me in. 

Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman, 
Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not, 
Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd. 
Thou art not ignorant what dear good will 
I bear unto the banish'd Valentine ; 
Nor how my father would enforce me marry 
Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhorr'd. 
Thyself hast loved ; and I have heard thee say 
No grief did ever come so near thy heart 
As when thy lady and thy true love died, 
Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity. 
Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, 
To Mantua, where, I hear, he makes abode ; 
And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, 
I do desire thy worthy company, 
Upon whose faith and honour I repose. 
Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour, 
But think upon my grief, a lady's grief ; 
And on the justice of my flying hence, 
To keep me from a most unholy match, 
Which heaven and fortune still reward with 
I do desire thee, even from a heart [plagues. 
As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, 
To bear me company, and go with me : 
If not, to hide what I have said to thee, 
That I may venture to depart alone. 

Egl. Madam, I pity much your grievances ; 
Which, since I know they virtuously are placed, 
I give consent to go along with you ; 
Recking as little what betideth me 
As much I wish all good befortune you. 
When will you go ? 



Sil. This evening coming. 

EgL Where shall I meet you ? 
Sil. At Friar Patrick's cell, 

Where I intend holy confession. 

Egl. I will not fail your ladyship : 
Good morrow, gentle lady. 

SiL Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. 

{Exeunt. 

MiW I .TIE .-n-j^f-. \.wA 
SCENE IV. The same. 

Enter LAUNCE, with his dog. 

Latin. When a man's servant shall play the 
cur with him, look you, it goes hard : one that 
I brought up of a puppy one that I saved 
from drowning, when three of four of his blind 
brothers and sisters went to it ! I have taught 
him even as one would say precisely, Thus I 
would teach a dog. I was sent to deliver him 
as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master ; 
and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber 
but he steps me to her trencher and steals her 
capon's leg. O, 'tis a foul thing when a cur 
cannot keep himself in all companies ! I would 
have, as one should say, one that takes upon 
him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog 
at all things. If I had not had more wit than 
he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think 
verily he had been hang'd for 't ; sure as I live 
he had suffer'd for't ; you shall judge. He 
thrusts me himself into the company of three 
or four gentleman-like dogs under the duke's 
table : he had not been there bless the mark 
a pissing while, but all the chamber smelt 
him. Out with the dog, says one ; What cui 
is that ? says another ; Whip him out, says a 
third ; Hang him up, says the duke. I, hav- 
ing been acquainted with the smell before, 
knew it was Crab ; and goes me to the fellow 
that whips the dogs : Friend, quoth I, you 
mean to whip the dog ? Ay, marry do I, quoth 
he. You do him the more wrong, quoth I ; 
'twas I did the thing yott wot of. He makes 
me no more ado, but whips me out of the 
chamber. How many masters would do this 
for their servant ? Nay, I '11 be sworn, I have 
sat in the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, 
otherwise he had been executed : I have stood 
on the pillory for geese he hath killed, other- 
wise he had suffer'd for 't : thou thinkest not of 
this now ! Nay, I remember the trick you 
served me when I took my leave of Madam 
Silvia ; did not I bid thee still mark me and do 
as I do ? When didst thou see me heave up 
my leg and make water against a gentle- 
woman's farthingale? didst thou ever see me 
do such a trick ? 



44 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT iv. 



Enter PROTEUS and JULIA. 

Pro. Sebastian is thy name ? I like thee well, 

And will employ thee in some service presently. 

JuL In whatyou please ; I willdo what I can. 

Pro. I hope thou wilt. How now, you whore- 
son peasant? \To LAUNCE. 
Where have you been these two days loitering? 

Laun. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia 
the dog you bade me. 

Pro. And what says she to my little jewel? 

Laun. Marry, she says your dog was a cur ; 
and tells you currish thanks is good enough for 
such a present. 

Pro. But she received my dog? 

Laun. No, indeed, she did not ; here have I 
brought him back again. 

Pro. What ! didst thou offer her this from me ? 

Laun. Ay, sir ; the other squirrel was stolen 
from me by the hangman's boys in the market- 
place : and then I offer'd her mine own ; who 
is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore 
the gift the greater. 

Pro. Go, get thee hence andfindmy dogagain, 
Or ne'er return again into my sight. 
Away, I say. Stay'st thou to vex me here? 
A slave, that still an end turns me to shame. 

[Exit LAUNCE. 

Sebastian, I have entertain'd thee, 
Partly that I have need of such a youth 
That can with some discretion do my business, 
For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout ; 
But, chiefly, for thy face and thy behaviour, 
Which if my augury deceive me not 
Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth : 
Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee. 
Go presently, and take this ring with thee, 
Deliver it to Madam Silvia : 
She loved me well deliver'd it to me. 

ful. It seems you loved not her, to leave her 

token : 
She 's dead, belike. 

Pro. Not so : I think she lives. 

Jul. Alas! 

Pro. Why dost thou cry, Alas ! 

Jul. I cannot choose but pity her. 

Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? 

Jul. Because, methinks, that she loved you 

as well 

As you do love your lady Silvia : 
She dreams on him that has forgot her love ; 
You dote on her that cares not for your love. 
'Tis pity love should be so contrary ; 
And thinking on it makes me cry, Alas ! 

Pro. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal 
This letter ;~ that . 's her chamber. Tell my lady 
I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. 



Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, 
Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary. 

[Exit PROTEUS. 
JuL How many women would do such a 

message ? 

Alas, poor Proteus ! thou hast entertain'd 
A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs ; 
Alas, poor fool ! why do I pity him 
That with his very heart despiseth me? 
Because he loves her, he despiseth me ; 
Because I love him, I must pity him. 
This ring I gave him, when he parted from me, 
To bind him to remember my good will : 
And now am I unhappy messenger 
To plead for that which I would not obtain ; 
To carry that which I would have refused ; 
To praise his faith, which I would have dispraised. 
I am my master's true confirmed love, 
But cannot be true servant to my master 
Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 
Yet will I woo for him ; but yet so coldly 
As, heaven it knows, I woxtld not have him speed. 

Enter SILVIA, attended. 

Gentlewoman, good day! Iprayyou, bemy mean 
To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. 

Sil. What would you with her if that I be she? 

Jul. If you be she I do entreat your patience 
To hear me speak the message I am sent on. 
Sil. From whom? 

JuL From my master, Sir Proteus, madam, 

Siil. Oh ! he sends you for a picture ? 

JuL Ay, madam. 

Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there. 

[Picture brought. 

Go, give your master this : tell him from me, 
One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, 
Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. 

Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter. 
Pardon me, madam ; I have unadvised 
Delivered you a paper that I should not. 
This is the letter to your ladyship. 

Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again. 

Jul. It may not be ; good madam, pardon me- 

Sil. There, hold. 

I will not look upon your master's lines : 
I know they are sturFd with protestations, 
And full of new-found oaths; which he will break 
As easily as I do tear his paper. [ring. 

JuL Madam, he sends your ladyship this 

Sil. The more shame for him that he sends 

it me; 

For I have heard him say a thousand times 
His Julia gave it him at his departure : 
Though his false finger have profaned the ring, 
Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong, 

JuL She thanks you. 



SCENE IV. 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



45, 



/* 

Whe 



Wh 



Sil. What say'st thou ? 

Jul, I thank you, madam, that you tender her : 
Poor gentle woman ! my master wrongs her much. 

Sil. Dost thou know her ? 

Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself : 
To think pon her woes, I do protest, 
That I have wept an hundred several times. 

Sil. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath for- 
sook her. [sorrow. 

//. I think she doth, and that 's her cause of 

Sil. Is she not passing fair ? 

Tul She hath been fairer, madam , than she is : 
Then she did think my master loved her well, 
She, in my judgment, was as fair as you ; 
But since she did neglect her looking-glass, 
And threw her sun-expelling mask away, 
The air hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks, 
And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face, 
That now she is become as black as I. 

Sil. How tall was she ? 

l. About my stature : for at Pentecost, 
fhen all our pageants of delight were play'd, 
Our youth got me to play the woman's part, 
And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown ; 
Which serv'd me as fit, by all men's judgment, 
As if the garment had been made for me : 
Therefore, I know she is about my height. 
And at that time I made her weep a-good, 
For I did play a lamentable part ; 
Madam, 'twas Ariadne, passioning 
For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight ; 
Which I so lively acted with my tears 
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, 
Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead 
If I in thought felt not her very sorrow ! 

Sil, She is beholden to thee, gentle youth ! 
Alas, poor lady ! desolate and left ! 
I weep myself, to think upon thy words. 
Here, youth, there is my purse : I give thee this 
For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lov'st 

her. 
Farewell. {Exit SILVIA. 

Jul. And she shall thank you for 't if e'er you 

know her. 

A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful. 
I hope my master's suit will be but cold, 
Since she respects my mistress' love so much. 
Alas, how love can trifle with itself ! 
Here is her picture. Let me see ; I think, 
If I had such a tire, this face of mine 
Were full as lovely as is this of hers : 
And yet the painter flatter'd her a little, 
Unless I flatter with myself too much. 
Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow : 
If that be all the difference in his love, 
I '11 get me such a colour'd periwig. 
Her eyes are grey as glass ; and so are mine : 



Ay, but her forehead 's low, and mine 's as high. 
What should it be that he respects in her 
But I can make respective in myself, 
If this fond love were not a blinded god ? 
Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, 
For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, 
Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, lov'd, and 

ador'd ; 

And were there sense in his idolatry 
My substance should be statue in thy stead. 
I '11 use thee kindly for thy mistress* sake, 
That used me so ; or else, by Jove I vow, 
I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes, 
To make my master out of love with thee. 

{Exit. 

ACT V. 

SCENE I. The same.- An Abbey. 
Enter EGLAMOUR. 

Egl. The sun begins to gild the western sky : 
And now it is about the very hour 
That Silvia at Patrick's cell should meet me. 
She will not fail for love break not hours, 
Unless it be to come before their time ; 
So much they spur their expedition. 

Enter SILVIA. 

See where she comes : Lady, a happy evening! 

Sil. Amen, amen ! go on, good Eglamour ! 
Out at the postern by the abbey wall ; 
I fear I am attended by some spies. [off! 

Egl. Fear not : the forest is not three leagues 
If we recover that, we are sure enough. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE II. The same. An Apartment in the 
DUKE'S Palace. 

: : f i - r; R J. V! *t\'j9"-: J'.T t~' ' ' 1 tf- f fl 1 ( i i I 

Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA. 
Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ? 
Pro, O, sir, I find her milder than she was ; 
And yet she takes exceptions at your person. 
Thu. What ! that my leg is too long ? 
Pro. No ; that it is too little. [rounder. 

Thu. I '11 wear a boot to make it somewhat 
Pro. But love will not be spurr'd to what it 

loaths. 

Thu. What says she to my face ? 

Pro. She says it is a fair one. [black. 

Thu. Nay, then, the wanton lies ; my face is 

Pro. But pearls are fair ; and the old saying is, 

Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. 

Jul. 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies 

eyes; 
For I had rather wink than look on them. 

>J wod 5>ra b'ai&^W(h 



4 6 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT v. 



Thu. How likes she my discourse? 
Pro. Ill when you talk of war. [peace ? 

Thu. But well when I discourse of love and 
JuL But better, indeed, when you hold your 

peace. [Aside. 

Thu. What says she to my valour? 
Pro. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 
JuL She needs not, . when she knows it 

cowardice. [Aside. 

Thu. What says she to my birth ? 
Pro. That you are well derived. 
JuL True;fromagentlemantoafool. [Aside. 
Thu. Considers she my possessions ? 
Pro. O, ay ; and pities them. 
Thu. Wherefore ? 

JuL That such an ass should owe them. [Aside. 
Pro. That they are out by lease. 
JuL Here comes the Duke. 

Enter DUKE. 

Duke. How now, Sir Proteus? how now, 

Thurio ? 
Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late ? 

Thu. Not I. 

Pro. Nor I. 

Duke. Saw you my daughter ? 

Pro. Neither. 

Duke. Why, then she 's fled unto that peasant 

Valentine ; 

And Eglamour is in her company. 
'Tis true ; for Friar Lawrence met them both, 
As he in penance wander'd through the forest : 
Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she ; 
But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it : 
Besides, she did intend confession 
At Patrick's cell this even ; and there she was not : 
These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence : 
Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, 
But mount you presently ; and meet with me 
Upon the rising of the mountain -foot 
That leads to wards Mantua, whither they are fled. 
Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [Exit. 

Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl, 
That flies her fortune when it follows her : 
I '11 after ; more to be revenged on Eglamour 
Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [Exit. 

Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love 
Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [ Exit. 

JuL And I will follow, more to cross that love 
Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [Exit. 

SCENE III. Frontiers of MANTUA. The Forest. 
Enter SILVIA, and Outlaws. 

i Out. Come, come ; 
Be patient ; we must bring you to our captain. 

SiL A thousand more mischances than this one 
Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently. 



2 Out. Come, bring her away. 

1 Out. Where is the gentleman that was with 

her ? [us, 

2 Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath out-run 
But Moyses and Valerius follow him. 

Go thou with her to the west end of the wood ; 
There is our captain : we'll follow him that's fled. 
The thicket is beset ; he cannot 'scape. 

I Out. Come, I must bring you to our cap- 
tain's cave ; 

Fear not ; he bears an honourable mind, 
And will not use a woman lawlessly. 

SiL O Valentine, this I endure for thee. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE IN. Another part of the Forest. 
Enter VALENTINE. 

Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns 
Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 
And to the nightingale's complaining notes 
Tune my distresses and record my woes. 
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, 
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless; 
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall, 
And leave no memory of what it was ! 
Repair me with thy presence, Silvia ; 
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain ! 
What halloing and what stir is this to-day ! [law, 
These are my mates, that make their wills their 
Have some unhappy passenger in chase : 
They love me well ; yet I have much to do 
To keep them from uncivil outrages. 
Withdraw thee, Valentine; who's this comes 
here ? [Steps aside. 

Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA. 
Pro. Madam, this service I have done for 

you, [doth, 

Though you respect not aught your servant 
To hazard life, and rescue you from him [love. 
That would have forced your honour and your 
Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look ; 
A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, 
And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 
Val. How like a dream is this I see and hear J 
Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. 

[Aside. 

SiL O miserable, unhappy that I am ! 
Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came ; 
But, by my coming, I have made you happy. 
SiL By thy approach thou makest me most 

unhappy. 

/#/. And me, when he approacheth to your 
presence. [Aside. 

SiL Had I been seized by a hungry lion, 



SCENE IV.] 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



47 



I would have been a breakfast to the beast, 
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 
O, heaven be judge how I love Valentine, 
Whose life 's as tender to me as my soul ; 
And full as much, for more there cannot be, 
I do detest false, perjured Proteus : 
Therefore begone : solicit me no more. 

Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to 

death, 

Would I not undergo for one calm look ? 
O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved, 
When women cannot love where they 're be- 
loved, [beloved. 

SiL When Proteus cannot love where he's 
Read over Julia 's heart, thy first best love, 
For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith 
Into a thousand oaths ; and all those oaths 
Descended into perjury, to love me. [two, 

Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou hadst 
And that 's far worse than none ; better have none 
Than plural faith, which is too much by one : 
Thou counterfeit to thy true friend ! 

Pro. In love, 

Who respects friends ? 

SiL All men but Proteus. 

Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 
Can no way change you to a milder form, 
I '11 woo you like a soldier, at arms' end ; [you. 
And love you 'gainst the nature of love force 

Sil. O heaven ! 

Pro. I '11 force thee yield to my desire. 

VaL Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch ; 
Thou friend of an ill fashion ! 

Pro. Valentine ! 

VaL Thou common friend, that 's without 

faith or love, 

For such is a friend now ; treacherous man ! 
Thou hast beguil'd my hopes ; nought but mine 

eye 

Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say 
I have one friend alive ; thou wouldst disprove 
me. [hand 

Who should be trusted now, when one's right 
Is perjured to the bosom ? Proteus, 
I am sorry I must never trust thee more, 
But count the world a stranger for thy sake, 
f he private wound is deepest: O time, most curst! 
'Mongstall foes, that a friend should be the worst. 

Pro. My shame and guilt confound me. 
Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow 
Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 
I tender it here ; I do as truly suffer 
As e'er I did commit. 

VaL Then I am paid ; 

And once again I do receive thee honest. 
Who by repentance is not satisfied 
Is nor of heaven nor earth ; for these are pleased; 



By penitence the Eternal's wrath 's appeas'd : 
And, that my love may appear plain and free, 
All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. 

Jul. O, me, unhappy ! [Faints. 

Pro. Look to the boy. [is the matter ? 

VaL Why, boy ! why, wag ! how now? what 
Look up ; speak. 

Jul. O good sir, my master charged me 

To deliver a ring to Madam Silvia ; 
Which, out of my neglect, was never done. 
Pro. Where is that ring, boy? 

Jul. Here 'tis : this is it. 

[Gives a ring. 

Pro. How ! let me see : 
Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. 

Jiil. O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook ; 
This is the ring you sent to Silvia. 

[Shows another ring. 

Pro. But how earnest thou by this ring ? at 

my depart 
I gave this unto Julia. 

Jul. And Julia herself did give it me ; 
And Julia herself hath brought it hither. 

Pro. How ! Julia ! 

Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, 
And entertain'd them deeply in her heart : 
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root ? 
O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush ! 
Be thou asham'd that I have took upon me 
Such an immodest raiment ; if shame live 
In a disguise of love : 

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, [minds. 
Women to change their shapes, than men their 

Pro. Than men their minds ! 'tis true ; O 

heaven ! were man 

But constant, he were perfect : that one error 
Fills him with faults ; makes him run through 

all th' sins : 

Inconstancy falls off ere it begins : 
What is in Silvia's face but I may spy 
More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye ? 
VaL Come, come, a hand from either : 
Let me be blest to make this happy close : 
'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes. 

Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish 
for ever. 

Jul. And I have mine. 

Enter Outlaws, with DUKE and THURIO. 

Out. A prize, a prize, a prize '. 

VaL Forbear, I say ; it is my lord the duke. 
Your grace is welcome to a man disgrac'd, 
Banished Valentine. 

Duke. Sir Valentine ! 

Thu. Yonder is Silvia ; and Silvia 's mine. 

VaL Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy 
death ; 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



[ACT v. 



Come not within the measure of my wrath : 
Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again, 
Milan shall not behold thee. Here she stands, 
Take but possession of her with a touch ; 
I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. 

Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I ; 
I hold him but a fool that will endanger 
His body for a girl that loves him not : 
I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 

Duke. The more degenerateand baseart thou, 
To make such means for her as thou hast done, 
And leave her on such slight conditions. 
Now, by the honour of my ancestry, 
I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 
And think thee worthy of an empress' love. 
Know then, I here forget all former griefs, 
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again. 
Plead a new state in thy unrivall'd merit, 
To which I thus subscribe, Sir Valentine, 
Thou art a gentleman, and well derived ; 
Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv'd her. 

Val. I thank your grace : the gift hath made 

me happy. 

I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake, 
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 

Duke. I grant it for thine own, whate'er it be. 



i'V i/oj te 



rwrm^t Jzabommi OB rfonr: 



T: . 



Val. These banish'd men, that I have kept 

withal, 

Are men endued with worthy qualities ; 
Forgive them what they have committed here, 
And let them be recall'd from their exile : 
They are reform'd, civil, full of good, 
And fit for great employment, worthy lord. 

Duke. Thou hast prevail'd ; I pardon them. 

and thee ; 

Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts. 
Come, let us go ; we will include all jars 
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. 

Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold 
With our discourse to make your grace to smile: 
What think you of this page, my lord ? 

Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him ; he 
blushes. [than boy. 

Val. I warrant you, my lord ; more grace 

Duke. What mean you by that saying ? 

Val. Please you, I'll tell you, as we passalong, 
That you will wonder what hath fortuned. 
Come, Proteus : 'tis your penance, but to hear 
The story of your loves discovered : 
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours ; 
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. 

[Exeunt, 
ft on 'uO 

:;{?1i*>-tl 11*1 



ilweO 
vcd 1 

off// 
Li 









MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



T. >r 



SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 

FENTON. 

SHALLOW, a Country Justice. 

SLENDER, Cousin to SHALLOW. 

MR. FORD, j two Gentlemen dwelling 

MR. PAGE, ( Windsor. 

WILLIAM PAGE, a boy, Son to MR. PAGE. 

SIR HUGH EVANS, a Welsh Parson. 

DR. CAIUS, a French Physician. 

Host of the Garter Inn. 

BARDOLPH, ) 

PISTOL, \ Followers ^FALSTAFF. 

NYM, ) 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 

ROBIN, Page to FALSTAFF. 
SIMPLE, Servant to SLENDER. 
RUGBY, Servant to DR. CAIUS. 



at 



MRS. FORD. 
MRS. PAGE. 

MRS. ANNE PAGE, her Daughter, in to 
with FENTON. 



MRS. QUICKLY, Servant to DR. CAIUS. 
Servants to PAGE, FORD, &c. 



SCENE, WINDSOR ; and the parts adjacent. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. WINDSOR. Before PAGE'S House. 

Enter Justice SHALLOW, SLENDER, and Sir 
HUGH EVANS. 

Shal. Sir Hugh, persuade me not ; I will 
make a Star-chamber matter of it ; if he were 
twenty Sir John Falstaffs he shall not abuse 
Robert Shallow, esquire. 

Slen. In the county of Gloster, justice of 
peace, and coram. 

Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and Custalorum. 

Slen. Ay, and Ratolorum too ; and a gentle- 
man born, master parson ; who writes himself 
Arniigero ; in any bill, warrant, quittance, or 
obligation, Armigero ! 

Shal. Ay, that we do ; and have done any 
time these three hundred years. 

Slen. All his successors, gone before him, 
have done 't ; and all his ancestors, that come 
after him, may: they may give the dozen white 
luces in their coat. 

Shal. It is an old coat. 

Eva. The dozen white louses do become an 
old coat well ; it agrees well, passant : it is a 
familiar beast to man, and signifies love. 

Shal. The luce is the fresh fish : the salt fish 
is an old coat. 

Slen. I may quarter, coz ? 

Shal. You may, by marrying. 

Eva. It is marrying indeed, if he quarter it. 

Shal. Not a whit. 

Eva. Yes, py'r lady ; if he has a quarter of 
your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, 



in my simple conjectures : but this is all one. 
If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparage- 
ments unto you, I am of the church, and will 
be glad to do my benevolence to make atone- 
ments and compromises between you. 

Shal. The Council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Eva. It is not meet the Council hear a riot ; 
there is no fear of Got in a riot ; the Council, look 
you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not 
to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. 

Shal. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, 
the sword should end it. 

Eva. It is petter that friends is the sword, 
and end it : and there is also another device in 
my prain, which, peradventure, prings goot dis- 
cretions with it. There is Anne Page, which 
is daughter to Master George Page, which is 
pretty virginity. 

Slen. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown 
hair, and speaks small like a woman. 

Eva. It is that fery person for all the 'orld, 
as just as you will desire ; and seven hundred 
pounds of monies, and gold, and silver, is her 
grandsire, upon his death's bed, (Got deliver to 
a joyful resurrection !) give, when she is able 
to overtake seventeen years old : it were a goot 
motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles 
and desire a marriage between Master Abraham 
and Mistress Anne Page. 

Shal. Did her grandsire leave her seven 
hundred pound? [penny. 

Eva. Ay, and her father is make her a petter 

Shal. I know the young gentlewoman ; she 
has good gifts. 






MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT i. 



Eva. Seven hundred pounds, and possibili- 
ties, is goot gifts. 

Shal. Well, let us see honest Master Page. 
Is Falstaff there ? 

Eva. Shall I tell you a lie ? I do despise a 
liar as I do despise one that is false ; or, as I 
despise one that is not true. The knight, Sir 
John, is there ; and, I beseech you, be ruled 
by your well-willers. I will peat the door 
[knocks] for Master Page. What, hoa ! Got 
pless your house here ! 



Enter . 

Page. Who's there ? 

Eva. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, 
and Justice Shallow : and here young Master 
Slender; that, peradventures, shall tell you 
another tale, if matters grow to your likings. 

Page. I am glad to see your worships well : 
I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. 

Shal. Master Page, I am glad to see you ; 
much good do it your good heart ! I wished 
your venison better; it was ill killed: How 
doth good Mistress Page? and I love you 
always with my heart, la ; with my heart. 

Page. Sir, I thank you. 

Shal. Sir, I thank you ; by yea and no, I do. 

Page. I am glad to see you, good Master 
Slender. 

Slen. How does your fallow greyhound, sir ? 
I heard say he was outrun on Cotsale. 

Page. It could not be judged, sir. 

Slen. You '11 not confess ; you '11 not confess. 

Shal. That he will not ; 'tis your fault ; 'tis 
your fault : 'Tis a good dog. 

Page. A cur, sir. 

Shal. Sir, he 's a good dog, and a fair dog. 
Can there be more said ? he is good, and fair. 
Is Sir John Falstaff here ? 

Page. Sir, he is within ; and I would I could 
do a good office between you. 

Eva. It isspoke asaChristians oughttospeak. 

Shal. He hath wronged me, Master Page. 

Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. 

Shal. If it be confessed, it is not redressed; 
is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged 
me; indeed he hath; at a word he hath; 
believe me ; Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he 
is wronged. 

Page. Here comes Sir John. 

Enter Sir JOHN FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, NYM, 
and PISTOL. 

Fal. Now, Master Shallow ; you '11 complain 
of me to the king ? 

Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed 
my deer, and broke open my lodge. 



Fal. But not kissed your keeper's daughter ? 

Shal* Tut, a pin ! this shall be answered. 

Fal. I will answer it straight ; I have done 
all this : That is now answered. 

Shal. The Council shall know this. 

Fal. 'Twere better for you if it were known 
in counsel : you '11 be laughed at. 

Eva. Pauca verba, Sir John, goot worts. 

Fal. Good worts ! good cabbage. Slender, 
I broke your head ; what matter have you 
against me ? 

Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head 
against you ; and against your coney-catching 
rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They 
carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, 
and afterwards picked my pocket. 

Bard. You Banbury cheese ! 

Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 

Pist. How now, Mephostophilus ? 

Slen. Ay, it is nc matter. 

Nym. Slice, I say ! pauca^pauca; slice ! that 's 
my humour. [tell, cousin ? 

Slen. Where 's Simple, my man ? can you 

Eva. Peace: I pray you! Now let us under- 
stand. There is three umpires in this matter, 
as I understand: that is Master Page,yW?//V, 
Master Page ; and there is myself, fidelidt, my- 
self ; and the three party is, lastly and finally, 
mine host of the Garter. [tween them. 

Page. We three to hear it, and end it be- 

Eva. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it in 
my note-book; and we will afterwards 'ork upon 
the cause, with as great discreetly as we can. 

Fal. Pistol, 

Pist. He hears with ears. 

Eva. The tevil and his tarn ! what phrase is 
this, He hears with ear? Why, it is affectations. 

Fal. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's 
purse ? 

Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, (or I would 
I might never come in mine own great chamber 
again else,) of seven groats in mill-sixpences, 
and two Edward shovel -boards, that cost me 
two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yead 
Miller, by these gloves. 

Fal. Is this true, Pistol ? 

Eva. No ; it is false, if it is a pick-purse. 

Pist. Ha, thou mountain - foreigner ! Sir 

John, and master mine, 
I combat challenge of this latten bilbo: 
Word of denial in thy labras here ; 
Word of denial : froth and scum, thou liest. 

Slen. By these gloves, then, 'twas he. 

Nym. Beadvised, sir, and pass good humours: 
I will say, marry trap, with you, if you run the 
nuthook's humour on me: that is the very note 
of it 



SCENE I.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



Slen. By this hat, then, he in the red face 
had it : for though I cannot remember what I 
did when you made me drunk, yet I am not 
altogether an ass. 

Fal. What say you, Searlet and John ? 

Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentle- 
man had drunk himself out of his five sentences. 

Eva. It is his five senses ; fie, what the igno- 
rance is ! 

Bard. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, 
cashiered: and so conclusions passed the careires. 

Slen. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis 
no matter : I '11 ne'er be drunk whilst I live again, 
but in honest, civil , godly company, for this trick. 
If I be drunk, I 'll be drunk with those that have 
the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. 

Eva. So Got 'udge me, that is a virtuousmind. 

Fal. You hear all these matters denied, gentle- 
men ; you hear it. 

Enter Mrs. ANNE PAGE with wine , Mrs. 
FORD and Mrs. PAGE following. 

Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in ; we'll 
drink within. [Exit ANNE PAGE. 

Slen. O heaven ! this is Mistress Anne Page. 

Page. How now, Mistress Ford ? 

Fal. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very 
well met: by your leave, good mistress. 

[Kissing her. 

Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome : 
Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner ; 
come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down 
all unkindness. 

[Exenn( all but SHAL. , SLEN. , 
and EVANS. 

Slen, I had rather than forty shillings I had 
my Book of Songs and Sonnets here. 

Enter SIMPLE. 

How now, Simple ! Where have you been ? I 
must wait on myself, must I? You have not The 
Book of Riddles about you, have you? 

Situ. Book of Riddles ! why, did you not lend 
it to Alice Shortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a 
fortnight afore Michaelmas ? 

Shal. Come, coz ; come, coz ; we stay for you. 
A word with you, coz; marry this, coz; there is, 
as 'twere, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar 
off by Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me? 

Slen. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if 
it be so, I shall do that that is reason. 

Shal. Nay, but understand me. 

Slen. So I do, sir. 

Eva. Give ear to his motions, Master Slender : 
I will description the matter to you, if you be 
capacity of it. 

Slen. N ay , I will do as my cousin Shallow says : 



I pray you, pardon me ; he 's a justice of peace 
in his couatry, simple though I stand here. 

Eva. But this is not the question ; the question 
is concerning ycur marriage. 

Shal. Ay, there ; s the point, sir. 

Eva. Marry is it ; the very point of it ; to 
Mistress Anne Page. 

Slen. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon 
any reasonable demands. 

Eva. But can you affection the 'oman? Let us 
command to know that of your mouth, or of your 
lips ; for divers philosophers hold that the lips 
is parcel of the mouth. Therefore, precisely, 
can you carry your good will to the maid ? 

Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love 
her? 

Slen. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall be- 
come one that would do reason. 

Eva. Nay, Got's lords and his ladies, you 
must speak possitable if you can carry her your 
desires towards her. 

Shal. That you must. Will you, upon good 
dowry, marry her ? 

Slen. I will do a greater thing than that upon 
your request, cousin, in any reason. 

Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet 
coz ; what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can 
you love the maid? 

Slen. I will marry her, sir, atyour request ; but 
if there be no great love in the beginning, yet 
Heaven may decrease it upon better acquaint- 
ance, when we are married, and have more oc- 
casion to know one another. I hope, upon 
familiarity will grew more contempt : but if you 
say, marry her, I will marry her, that I am freely 
dissolved, and dissolutely. 

Eva. It is a fery discretion answer ; save, ihe 
faul' is in the 'ort dissolutely : the 'ort is, accord- 
ing to our meaning, resolutely ; his meaning is 
good. 

Shal. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. [la. 

Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, 

Re-enter ANNE PAGE. 

Shal Here comes fair Mistress Anne. Would 
I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne ! 

Anne. The dinner is on the table ; my father 
desires your worships' company. 

Shal. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne. 

Eva. Od's plessed will ! I will not be absence 
at the grace. 

[Exeunt SHAL. and Str H. EVANS. 

Ann* Will 't please your worship to come in, 
sir? [am very well. 

Sltn. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily ; I 

Anne. The dinner attends you, sir. 

Sten. I am not a-hungry , I thank you, forsooth. 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT i. 



Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon 
my cousin Shallow. [Exit SIMPLE. ] A justice 
of peace sometime may be beholden to his 
friend for a man. I keep but three men and a 
boy yet, till my mother be dead : but what 
though ? yet I live like a poor gentleman born. 

Anne. I may not go in without your worship ; 
they will not sit till you come. 

Slen. I' faith, I '11 eat nothing ; I thank you 
as much as though I did. 

Anne. I pray you, sir, walk in. 

Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you ; I 
bruised my shin the other day with playing at 
sword and dagger with a master of fence, three 
veneys for a dish of stewed prunes ; and, by my 
troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. 
Why do your dogs bark so ? be there bears i' 
the town ? [talked of. 

Anne. I think there are, sir ; I heard them 

Slen. I love the sport well ; but 1 shall as soon 
quarrel at it as any man in England : You are 
afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not ? 

Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. 

Slen. That'smeatanddrinktomenow. I have 
seen Sackerson loose twenty times ; and have 
taken him by the chain: but, I warrant you, the 
women have so cried and shrieked at it that it 
passed : but women, indeed, cannot abide 'em ; 
they are very ill-favoured rough things. 

Re-enter PAGE. 

Page. Come, gentle Master Slender, come ; 
we stay for you. 

Slen, I '11 eat nothing, I thank you, sir. 

Page. By cock and pye, you shall not choose, 
sir: come, come. 

Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way. 

Page. Come on, sir. 

Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. 

Anne. Not I, sir ; pray you, keep on. 

Slen. Truly, I will not go first ; truly, la : I 
will not do you that wrong. 

Anne. I pray you, sir. 

Slen. I '11 rather be unmannerly than trouble- 
some : you do yourself wrong indeed, la. 

^Exeunt. 

SCENE II. The same. 
Enter Sir HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE. 

Eva. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' 
house which is the way: and there dwells one 
Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his 
nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his 
laundry, his washer, and his wringer. 

Simp. Well, sir. 

Eva. Nay, it is petter yet: give her this 
letter ; for it is a 'oman that altogether "s acquain- 
tance with Mistress Anne Page t and the letter 



is, to desire and require her to solicit your master's 
desires to Mistress Anne Page : I pray you, be- 
gone ; I will make an end of my dinner ; there 's 
pippins and cheese to come. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. A Room in the GARTER INN. 

Enter FALSTAFF, HOST, BARDOLPH, 
PISTOL, and ROBIN. 

- 

Fal. Mine host of the Garter, 

Host. What says my bully-rook? Speak 
scholarly and wisely. 

FaL Truly, mine host, I must turn away some 
of my followers. 

Host. Discard, bully Hercules ; cashier : let 
them wag ; trot, trot. 

Fal. I sit at ten pounds a-week. 

Host. Thou 'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keisar, and 
Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph ; he shall 
draw, he shall tap : said I well, bully Hector ? 

Fal. Do so, good mine host. 

Host. I have spoke ; let him follow. Let me 
see thee froth and lime: I am at a word : follow. 

[Exit HOST. 

Fal. Bardolph, follow him : a tapster is a good 
trade : an old cloak makes a new jerkin ; a 
withered servingman a fresh tapster. Go ; adieu. 

Bard. It is a life that I have desired ; I will 
thrive. [Exit BARDOLPH. 

Pist. O base Gongarian wight ! wilt thou 
the spigot wield ? 

Nym. He was gotten in drink : is not the 
humour conceited? His mind is not heroic, 
and there 's the humour of it. 

Fal. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder- 
box ; his thefts were too open ; his filching was 
like^an unskilful singer ; he kept not time. 

Nym. The good humour is, to steal at a 
minute's rest. 

Pist. Convey, the wise it call : Steal ! foh ; a 
fico for the phrase ! 

Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. 

Pist. Why, then, let kibes ensue. 

Fal. There is no remedy; I must coney- 
catch ; I must shift. 

Pist. Young ravens must have food. 

Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town? 

Pist. I ken the wight ; he is of substance good. 

Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I 
am about. 

Pist. Two yards, and more. 

Fal. No quips now, Pistol. Indeed I am in 
the waist two yards about : but I am now about 
no waste ; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean 
to make love to Ford's wife ; I spy entertainment 
in her ; she discourses, she carves, she gives the 
leer of invitation : I can construe the action of 



SCENE IV.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



her familiar style ; and the hardest voice of her 
behaviour, to be English'd rightly, is, / am Sir 
John Falstaff' s. 

Pi si. He hath studied her well, and translated 
her well ; out of honesty into English, [pass? 

Nj'ni, The anchor is deep: will that humour 

Fal. Now, the report goes, she has all the rule 
of her husband's purse; she hath legions of angels. 

Pist. As many devils entertain ; and, To her, 
day, say L 

Nym. The humour rises ; it is good : humour 
me the angels. 

Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her : and 
here another to Page's wife ; who even now gave 
me good eyes too, examined my parts with most 
judicious eyliads : sometimes the beam of her 
view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. 

Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. 

Nym. I thank thee for that humour. 

FaL O, she did so course o'er my exteriors 
with such a greedy intention, that the appetite 
of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burn- 
ing-glass J Here's another letter to her: she 
bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, 
all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them 
both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they 
shall be my East and West Indies, and I will 
trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter 
to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress 
Ford; we will thrive, lads, we will thrive. 

Pist. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, 
And bymyside wear steel? then, Lucifer take all ! 

Nym. I will run no base humour: here, take 
the humour letter ; I will keep the 'haviour of 
reputation. [letters tightly ; 

FaL Hold, sirrah, [to ROB.,] bear you these 
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. 
Rogues, hence, avaunt 1 vanish like hailstones, 
go ; [pack ! 

Trudge, plod, away, o' the hoof ; seek shelter, 
Falstaff will learn the humour of this age, 
French thrift, you rogues ; myself, and skirted 



page. 



[Exeunt FAL. and ROB. 



Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts ! for gourd 

and fullam holds, 

And high and low beguile the rich and poor ; 
Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, 
Base Phrygian Turk ! 

Nym. I have operations in my head, which 
be humours of revenge. 

Pist. Wilt thou revenge ? 

Nym. By welkin, and her star ! 

Pist. With wit or steel ? 

Nym. With both the humours, I : 
I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. 

Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold, 
How Falstaff, varlet vile, 



His dove will prove, his gold will hold, 

And his soft couch defile. 
Nym. My humour shall not cool : I will in- 
cense Page to deal with poison ; I will possess 
him with yellowness, for the revolt of mien is 
dangerous : that is my true humour. 

Pist. Thou art the Mars of malcontents : I 
second thee ; troop on. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. A Room in Dr. CAIUS'S House. 
Enter Mrs. QUICKLY, SIMPLE, and RUGBY. 

Quick. What: John Rugby! I pray thee go to 
the casement and see if you can see my master, 
Master Doctor Caius, coming : if he do, i' faith, 
and find anybody in the house, here will be an 
old abusing of God's patience and the king's 
English. 

Rug. I '11 go watch. [Exit RUGBY. 

Quick. Go ; and we '11 have a posset for 't soon 
at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal 
fire. An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever 
servant shall come in house withal ; and I war- 
rant you, no tell-tale, nor no breed-bate : his 
worst fault is that he is given to prayer ; be is 
something peevish that way ; but nobody but 
has his fault ; but let that pass. Peter Simple, 
you say your name is ? 

Sim. Ay, for fault of a better. 

Quick. And Master Slender y s your master ? 

Sim. Ay, forsooth. 

Quick. Does he not wear a great round beard, 
like a glover's paring-knife ? 

Sim. No, forsooth: he hath but a little wee face, 
with a little yellow beard ; a Cain-colouredbeard. 

Quick. A softly-sprighted man, is he not ? 

Sim. Ay, forsooth : but he i? as tall a man of 
his hands as any is between this and his head : he 
hath fought with a warrener. 

Quick. How say you ? O , I should remember 
him. Does he not hold up his head, as it were? 
and strut in his gait ? 

Sim. Yes, indeed does he. 

Quick. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse 
fortune ! Tell Master Parson Evans, I will do 
what I can for your master : Anne is a good girl, 
and I wish 

Re-enter RUGBY. 

Rug. Out, alas ! here comes my master. 

Quick. We shall all be shent. Run in here, 
good young man ; go into this closet. [Shuts 
SIMPLE in the closet. ] He will not stay long. 
What, John Rugby ! John, what John, I say ! 
Go, John, go inquire for my master ; I doubt 
he be not well that he comes not home : and 
down t down, adown-a, &c. \Sings. 



54 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT I. 



Enter Dr. CAIUS. 

Caius. Vat is you sing? I do not like dese 
toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet 
un bottier verd ; a box, a green-a box. Do 
intend vat I speak ? a green-a box. 

Quick. Ay,forsooth,I'll fetch it you. lamglad 
he went not in himself: if he had found theyoung 
man, he would have been horn-mad. [Aside. 

Caius. Fe)fe,fc,fe! mafoi, il fait fort chaud. 
fe irfen vats a la Cour y la grande affaire. 

Quick. Is it this, sir ? 

Caius. Ouy; incite leau mon pocket : depeche, 
quickly : Vere is dat knave, Rugby ? 

Quick. What, John Rugby ! John ? 

Rug. Here, sir. 

Caius. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack 
Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come 
after my heel to de court. 

Rug. 'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. 

Caius. By my trot, I tarry too long: Od'sme ! 
Qrfayf oublie? dere is some simples in my closet 
dat I viil not for the varld I shall leave behind. 

Quick. Ah me! he'll find the young man 
there, and be mad ! 

Caius. Odiable, diable ! vat is in my closet? 
Villany! larron! {Pulling SIMPLE out.} Rugby, 
my rapier. 

Quick. Good master, be content. 

Caius. Verefore shall I be content-a ! 

Quick. The young man is an honest man. 

Caius. Vat shall de honest mando in my closet ? 
dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. 

Quick. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic ; 
hear the truth of it. He came of an errand to 
me from Parson Hugh. 

Caius. Veil? 

Sim. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to 

Quick. Peace, I pray you. [tale. 

Caius. Peace-a your tongue : Speak -a your 

Sim. To desire this honestgentlewoman, your 
maid, tospeakagood word toMistress Anne Page 
for my master, in the way of marriage. 

Quick. This is all, indeed, la; but I'll ne'er 
put my finger in the fire, and need not. 

Caius. Sir Hugh send-a you ? Rugby, baillez 
me some paper. Tarry you a little-a while. 

[Writes. 

Quick. I am glad he is so quiet : if he had been 
thoroughly moved, you should have heard him so 
loud, and so melancholy; but notwithstanding, 
man, I '11 do your master whatgood I can: and the 
very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my 
master, I may call him my master, look you, for 
I keep his house : and I wash, wring, brew, bake, 
scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and 
do all myself : 



Sim. 'Tis a great charge to come under one 
body's hand. 

Quick. Are you avised o' that? you shall find 
it a great charge : and to be up early and down 
late; but notwithstanding, to tell you in 
your ear ; I would have no words of it, my 
master himself is in love with Mistress Anne 
Page : but notwithstanding that, I know 
Anne's mind, that's neither here nor there. 

Caius. You jack'nape ; give-a dis letter to Sir 
Hugh ; by gar, it is a shallenge ; I will cut his 
troat in de park ; and I vill teach a scurvy jack - 
a-nape priest to meddle or make : you may be 
gone ; it is not good you tarry here : by gar, 
I vill cut all his two stones ; by gar, he shall 
not have a stone to trow at his dog. 

[Exit SIMPLE. 

Quick. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. 

Caius. It is no matter -a for dat: do not 
you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for 
myself? by gar, I will kill de Jack priest; 
and I have appointed mine host of de Jar- 
terre to measure our weapon : by gar, I vill 
myself have Anne Page. 

Quick. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall 
be well : we must give folks leave to prate. 
What, the good-jer ! 

Cius. Rugby, come to de court vit me. By 

gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your 

head out of my door : follow my heels, Rugby. 

[Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY. 

Quick. You shall have An fool's-head of your 
own. No, I know Anne's mind for that : never a 
woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind 
than I do ; nor can do more than I do with her, I 
thank heaven. 

Pent. [ Within.'} Who's within there ? ho ! 

Quick. Who's there, I trow? Come near the 
house, I pray you. 

Enter FENTON. 

Pent. How now, good woman; how dost thou ? 

Quick. The better that it pleases your good 
worship to ask. [Anne ? 

Pent. What news ? How does pretty Mistress 

Quick. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and 
honest, and gentle ; and one that is your friend, I 
can tell you that by the way ; I praise heaven for 
it. [Shall I not lose my suit ? 

Pent. Shall I do any good, think'st thou? 

Quick. Troth, sir, all is in his hands above: 
but notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I '11 be 
sworn on a book she loves you : Have not your 
worship a wart above your eye ? 

Pent. Yes, marry, have I ; what of that ? 

Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale ; good faith, 
it is such another Nan ; but, I detest, an honest 



SCENE IV.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



55 



maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour's talk 
of that wart : I shall never laugh but in that 
maid's company ! But, indeed, she is given too 
much to allicholly and musing : But for you 
Well, go to. 

Pent. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, 
there's money for thee ; let me have thy voice 
in my behalf : if thou seest her before me, com- 
mend me 

Quick. Will I ? i' faith, that we will ; andl will 
tell your worship more of the wart the next time 
we have confidence ; and of other wooers. 

Pent. Well, farewell ; I am in great haste 
now. [Exit. 

Quick. Farewell to your worship. Truly, an 
honest gentleman ; but Anne loves him not ; for 
I know Anne's mind as well as another does : 
Out upon't I what have I forgot? [Exit. 

:'l?b.T" v ?^mo? oriw JioxI ^ 331050 ^snriiD 

ACT II. 

SCENE I. Before PAGE'S House. 
Enter Mrs. PAGE, with a letter. 

Mrs. Page. What ! have I 'scaped love-letters 
in the holiday time of my beauty, and am I now 
a subject for them ? Let me see : [Reads. 

Ask me no reason why I love you ; for though love 
use reason for his precisian he admits him net for his 
counsellor. You are not young ; no more am I; go to then, 
there s sympathy; you are merry; so am I. Halhalthen 
there's more sympathy ; you love sack, and so do I. 
Would you desire better sympathy ? Let it suffice thee, 
Mistress Page, (at the least, if the love of a soldier can 
suffice,) that I love thee. I will not say, pity me : 'tis not 
a soldier-like phrase : but I say s love me. By me, 

Thine own true knight, 

By day or night, 

Or any kind of light, 

With all his might, 

For thee to fight, JOHN FALSTAFF. 

What a Herod of Jewry is this ? O wicked, 
wicked world ! one that is well-nigh worn to 
pieces with age to show himself a young gallant ! 
What an un weighed behaviour hath this Flemish 
drunkard picked (with the devil's name) out of 
my conversation, that he dares in this manner 
assay me ? Why, he hath not been thrice in my 
company ! What should I say to him ? I was 
then frugal of my mirth : heaven forgive me ! 
Why, I '11 exhibit a bill in the parliament 
for the putting down of men. How shall I be 
revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as 
sure as his guts are made of puddings. 

Enter Mrs. FORD. 

Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page 1 trust me, I was 
going to your house 1 



Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to 
you. You look very ill. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I 
have to show to the contrary. 

Mrs. Page. 'Faith, but you do, in my 
mind. 

Mrs. Ford. Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I 
could show you to the contrary. O, Mistress 
Page, give me some counsel ! 

Mrs. Page. What 's the matter, woman ? 

Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one 
trifling respect, I could come to such honour ! 

Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman ; take the 

honour. What is it ? dispense with trifles ; 

what is it ? 

Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an 
eternal moment, or so, I could be knighted. 

Mrs. Page. What? thou liest! Sir Alice 
Ford ! These knights will hack ; and so thou 
shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. 

Mrs. Ford. We burn day-light : here, read, 
read; perceive how I might be knighted. I 
shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have 
an eye to make difference of men's liking. And 
yet he would not swear ; praised women's mod- 
esty : and gave such orderly and well-behaved 
reproof to all uncomeliness, that I would have 
sworn his disposition would have gone to the 
truth of his words ; but they do no more ad- 
here and keep place together than the hundreth 
psalm to the tune of Green sleeves. What tem- 
pest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many 
tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? 
How shall I be revenged on him? I think the 
best way were to entertain him with hope till 
the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his 
own grease. Did you ever hear the like ? 

Mrs. Page. Letter for letter; but that the name 
of Page and Ford differs ! To thy great comfort 
in this mystery of ill opinions, here 's the twin- 
brother of thy letter : but let thine inherit first ; 
for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant he 
hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank 
space for different names, (sure more,) and these 
are of the second edition. He will print them 
out of doubt ; for he cares not what he puts 
into the press when he would put us two. I 
had rather be a giantess, and lie under Mount 
Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious 
turtles ere one chaste man. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same ; the 
very hand, the very words. What doth he think 
of us? 

Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not ; it makes me 
almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. 
I '11 entertain myself like one that I am not ac- 
quainted withal : for, sure, unless he know some 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT n. 



strain in me that I know not myself, he would 
never have boarded me in this fury. 

Mrs. Ford. Boarding, call you it ? I '11 be 
sure to keep him above deck. 

Mrs. Page. So will I ; if he come under my 
hatches, I '11 never to sea again. Let 's be re- 
venged on him : let 's appoint him a meeting ; 
give him a show of comfort in his suit ; and lead 
him on with a fine baited delay, till he hath 
pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any vil- 

lany against him that may not sully the chariness 

of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this 

letter ! it would give eternal food to his jealousy. 

Mrs. Page. Why, look where he comes ; and 

tny good man too ; he 's as far from jealousy as 

I am from giving him cause ; and that, I hope, 

is an unmeasurable distance. 

Mrs. Ford, You are the happier woman. 

Mrs. Page. Let's consult together against this 

greasy knight: Come hither. {They retire. 

Enter FORD, PISTOL, PAGE, and NYM. 

Ford. Well, I hope it be not so. 

Pist. Hope is a curtail dog in some affairs: 
Sir John affects thy wife. 

Ford* Why, sir, my wife is not young. 

Pist. He woos both high and low, both rich 

and poor, 

Both young and old, one with another, Ford ; 
He loves thy gally-mawfry ; Ford, perpend. 

Ford. Love my wife? [go them, 

Pist.- With liver burning hot. Prevent, or 
Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ring-wood at thy 
O, odious is the name. [heels : 

Ford. What name, sir? 

Pist. The horn, I say. Farewell. 
Take heed ; have open eye ; for thieves do foot 
by night : [do sing. 

Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds 

Away, Sir Corporal Nym. 

Believe it, Page j he speaks sense. 

{Exit PISTOL. 

Ford. I will be patient ; I will find out this. 

Nym. And this is true {to PAGE]. I like not 
the humour of lying. He hath wronged me 
in some humours ; I should have borne the 
humoured letter to her ; but I have a sword, 
and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves 
your wife j there 's the short and the long. My 
name is Corporal Nym ; I speak, and I avouch. 
'Tis true : my name is Nym, and Falstaff loves 
your wife. Adieu ! I love not the humour of 
bread and cheese ; and there 's the humour of 
it. Adieu. {Exit NYM. 

Page. The humour of it, quotha ! here 's a 
fellow frights humour out of his wits. 



Ford. I will seek out Falstaff. 

Page. I never heard such a drawling, affect- 
ing rogue. 

Ford. If I do find it, well. 

Page. I will not believe such a Catalan though 
the priest of the town commended him for a 
true man. 

Ford. 'Twas a good sensible fellow. Well. 

Page. How now, Meg ? 

Mrs. Page. Whither go you, George ? Hark 
you. 

Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank? why 
art thou melancholy? 

Ford. I melancholy ! I am not melancholy. 
Get you home ; go. 

Mrs. Ford. 'Faith, thou hast some crotchets 
in thy head now. Will you go, Mistress Page ? 

Mrs. Page. Have with you. You '11 come to 

dinner, George? Look, who comes yonder: 

she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. 

{Aside to Mrs. FORD. 

Enter Mrs. QUICKLY. 
Mrs. Ford. Trust me, I thought on her: 
she '11 fit it. 

Mrs. Page. You are come to see my daughter 
Anne? 

Quick. Ay, forsooth ; and, I pray, how does 
good Mistress Anne ? 

Mrs. Page. Go in with us and see ; we have 
an hour's talk with you. 

[Exeunt Mrs. PAGE, Mrs. FORD, 
and Mrs. QUICKLY. 

Page. How now, Master Ford ? 

Ford. You heard what this knave told me ; 
did you not ? 

Page. Yes ; and you heard what the other 
told me ? 

Ford. Do you think there is truth in them ? 

Page. Hang 'em slaves ; I do not think the 
knight would offer it : but these that accuse him 
in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of 
his discarded men : very rogues, now they be 
out of service. 

Ford. Were they his men ? 

Page. Marry, wer^ they. 

Ford. I like it never the better for that. 
Does he lie at the Garter ? 

Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should 
intend this voyage towards my wife, I would 
turn her loose to him ; and what he gets of her 
more than sharp words, let it lie on my head. 

Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife ; but I 
would be loath to turn them together. A man 
may be too confident : I would have nothing lie 
on my head : I cannot be thus satisfied. 

Page. Look where my ranting host of the 



SCENE II.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



57 



Garter comes : there is either liquor in his pate 
or money in his purse when he looks so 
merrily. How now, mine host? 

' 



Enter HOST a nd SHALLOW. 

Host. How now, bully-rook ! thou 'rt a gentle- 
man : cavalero-justice, I say. 

ShaL I follow, mine host, I follow. Good 
even, and twenty, good Master Page ! Master 
Page, will you go with us? we have sport in 
hand. 

Host. Tell him, cavalero-justice ; tell him, 
bully-rook. 

ShaL Sir, there is a fray to be fought be- 
tween Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the 
French doctor. 

Ford. Good mine host o' the Garter, a word 
with you. 

Host. What say'st thou, bully-rook ? 

[ TJiey go aside. 

ShaL Will you \to PAGE] go with us to be- 
hold it ? My merry host hath had the measur- 
ing of their weapons ; and, I think, he hath 
appointed them contrary places : for, believe 
me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I 
will tell you what our sport shall be. 

Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, 
my guest-cavalier. 

Ford. None, I protest : but I '11 give you a 
pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, 
and tell him my name is Brook ; only for a jest. 

Host. My hand, bully : thou shalt have egress 
and regress ; said I well ? and thy name shall 
be Brook : it is a merry knight Will you go 
on, hearts ? 

ShaL Have with you, mine host. 

Page. I have heard the Frenchman hath good 
skill in his rapier. 

ShaL Tut, sir, I could have told you more. 
In these times you stand on distance, your passes, 
stoccadoes, and I know not what : 'tis the heart, 
Master Page ; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen 
the time with my long sword I would have 
made you four tall fellows skip like rats. 

Host. Here, boys, here, here ! shall we wag? 

Page. Have with you : I had rather hear 
them scold than fight. 

[Exeunt HOST, SHAL., and PAGE. 

Ford. Though Page beasecurefool, andstands 
so firmly on his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off 
my opinion so easily. She was in his company 
at Page's house ; and what they made there I 
know not. Well, I will look further into 't : and 
I have a disguise to sound Falstaff : if I find her 
honest, I lose not my labour ; if she be otherwise, 
'tis labour well bestowed. I ovaii \JExit. 



SCENE II. A Room in the Garter Inn. 
Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL. 

Fal. I will not lend thee a penny. 

Pist. Why, then the world 's mine oyster, 
Which I with sword will open. 
I will retort the sum in equipage. 

Fal. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, 
you should Jay my countenance to pawn : I have 
grated upon my good friends for three reprieves 
for you and your coach-fellow, Nym ; or else you 
had looked through the grate, like a geminy of 
baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to 
gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and 
tall fellows : and when Mistress Bridget lost the 
handle of her fan, I took 't upon mine honour 
thou hadst it not. [fifteen pence ? 

Pist. Didst thou not share? hadst thou not 

Fal. Reason, you rogue, reason. Think'st 
thou I '11 endanger my soul gratis ? At a word, 
hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for 
you; go. A short knife and a throng; to your 
manor of Pick thatch, go. You '11 not bear a 
letter for me, you rogue ! you stand upon your 
honour ! Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is 
as much as I can do to keep the terms of my 
honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving 
the fear of heaven on the left hand, and hiding 
mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, 
to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will 
ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, 
your red lattice phrases, and your bold-beating 
oaths, under the shelter of your honour \ You 
will not do it, you ? [of man ? 

Pist. I do relent. What wouldst thou more 

*fcr ROBIN. 

Rob. Sir, here 's a woman would speak with 
you. 

Fal. Let her approach. 

Enter Mrs. QUICKLY. 

Quick. Give your worship good-morrow. 

Fal. Good-morrow, good wife. 

Quick. Not so, an 't please your worship. 

Fal. Good maid, then. 

Quick. I '11 be sworn; as my mother was, the 
first hour I was born. 

Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with me? 

Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word 
or two ? 

Fal. Two thousand, tair woman ! and I '11 
vouchsafe thee the hearing. 

Quick. There is one, Mistress Ford, sir ; I 
pray, come a little nearer this ways : I myself 
dwell with Master Doctor Caius. 

Fal. Well, on : Mistress Ford, you say, 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT ii. 



Quick. Your worship says very true : I pray 
your worship come a little nearer this ways. 

Fal. I warrant thee nobody hears; mine 
own people, mine own people. 

Quick. Are they so? Heaven bless them, and 
make them his servants ! 

Fal. Well : Mistress Ford ; what of her ? 

Quick. Why, sir, she 's a good creature. Lord, 
lord ! your worship 's a wanton. Well, heaven 
forgive you, and all of us, I pray ! 

Fal. Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford, 

Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of 
it ; you have brought her into such a canaries as 
'tis wonderful. The best courtier of them all, 
when the court lay at Windsor, could never have 
brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been 
knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their 
coaches ; I warrant you, coach after coach, letter 
after letter, gift after gift ; smelling so sweetly, 
(all musk) and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk 
and gold ; and in such alligant terms ; and in such 
wine and sugar of the best, and the fairest, that 
would have won any woman's heart ; and, I war- 
rant you, they could never get an eye-wink of 
her. I had myself twenty angels given me this 
morning ; but I defy all angels, (in any such sort, 
as they say,) but in the way of honesty : and, I 
warrant you, they could never get her so much as 
sip on a cup with the proudest of them all : and 
yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, 
pensioners ; but, T warrant you, all is one 
with her. 

Fal. But what says she to me ? be brief, my 
good she Mercury. 

Quick. Marry, she hath received your letter ; 
for the which she thanks you a thousand times ; 
and she gives you to notify that her husband will 
be absence from his house between ten and eleven. 

Fal. Ten and eleven ? 

Quick. Ay, forsooth ; and then you may come 
and see the picture, she says, that you wot of? 
Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. 
Alas ! the sweet woman leads an ill life with 
him ; he 's a very jealousy man : shs leads a very 
frampold life with him, good heart. 

Fal. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend 
me to her ; I will not fail her. 

Quick. Why, you say well : but I have an- 
other messenger to your worship. Mistress Page 
hath her hearty commendations to you too; and 
let me tell you in your ear, she 's as fartuous a 
civil, modest wife, and one (I tell you) that will 
not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any 
is in Windsor, whoe'er be the other : and she 
bade me tell your worship that her husband is 
seldom from home; but she hopes there will 
come a time. I never knew a woman so dote 



upon a man ; surely I think you have charms, 
la ; yes, in truth. 

Fal. Not I, I assure thee ; setting the attraction 
of my good parts aside, I have no other charms. 

Quick. Blessing on your heart for 't ! 

F*l. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's 
wife and Page's wife acquainted each other how 
they love me ? 

Quick. That were a jest indeed ! they have 
not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick 
indeed ! But Mistress Page would desire you to 
sendher your little page, of all loves : her husband 
has a marvellous infection to the little page : and, 
truly, Master Page is an honest man. Never a 
wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does ; 
do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay 
all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all 
is as she will ; and, truly, she deserves it : for if 
there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. 
You must send her your page ; no remedy. 

Fal. Why, I will. 

Quick. Nay, but do so then : and, look you, he 
may come and go between you both ; and in any 
case have a nay- word that you may know one 
another's mind, and the boy never need to under- 
stand any thing ; for 'tis not good that children 
should know any wickedness : old folks, you 
know, have discretion, as they say, and know 
the world. 

Fal. Fare thee well : commend me to them 
both : there 's my purse ; I am yet thy debtor. 

Boy, go along with this woman. This news 

distracts me ! 

[Exeunt QUICKLY and ROBIN. 

Pist. This punk is one of Cupid's carriers : 
Clap on more sails ; pursue ; up with your 
fights ; give fire ; she is my prize, or ocean whelm 
them all ! [Exit PISTOL. 

Fal. Say'st thou so, old Jack ! go thy ways ; 
I'll make more of thy old body than I have 
done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt 
!:hou, after the expense of so much money, be 
now a gainer ? Good body, I thank thee. Let 
them say 'tis grossly done ; so it be fairly 
done, no matter. 

.Ew&rBARDOLPH. 

Bard. Sir John, there's one Master Brook 
below would fain speak with you, and be ac- 
quainted with you ; and hath sent your worship 
a morning's draught of sack. 

Fal. Brook is his name? 

Bard. Ay, sir. 

Fal. Call him in ; [Exit BARDO1PH.] Such 
Brooks are welcome to me that o'erflow such 
liquor. Ah ! ha ! Mistress Ford and Mistress 
Page, have I encompassed you ? go to ; via\ 



SCENE II.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



59 



Re-enter BARDOLPH, -with FORD disguised. 

Ford. Bless you, sir. [me? 

Fal. And you, sir. Would you speak with 

Ford. I make bold to press with so little 
preparation upon you. 

Fal. You 're welcome ; what 's your will ? 
Give us leave, drawer. [Exit BARDOLPH. 

Ford. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent 
much ; my name is Brook. 

Fal. Good Master Brook, I desire more 
acquaintance of you. 

Ford. Good Sir John, I sue for yours : not to 
charge you ; for I must let you understand I 
think myself in better plight for a lender than 
you are : the which has something emboldened 
me to this unseasoned intrusion : for they say if 
money go before, all ways do lie open. [on. 

Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will 

Ford. Troth, and I have a bag of money here 
troubles me; if you will help me to bear it, Sir 
^ohn, take all or half for easingme of the carriage. 

Fal. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to 
be your porter. 

Ford. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me 
the hearing. 

Fal. Speak, good Master Brook ; I shall be 
glad to be your servant. 

Ford. Sir, I hear you are a scholar, I will be 

brief with you, and you have been a man 

long known to me, though I had never so good 
means as desire to make myself acquainted with 
you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I 
must very much lay open mine own imperfection: 
but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my 
follies, as you hear them unfolded, ti rn another 
into the register of your own : that I may pass 
with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know 
how easy it is to be such an offender. 

Fal. Very well, sir; proceed. 

Ford. There is a gentlewoman in this town, 
her husband's name is Ford. 

Fal. Well, sir. 

Ford. I have long loved her, and I protest to 
you bestowed much on her ; followed her with 
a doting observance; engrossed opportunities 
to meet her; fee'd every slight occasion that 
could but niggardly give me sight of her; not 
only bought many presents to give her, but have 
given largely to many to know what she would 
have given : briefly, I have pursued her as love 
hath pursued me ; which hath been on the wing 
of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, 
either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am 
sure, I have received none ; unless experience be 
a jewel ; that I have purchased at an infinite rate; 
and that hath taught me to say this : 



Love like a shadow flies ; when substance love 

pursues ; 
Pur suing that that flies, and flying what pursues. 

Fal. Have you received no promise of satis- 
faction at her hands? 

Ford. Never. [pose? 

Fal. Have you importuned her to such a pur- 

Ford. Never. 

Fal. Of what quality was your love, then? 

Ford. Like a fair house built upon another 
man's ground ; so that I have lost my edifice by 
mistaking the place where I erected it. 

Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded this 
to me? 

Ford. Wfcen I have told you that, I have told 
you all. Some say that though she appear honest 
to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mu h 
so far that there is shrewd construction made of 
her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my 
purpose. You are a gentleman of excellent 
breeding, admirable discourse, of great admit- 
tance, authentic in your place and person, 
generally allowed for your many war-like, court- 
like, and learned preparations. 

Fal. O, sir! 

Ford. Believe it, for you know it : There is 
money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend 
all I have ; only give me so much of your time in 
exchange of it as to lay an amiable siege to the 
honesty of this Fords wife; use your art of 
wooing, win her to consent to you ; if any man 
may, you may as soon as any. 

Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency 
of your affection, that I should win what you 
would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to your- 
self very preposterously. 

Ford. O, understand my drift ! She dwells so 
securely on the excellency of her honour that the 
folly of my soul cares not present itself; she istoo 
bright to be looked against. Now, could I come 
to her with any , election in my hand, my desires 
had instance and argument to commend them- 
selves ; I could drive her then from the ward of 
her purity, her reputation, her marriage vow, and 
a thousand other her defences, which now are too 
strongly embattled against me. What say you 
to 't, Sir John ? 

Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold with 
your money; next, give me your hand : and last, 
as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, en- 
joy Ford's wife. 

Ford. O good sir ! 

Fal. Master Brook, I say you shall. 

Ford. Want no money, Sir John, you shall 
want none. 

Fal. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook, 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT II. 



you shall want none. I shall be with her (I may 
tell you) by her own appointment : even as you 
came in to me her assistant, or go-between, parted 
from me : I say, I shall be with her between ten 
and eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally 
knave, her husband, will be forth. Come you 
to me at night ; you shall know how I speed. 

Ford. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do 
you know Ford, sir? 

Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave ! I 
know him not : yet I wrong him to call him 
poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath 
masses of money ; for the which his wife seems 
to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key 
of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer ; and there 's my 
harvest-home. 

Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir ; that you 
might avoid him if you saw him. 

Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! 
I will stare him out of his wits ; I will awe him 
with my cudgel : it shall hang like a meteor o'er 
the cuckold's horns : Master Brook, thou shalt 
know, I will predominate o'er the peasant, and 
thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon 
at night: Ford 's a knave, and I will aggravate 
his stile ; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him 
for a knave and cuckold : come to me soon at 
tlight. \Exit. 

Ford. What a damned Epicurean rascal is his! 
My heart is ready to crack with impatience. 
Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife 
hath sent to him, the hour is fixed, the match is 
made. Would any man have thought this? See 
the hell of having a false woman ! my bed shall be 
abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation 
gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this 
villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of 
abominable terms, and by him that does me this 

wrong. Terms ! names ! Amaimon sounds 

well ; Lucifer, well ; Bar bason, well ; yet they 
are devils' additions, the names of fiends : but 
cuckold ! wittol-cuckold ! the devil himself hath 
not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass ! 
he will trust his wife ; he will not be jealous ! I 
will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson 
Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irish- 
man with my aqua-viiae bottle, or a thief to walk 
my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself: 
then she plots, then she ruminates, then she 
devises : and what they think in their hearts they 
may effect, they will break their hearts but they 
will effect. Heaven be praised for my j ealousy ! 
Eleven o'clock the hour : I will prevent this, 
detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaft, and 
laugh at Page. I will about it; better three 
hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, 
fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold! [Exit. 



SCEN E II I. Windsor Park. 
Enter CAIUS and RUGBY. 

Cants. Jack Rugby ! 

Rug. Sir? 

Cams. Vat is de clock, Jack ? 

Rtig. 'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh 
promised to meet. 

Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is 
no come ; he has pray his Pible veil, dat he is no 
come : by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, 
if he be come. 

Rug. He is wise, sir ; he knew your worship 
would kill him if he came. 

Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead, so as I 
vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill 
tell you how I vill kill him. 

Rtig. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. 

Caius. Villany, take your rapier. 

Rug. Forbear ; here 's company. 

Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE. 

Host. Bless thee, bully doctor. 

Shal. Save you, Master Doctor Caius. 

Page. Now, good master doctor ! 

Slen. Give you good morrow, sir. 

Caius. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, 
come for? 

Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see 
thee traverse, to see thee here, to see thee there ; 
to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, 
thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethi- 
opian? is he dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! 
What says my ^Esculapius ? my Galen? my heart 
of elder ? ha ! is he dead, bully Stale ? is he dead ? 

Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of 
the vorld ; he is not show his face. 

Host. Thou art a Castilian King Urinal! 
Hector of Greece, my boy ! 

Caius. I pray you, bear vitness that me 
have stay six, or seven, two, tree hours for him, 
and he is no come. 

Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor : he 
is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies ; if 
you should fight, you go against the hair of your 
professions; is it not true, Master Page? 

Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself been 
a great fighter, though now a man of peace. 

Shal. Bodikins, Master Page, though I now 
be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out my 
finger itches to make one : though we are justices, 
and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we 
have some salt of our youth in us; we are the 
sons of women, Master Page. 

Page. 'Tis true, Master Shallow. 

Shal. It will be found so, Master Page. Mas- 
ter Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. 



SCENE III.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



61 



I am sworn of the peace ; you have showed your- 
self a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown 
himself a wise and patient churchman : you must 
go with me, master doctor. 

Host. Pardon, guest justice: A word, Mon- 
sieur Muck -water. 

Cams. Muck-vater ! vat is dat ? 

Host. Muck-water, in our English tongue, is 
valour, bully. 

Caius. By gar, then I have as much muck- 

vater as de Englishman : Scurvy jack-dog 

priest ! by gar, me vill cut his ears. 

Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. 

Caius. Clapper -de-claw ! vat is dat? 

Host. That is, he will make thee amends. 

Caius. By gar, me do look he shall clapper- 
de-claw me ; for, by gar, me vill have it. 

Host. And I will provoke him to 't, or let him 
wag. 

Caius. Me tank you for dat. 

Host. And, moreover, bully, But first, 
master guest, and Master Page, and eke Caval- 
ero Slender, go you through the town to Frog- 
more. [Aside to them. 

Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he ? 

Host. He is there : see what humour he is in ; 
and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. 
Will it do well ? 

Shal. We will do it. 

Page> Shal.) and Slen. Adieu, good master 
doctor. [Exeunt PAGE, SHAL., zd?SLEN. 

Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest : for he 
speak for a jack -an -ape to Anne Page. 

Host. Let him die ; but first sheathe thy im- 
patience ; throw cold water on thy choler ; go 
about the fields with me through Frogmore ; I 
will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, 
at a farm-house, a-feasting ; and thou shall woo 
her. Cryed game, said I well ? 

Caius. By gar, me tank you for dat : by gar, 
I love you ; and I shall procure-a you de good 
guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentle- 
men, my patients. 

Host. For the which I will be thy adversary 
towards Anne Page ; said I well ? 

Caius. By gar, 'tis good : veil said. 

Host. Let us wag, then. 

Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. 

[Exeunt. 
ACT III. 

SCENE I. A Field near Frogmore. 
Enter Sir HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE. 

Eva. I pray you now, good Master Slender's 
serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, 
which way have you looked for Master Caius, 
that calls himself Doctor of Physick? 



Sim. Marry, sir, the city-ward, the park- 
ward, every way ; old Windsor way, and every 
way but the town way. [also look that way. 

Eva. I most fehemently desire you, you will 

Sim. I will, sir. 

Eva. 'Pless my soul ! how full of cholers I am, 
and trempling of mind ! I shall be glad if he 
have deceived me : how melancholies I am ! 
I will knog his urinals about his knave's cos- 
tard when I have good opportunities for the 
'ork 'pless my soul ! [Sings. 

To shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals ; 
There will we make our peds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies. 
To shallow 

Mercy on me ! I have a great dispositions to cry. 

Melodious birds sing madrigals 

When as I sat in Pabylon 

And a thousand vagram posies. 
To shallow 

Sim. Yonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh. 
Eva. He's welcome : 

To shallow rivers, to whose falls 

Heaven prosper the right ! What weapons is 
he? 

Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my 
master, Master Shallow, and another gentle- 
man, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. 

Eva. Pray you, give me my gown ; or else 
keep it in your arms. 

Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER. 

Shal. How now, master parson ? Good- 
morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester 
from the dice, and a good student from his book, 
and it is wonderful. 

Slen. Ah, sweet Anne Page ! 

Page. Save you, good Sir Hugh ! 

Eva. 'Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you ! 

Shal. What ! the sword and the word ! Do 
you study them both, master parson? 

Page. And youthful still, in your doublet and 
hose, this raw rheumatic day? 

Eva. There is reasons and causes for it. 

Page. We are come to you to do a good office, 
master parson. 

Eva. Fery well : what is it ? 

Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, 
who, belike having received wrong by some 
person, is at most odds with his own gravity 
and patience that ever you saw. 

Shal. I have lived fourscore years and up- 
ward ; I never heard a man of his place, gra- 
vity, and learning, so wide of his own respect. 



62 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT III. 



Eva. What is he ? 

Page. I think you know him ; Master Doctor 
Caius, the renowned French physician. 

Eva. Got's will, and his passion of my heart ! 
I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of 
porridge. 

Page. Why? 

Eva. He has no more knowledge in Hibo- 
crates and Galen, and he is a knave besides ; 
a cowardly knave, as you would desires to be 
acquainted withal. 

Page. I warrant you he's the man should 
fight with him. 

Slen. O, sweet Anne Page ! 

Skal. It appears so, by his weapons. Keep 
them asunder ; here comes Doctor Caius. 

Enter HOST, CAIUS, and RUGBY. 

Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your 
weapon. 

Shal. So do you, good master doctor. 

Host. Disarm them, and let them question ; 
let them keep their limbs whole and hack our 
English. 

Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word vit 
your ear. Verefore vill you not meet -a me ? 

Eva. Pray you use your patience: in good time. 

Cains. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack 
dog, John ape. 

Eva. Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs 
to other men's humours ; I desire you in friend- 
ship, and I will one way or another make you 
amends : I will knog your urinals about your 
knave's cogscomb, for missing your meetings 
and appointments. 

Caius. Diable ! -Jack Rugby, mine Host 
de Jarterre, have I not stay for him to kill him, 
have I not, at de place I did appoint ? 

Eva. As I am a Christians soul, now, look 
you, this is the place appointed. I '11 be judg- 
ment by mine host of the Garter. 

Host. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French 
and Welsh ; soul-curer and body-curer. 

Caius. Ay, dat is very good ! excellent ! 

Host. Peace, I say ; hear mine host of the 
Garter. Am I politic ? am I subtle ? am I a 
Machiavel ? Shall I lose my doctor ? no ; he 
gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I 
lose my parson? my priest? my Sir Hugh? no; 
he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give 
me thy hand, terrestrial ; so : Give me thy 
hand, celestial, so. Boys of art, I have deceived 
you both ; I have directed you to wrong places ; 
your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, 
and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay 
their swords to pawn : Follow me, lad of 
peace ; follow, follow, follow. 



Shal. Trust me, a mad host : Follow, gentle- 
men, follow. 

Slen. O, sweet Anne Page ! 
[Exeunt SHAL., SLEN., PAGE, and HOST. 

Caius. Ha ! do I perceive dat ? have you 
make-a de sot of us ? ha, ha ! 

Eva. Thisiswell; hehasmadeushisvlouting- 
stog, I desire you that we may be friends ; and 
let us knog our prains together, to be revenge 
on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, 
the host of the Garter. 

Caiiis. By gar, vit all my heart ; he promise 
to bring me vere is Anne Page ; by gar, he de- 
ceive me too. 

Eva. Well, I will smite his noddles : Pray 
you, follow. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. The Street in Windsor. 
Enter Mrs. PAGE and ROBIN. 

Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gal- 
lant ; you were wont to be a follower, but now 
you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead 
mine eyes or eye your master's heels ? 

Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you 
like a man than follow him like a dwarf. 

Mrs. Page. O you are a flattering boy ; now, 
I see, you '11 be a courtier. 

Enter FORD. 

Ford. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither 
go you ? 

Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is 
she at home ? 

Ford. Ay ; and as idle as she may hang to- 
gether, for want of company ; I think, if your 
husbands were dead, you two would marry. 

Mrs. P&ge. Be sure of that, two other hus- 
bands, [cock ? 

Ford. Where had you this pretty weather- 

Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens 
his name is my husband had him off: What 
do you. call your knight's name, sirrah ! . 

Rob. Sir John Falstaff. 

Ford. Sir John Falstaff ! 

Mrs. Page. He, he ; I can never hit on 's 
name. There is such a league between my good 
man and he ! Is your wife at home indeed ? 

Ford. Indeed she is. 

Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir ; I am sick 
till I see her. [Exeitnt Mrs. PAGE and ROBIN. 

Ford. Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? 
hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep ; he hath 
no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter 
twenty miles as easy as a cannon will shoot point- 
blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife's in- 
clination ; he gives her folly motion and advan- 
tage : and now she 's going to my wife., and 



SCENE III.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



Falstaff s boy with her. A man may hear this 
shower sing in the wind ! and Falstaffs boy 
with her ! Good plots ! they are laid ; and 
our revolted wives share damnation together. 
Well ; I will take him, then torture my wife, 
pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so 
seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for 
a secure and wilful Actseon ; and to these vio- 
lent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. 
[Clock strikes.} The clock gives me my cue, 
and my assurance bids me search ; there I shall 
find Falstaff : I shall be rather praised for this 
than mocked ; for it is as positive as the earth 
is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go. 

Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, HOST, 
Sir HUGH EVANS, CAIUS, and RUGBY. 

Shal., Page, &c. Well met, Master Ford. 

Ford. Trust me, a good knot : I have good 
cheer at home; and, I pray you, all go with me. 

Shal. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. 

Slen. And so must I, sir; we have appointed 
to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not 
break with her for more money than I '11 speak of. 

Shal. We have lingered about a match be- 
tween Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and 
fhis day we shall have our answer. [Page. 

Slen. I hope I have your good will, father 

Page. You have, Master Slender ; I stand 
wholly for you : but my wife, master doctor, 
is for you altogether. 

Caius. Ay, by gar ; and de maid is love 
a-me ; my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. 

Host. What say you to young Master Fenton? 
he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he 
writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells 
April and May ; he will carry 't, he will carry 't ; 
'tis in his buttons ; he will carry 't. 

Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. 
The gentleman is of no having: he kept com- 
pany with the wild Prince and Poins ; he is of 
too high a region, he knows too much. No; he 
shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the 
finger of my substance : if he take her, let him 
take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my 
consent, and my consent goes not that way. 

ford. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go 
home with me to dinner : besides your cheer, 
you shall have sport ; I will show you a mon- 
ster. Master doctor, you shall go ; so shall 
you, Master Page ; and you, Sir Hugh. 

Shal. Well, fare you well : we shall have 
the freer wooing at Master Page's. 

[Exeunt SHAL. and SLEN. 

Cains. Go home, John Rugby; I come anon. 
[Exit RUGBY. 

Host. Farewell, my hearts, I will to my 



honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with 
him. [Exit HOST. 

Ford. [Aside.~\ I think I shall drink in pipe- 
wine first with him ; I '11 make him dance. 
Will you go, gentles ? 

All. Have with you, to see this monster. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE III. A Room in FORD'S House. 

Enter Mrs. FORD and Mrs. PAGE. 
Mrs. Ford. What, John ! what, Robert ! 
Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly : Is the buek- 

basket 
Afrs. Ford. I warrant : What, Robin, I say. 

Enter Servants, with a basket. 

Mrs. Page. Come, come, come. 

Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down. 

Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge ; we 
must be brief. 

Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John, 
and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew- 
house; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, 
and, without any pause or staggering, take this 
basket on your shoulders : that done, trudge with 
it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters 
in Datchet mead, and there empty it in the 
muddy ditch, close by the Thames side. 

Mrs. Page. You will do it ? 

Mrs. Ford. I have told them over and over ; 
they lack no direction. Begone, and come when 
you are sailed. [Exeunt Servants. 

Mrs. Page. Here comes little Robin. 

Enter ROBIN. 

Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas -musket? 
what news with you ? 

Rob. My master, Sir John, is come in at your 
back-door, Mistress Ford, and requests your 
company. [been true to us ? 

Mrs. Page. You little Jack-a-lent, have you 

Rob. Ay, I '11 be sworn. My master knows 
not of your being here ; and hath threatened to 
put me into everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it ; 
for he swears he '11 turn me away. 

Mrs. Page. Thou 'rt a good boy ; this secrecy of 
thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee 
a new doublet and hose. I '11 go hide me. 

Mrs. Ford. Do so. Go tell thy master I am 
alone. Mrs. Page, remember you your cue. 

[Exit ROBIN. 

Mrs. Page. I warrant thee ; if I do not act 
it, hiss me. [Exit Mrs. PAGE. 

Mrs. Ford. Go to then; we '11 use this un- 
wholesome humidity, this gross watery pum- 
pion; we'll teach him to know turtles from 
jays. 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT in. 



Enter FALSTAFF. 

FaL Have 1 'caught thee, my heavenly jewel '? 
Why, now let me die, for I have lived long 
enough ; this is the period of my ambition : O 
' this blessed hour ! 

Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir John ! 

FaL Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot 
prate, Mrs. Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish. 
I would thy husband were dead ; I '11 speak it 
before the best lord, I would make thee my lady. 

Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir John ! alas, I 
should be a pitiful lady. 

FaL Let the court of France show me such 
another ; I see how thine eye would emulate the 
diamond : thou hast the right arched bent of the 
brow, that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, 
or any tire of Venetian admittance. 

Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, Sir John : my 
brows become nothing else; nor that well neither. 

FaL Thou art a traitor to say so : thouwouldst 
make an absolute courtier ; and the firm fixture of 
thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy 
gait, in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what 
thou wert, if fortune thy foe were not ; nature is 
thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. 

Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there 's no such thing 
in me. 

FaL What made me love thee ? let that per- 
suade thee, there 's something extraordinary in 
thee. Come, I cannot cog, and say thou art this 
and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn 
buds that come like women in men's apparel, and 
smell like Buckler's- bury in simple-time ; I can- 
not : but I love thee ; none but thee ; and thou 
deservest it. 

Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir ; I fear 
you love Mrs. Page. 

FaL Thou mightst as well say I love to walk 
by the counter-gate ; which is ashateful to me 
as the reek of a lime-kiln. 

Mrs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love 
you ; and you shall one day find it. 

FaL Keep in that mind ; I '11 deserve it. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do, 
or else I could not be in that mind. 

Rob. [Within.} Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! 
here 's Mrs. Page at the door, sweating, and 
blowing, and looking wildly, and would needs 
speak with you presently. 

FaL She shall not see me ; I will ensconce 
me behind the arras. 

Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so : she 's a very 
tattling woman. [FALSTAFF hides himself. 

Enter Mrs. PAGE and ROBIN. 
What 's the matter ? how now ? 

Mrs. Page. O Mistress Ford, what have you 



done ? You 're shamed, you are overthrown, 
you are undone for ever. 

Mrs. Ford. What 's the matter, good Mistress 
Page? 

Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, Mistress Fora! 
having an honest man to your husband, to give 
him such cause of suspicion ! 

Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? 

Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ! out 
upon you ! how am I mistook in you ? 

Mrs. Ford. Why, alas ! what 's the matter ? 

Mrs. Page. Your husband's coming hither, 
woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to 
search for a gentleman that, he says, is here now 
in the house, by your consent, to vake an ill 
advantage of his absence : you are undone. 

Mrs. Ford. Speak louder. [Aside.] 'Tis 
not so, I hope. 

Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that 
you have such a man here ; but 'tis more certain 
your husband's coming with half Windsor at 
his heels, to search for such a one. I come be- 
fore to tell you : if you know yourself clear, why, 
I am glad of it ; but if you have a friend here, 
convey, convey him out. Be not amazed ; call 
all your senses to you ; defend your reputation, 
or bid farewell to your good life for ever. 

Mrs. Ford. What shall I do? There is a 
gentleman, my dear friend ; and I fear not mine 
own shame so much as his peril : I had rather 
than a thousand pounds he were out of the house. 

Mrs. Page. For shame, never stand you had 
ratlier, and you had rather; your husband's 
here at hand, bethink you of some conveyance : 
in the house you cannot hide him. O, how 
have you deceived me ! Look, here is a basket ; 
if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep 
in here ; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it 
were going to bucking : or, it is whiting-time, 
send him by your two men to Datchet mead. 

Mrs. Ford. He 's too big to go in there. 
What shall I do? 

I'Sife 



Re-enter FALSTAFF. 






FaL Let me see 't, let me see 't ! O let me 
see 't ! I '11 in, I '11 in ; follow your friend's 
counsel : I '11 in. 

Mrs. Page. What ! Sir John Falstaff ! Are 
these your letters, knight ? 

FaL I love thee, and none but thee ; help 
me away : let me creep in here ; I '11 never 
[He goes into the basket ; they cover him 
-with foul linen. 

Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. 
Call your men, Mistress Ford : You dis- 
sembling knight ! 

Mrs. Ford. What, John ! Robert ! John \ 



SCENE IV.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[Exit ROBIN. Re-enter Servants.] Go take 
up these clothes here, quickly ; where 's the 
cowl-staff ? look, how you drumble : carry them 
to the laundress in Datchet mead; quickly, come. 

Enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and Sir HUGH 
EVANS. 

Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect 
without cause, why, then make sport at me, 
then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. How 
now ? whither bear you this ? 

Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do 
whither they bear it ? You were best meddle 
with buck-washing 

Ford. Buck ? I would I could wash myself 
of the buck ! Buck, buck, buck ? Ay, buck ; 
I warrant you, buck ; and of the season too ; It 
shall appear. [Exeunt Servants with the 
basket."] Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night ; 
I '11 tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my 
keys : ascend my chambers, search, seek, find 
out : I '11 warrant we '11 unkennel the fox : Let 
me stop this way first : so, now uncape. 

Page. Good Master Ford, be contented : 
you wrong yourself too much. 

Ford. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen ; 
you shall see sport anon : follow me, gentle- 
men. [Exit. 

Eva. This is fery fantastical humours and 
jealousies. 

Caius. By gar, 'tis no de fashion of France : 
it is not jealous in France. 

Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen ; see the 
issue of his search. 

[Exeunt EVANS, PAGE, and CAIUS. 

Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency 
in this ? 

Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me 
better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. 

Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in when 
your husband asked who was in the basket ! 

Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have 
need of washing ; so throwing him into the 
w'ater will do him a benefit. 

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal ! I 
would all of the same strain were in the same 
distress. 

Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some 
special suspicion of Falstaff's being here ; for I 
never saw him so gross in his jealousy till 
now. 

Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that : and 
we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff : his 
dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine. 

Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, 
Mrs. Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing 



into the water ; and give him another hope, tc 
betray him to another punishment ? 

Mrs. Page. We'll do it; let him be sent for 
to-morrow eight o'clock, to have amends. 

Re-enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and Sir HUGH 
EVANS. 

Ford. I cannot find him : maybe the knave 
bragged of that he could not compass. 

Mrs. Page. Heard you that ? 

Mrs. Ford. Ay, ay, peace : You use me 
well, Master Ford, do you ? 

Ford. Ay, I do so. [your thoughts ! 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than 

Ford. Amen. [Master Ford. 

Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, 

Ford. Ay, ay ; I must bear it. 

Eva. If there be any pody in the house, and in 
the chambers, and in the coffers,and in the presses, 
heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment ! 

Caius. By gar, nor I too ; dere is no bodies. 

Page. Fie, fie, Master Ford ! are you not 
ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this 
imagination ? I would not have your distemper 
in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. 

Ford. Tis my fault, Master Page: Isufferforit. 

Eva. You suffer for a pad conscience : your 
wife is as honest a 'omans as I will desires 
among five thousand, and five hundred too. 

Caius. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman. 

Ford. Well ; I promised you a dinner : 
Come, come, walk in the park: I pray you, pardon 
me ; I will hereafter make known to you why I have 
done this. Come, wife ; come, Mistress Page ; 
I pray you , pardon me ; pray heartily, pardon me. 

Page. Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, 
we'll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow 
morning to my house to breakfast ; after, we '11 
a-birding together ; I have a fine hawk for the 
bush. Shall it be so ? 

Ford. Any thing. [company. 

Eva. If there is one, I shall make two in the 

Caius. If there be one or two, I shall make-a 
de turd. 

Eva. In your teeth : for shame. 

Ford. Pray you go, Master Page. 

Eva. I pray you now, remembrance to- 
morrow on the lousy knave, mine host. 

Caius. Dat is good ; by gar, vit all my heart. 

Eva. A lousy knave ; to have his gibes and 
his mockeries. [Exettnt. 

SCENE IV. A Room in PAGE'S House. 
Enter FENTON and Mrs. ANNE PAGE. 

Fent. I see, I cannot get thy father's love ; 
Therefore, no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. 

c 



66 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT ni. 



Anne. Alas 1 how then? 

Pent. Why, thou must be thyself. 

He doth object I am too great of birth ; 
And that, my state being gall'd with my expense, 
I seek to heal it only by his wealth. 

Besides these, other bars he lays before me, 

My riots past, my wild societies ; 
And tells me 'tis a thing impossible 
I should love thee but as a property. 

Anne. Maybe he tells you true? 

Pent. No ; heaven so speed me in my time to 

come ! 

Albeit, I will confess, thy father's wealth 
Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne : 
Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value 
Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags ; 
And 'tis the very riches of thyself 
That now I aim at. 

Anne. Gentle Master Fenton, 

Yet seek my father's love ; still seek it, sir: 
If opportunity and humblest suit 
Cannot attain it, why then. Hark you hither. 
{They converse apart, 

Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and 
Mrs. QUICKLY. 

Shat. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly; 
my kinsman shall speak for himself. 

Slen I '11 make a shaft or a bolt on 't ; 'slid, 
'tis but venturing. 

Skal. Be not dismayed. 

Slen. No ; she shall not dismay me. I care 
not for that, but that I am afeard. 

Quick. Hark ye; Master Slender would speak 
a word with you. [choice. 

Anne. I come to him. This is my father's 
O, what a world of vile ill-fa vour'd faults 
Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a- 
year ! [Aside. 

Quick. And how does good Master Fenton ? 
Pray you, a word with you. 

Shal. She's coming; to her, coz. O boy, 
thou hadst a father J 

Slen. I had a father, Mistress Anne my uncle 
can tell you good jestsof him : Pray you, uncle, 
tell Mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole 
two geese out of a pen, good uncle. 

Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. 

Slen. Ay, that I do ; as well as I love any 
woman in Gloucestershire. [woman. 

Shal. He will maintain you like a gentle- 

Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, 
under the degree of a 'squire. 

Shal. He will make you a hundred and fifty 
pounds jointure. [tor himself. 

Anne. Good Master Shallow, let him woo 

Shal. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you 



for that good comfort. She calls you, coz; I '11 
leave you. 

Anne. Now, Master Slender. 

Slen. Now, good Mistress Anne. 

Anne. What is your will ? 

Slen. My will? 'od's heartlings, that 's a pretty 
jest indeed ! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank 
heaven ; I am not such a sickly creature, I give 
heaven praise. [you with me? 

Anne. I mean, Master Slender, what would 

Slen. Truly, for mine own part I would little 
or nothing with you. Your father and my 
uncle have made motions : if it be my luck, so : 
if not, happy man be his dole ! They can tell 
you how things go better than I can. You 
may ask your father ; here he comes. 



Enter PAGE and Mrs. PAGE. 



Page. Now, Master Slender : Love him, 

daughter Anne. 

Why, how now ! what does Master Fenton here ? 

You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house : 

I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of. 

Fent. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. 

Mrs. Page. Good Master Fenton, come not 

to my child. 

Page. She is no match for you. 
Fent. Sir, will you hear me ? 
Page. No, good Master Fenton. 

Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, 
in : [Fenton. 

Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master 
\Exeunt PAGE, SHAL., zm/SLEN. 
Quick. Speak to Mrs. Page. 
Fent. Good Mistress Page, for that I love 

your daughter 

In such a righteous fashion as I do, [ners, 
Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and man- 
I must advance the colours.of my love, 
And not retire. Let me have your good will. 
Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to 
yond fool. [better husband. 

Mrs. Page. I mean it not ; I seek you a 
Quick. That 's my master, master doctor. 
Anne. Alas ! I had rather be set quick i' the 

earth, 

And bowled to death with turnips. 
Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself. 

Good Master Fenton, 
I will not be your friend, nor enemy : 
My daughter will I question how she loves you, 
And as I find her, so am I affected ; 
Till then, farewell, sir : She must needs go in ; 
Her fatter will be angry. 

^Exeunt Mrs. PAGE and ANNE. 
Tint. Farewell, gentle mistress; farewell, 
Nan. 



SCENE V.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



Quick. This is my doing, now : Nay, said 
I, will you cast away your child on a. fool, and 
a physician ? Look on Master Fenton : this 
is my doing. [to-night 

Pent. I thank thee ; and I pray thee, once 

Give my sweet Nan this ring. There 's for thy 

pains. [Exit. 

Quick. Now heaven send thee good fortune ! 
A kind heart he hath : a woman would run 
through fire and water for such a kind heart. 
But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne : 
or I would Master Slender had her : or, in 
sooth, I would Master Fenton had her : I will 
do what I can for them all three ; for so I have 
promised, and 1 : 11 be as good as my word ; but 
speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must 
of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my 
two mistresses. What a beast am I to slack 
it ! [Exit. 

SCENE V. A Room in the Garter Inn. 
Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH. 

Fal. Bardolph, I say, 

Bard. Here, sir. 

Fal. Go fetch me a quart of sack ; put a 
toast in 't. [Exit BARD. ] Have I lived to be 
carried in a basket, like a barrow of butcher's 
offal ; and to be thrown into the Thames ? 
Well, if I be served such another trick, I '11 
have my brains ta'en out and butter'd, and give 
them to a dog for a new year's gift. The rogues 
slighted me into the river with as little remorse 
as they would have drowned a bitch's blind 
puppies, fifteen i' the litter : and you may know 
by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in 
sinking ; if the bottom were as deep as hell 
I should down. I had been drowned but that 
the shore was shelvy and shallow : a death that 
I abhor ; for the water swells a man ; and what 
a thing should I have been when I had been 
swelled ! I should have been a mountain of 
mummy. 

Re-enter BARDOLPH, with the wine. 

Bard. Here 's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak 
with you. 

Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the 
Thames water ; for my belly 's as cold as if I had 
swallowed snow-balls for pills to cool the reins. 
Call her in. 

Bard. Come in, woman. 

Enter Mrs. QUICKLY. 

Quick. By your leave ; I cry you mercy. 
Give your worship good-morrow. 

Fal. Take away these chalices. Go, brew 
me a pottle of sack finely. 



Bard. With eggs, sir ? 

Fal. Simple of itself ; I '11 no pullet-sperm in 
my brewage. [Exit Bardolph.] How now? 

Quick. Marry, sir, I come to your worship 
from Mistress Ford. 

Fal. Mistress Ford ! I have had ford enough : 
I was thrown into the ford : I have my belly 
full of ford. 

Quick. Alas the day ! good heart, that was 
not her fault : she does so take on with her men ; 
they mistook their erection. 

Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish 
woman's promise. 

Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it 
would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband 
goes this morning a-birding ; she desires you 
once more to come to her between eight and 
nine ; I must carry her word quickly : she '11 
make you amends, I warrant you. 

Fal. Well, I will visit her. Tell her so ; and 
bid her think what a man is : let her consider 
his frailty, and then judge of my merit. 

Quick. I will tell her. [thou ? 

Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, say'st 

Quick. Eight and nine, sir. 

Fal. Well, begone : I will not miss her. 

Quick. Peace be with you, sir. [Exit. 

Fal. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook ; 
he sent me word to stay within : I like his money 
well. O, here he comes. 

Enter FORD. 

Ford. Bless you, sir ! 

Fal. Now, Master Brook ? you come to know 
what hath passed between me and Ford's wife. 

Ford. That, indeed, Sir John, is my business. 

Fal. Master Brook, I will not lie to you ; I 
was at her house the hour she appointed me. 

Ford. And how sped you, sir ? 

Fal. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. 

Ford. How so, sir? Did she change her 
determination ? 

Fal. No, Master Brook ; but the peaking cor- 
nuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a 
continual 'larum of jealousy, comes me in the 
instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, 
kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the pro- 
logue of our comedy ; and at his heels a rabble 
of his companions, thither provoked and insti- 
gated by his distemper, and forsooth, to search 
his house for his wife's love. 

Ford. What ! while you were there ? 

Fal. While I was there. [not find you ? 

Ford. And did he search for you and could 

Fal. You shall hear. As good luck would 
have it, comes in one Mistress Page ; gives in- 
telligence of Ford's approach ; and, by her in- 



68 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT iv. 



vention and Ford's wife's distraction, they con- 
veyed me into a buck-basket. 

Ford. A buck-basket ! 

Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket : rammed 
me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul 
stockings, and greasy napkins ; that, Master 
Brook, there was the rankest compound of vil- 
lanous smell that ever offended nostril. 

Ford. And how long lay you there ? 

Fal. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what 
I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for 
your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, 
a couple of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called 
forth by their mistress to carry me in the name 
of foul clothes to Datchet-lane : they took me on 
their shoulders ; met the jealous knave their 
master in the door ; who asked them once or 
twice wnat they had in their basket : I quaked for 
fear lest the lunatic knave would have searched 
it ; but fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, 
held his hand. Well : on went he for a search, 
and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the 
sequel, Master Brook ; I suffered the pangs of 
three several deaths : first, an intolerable fright 
to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether : 
next, to be compassed, like a good bilbo, in the 
circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to 
head : and tnen, to be stopped in, like a strong 
distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in 
their own grease : think of that, a man of my 
kidney, think of that : thatam as subject to heat 
as butter ; a man of continual dissolution and 
thaw ; it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation. And 
in the height of this bath, when I was more than 
half-stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be 
thrown into the Tham es , and cooled , glowing hot , 
in that surge, like a horse-shoe ; think of that, 
hissing hot, think of that, Master Brook. 

Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for 
my sake you have suffered all this. My suit, then , 
is desperate ; you '11 undertake her no more. 

Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, 
as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her 
thus. Her husband is this morning gone a- 
birding : I have received from her another em- 
bassy of meeting ; 'twixt eight and nine is the 
hour, Master Brook. 

Ford* 'Tis past eight already, sir. 

Fal. Is it ? I will then address me to my ap- 
pointment. Come to me at your convenient 
leisure, and you shall know how I speed ; and the 
conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying 
her. Adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook ; 
Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. [Exit. 

Ford. Hum ! ha ! is this a vision ? is this a 
dream I do I sleep? Master Ford, awake; awake, 
Master Ford : there's a hole made in your best 



coat, Master Ford. This 'tis to be married ! this 
'tistohave linen and buck-baskets ! Well, I will 
proclaim myself what I am : I will now take the 
lecher ; he is at my house : he cannot 'scape me j 
'tis impossible he should ; he cannot creep into a 
halfpenny purse nor into a pepper box ; but, lest 
the devil that guides him should aid him, I will 
search impossible places. Though what I am 1 
cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not shall 
not make me tame ; if I have horns to make 
one mad, let the proverb go with me, I '11 be 
horn mad. [Exit. 

ACT IV. 
SCENE I. The Street. 

Enter Mrs. PAGE, Mrs. QUICKLY, and 
WILLIAM. 

Mrs. Page. Is he at Master Ford's already, 
think'st thou ? 

Quick. Sure he is by this ; or will be pre- 
sently : but truly he is very courageous mad 
about his throwing into the water. Mistress 
Ford desires you to come suddenly. 

Mrs. Page. I '11 be with her by and by ; I '11 
but bring my young man here to school. Look, 
where his master comes ; 'tis a playing day, I see* 

Enter Sir HUGH EVANS. 
How now, Sir Hugh ? no school to-day ? 

Eva. No ; Master Slender is let the boys 
leave to play. 

Quick. Blessing of his heart ! 

Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says my 
son profits nothing in the world at his book ; I 
pray you ask him some questions in his accidence. 

Eva. Come hither, William ; hold up your 
head ; come. 

Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah : hold up your 
head ; answer your master ; be not afraid. 

Eva. William, how many numbers is in nouns? 

Will. Two. 

Quick. Truly, I thought there had been one 
number more ; because they say od's nouns. 

Eva. Peace your tattlings. What is fair, 
William ? 

Will. Pulcher. 

Quick. Polecats ! there are fairer things than 
polecats, sure. 

Eva. You are a very simplicity, 'oman ; I 
pray you, peace. What is lapis, William ? 

Will. A stone. 

Eva. And what is a stone, William ? 

Will. A pebble. 

Eva. No, it is lapis : I pray you remember 
in your prain. 

Will. Lapis. 



SCENE II.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



69 



Eva. That is good, William. What is he, 
William, that does Jend articles ? 

Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun ; 
and be thus declined, Singulariter, nominative, 
hie, hac, hoc. 

Eva. Nominative, hig, hag, hog : pray you, 
mark : genitivo, huj^^,s. Well, what is your 
accusative case ? 

Will. Accusative, hinc. 

Eva. I pray you, have your remembrance, 
child. Acctisativo, hing, hang, hog. [rant you. 

Quick. Hang hog is Latin for bacon, I war- 

Eva. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is 
the focative case, William ? 

Will. Qvocativo, O. 

Eva. Remember, William, focative is caret. 

Quick. And that 's a good root. 

Eva. 'Oman, forbear. 

Mrs. Page. Peace. 

Eva. What is your genitive case plural, 
William ? 

Will. Genitive case ? 

Eva. Ay. 

Will. Genitive, horum, harum, horum. 

Quick. 'Vengeance of Jenny's case ! fie on 
her ! never name her, child, if she be a whore. 

Eva. For shame, 'oman. 

Quick. You do ill to teach the child such 
words : he teaches him to hick and to hack, 
which they '11 do fast enough of themselves, and 
to call horum : fie upon you ! 

Eva. 'Oman, art thou lunatics ? hast thou no 
understandings for thy cases, and the numbers 
of the genders ? Thou art as foolish Christian 
creatures as I would desires. 

Mrs. Page. Pr'ythee, hold thy peace. 

Eva. Show me now, William, some declen- 
sions of your pronouns. 

Will. Forsooth, I have forgot. 

Eva. It is ki, kce, cod; if you forget your 
kies, your kees, and your cods, you must be 
preeches. Go your ways and play, go. 

Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I 
thought he was. . ,1 

Eva. He is a good sprag memory. Fare- 
well, Mistress Page. 

Mrs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit 
Sir HUGH.] Get you home, boy. Come, we 
stay too long. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. A Room in FORD'S House. 
Enter FALSTAFF and Mrs. FORD. 

Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten 
up my sufferance : I see you are obsequious in 
your love, and I profess requital to a hair's 
breadth ; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple 



office of love, but in all the accoutrement, com- 
plement, and ceremony of it. But are you sure 
of your husband now ? 

Mrs. Ford. He is a-birding, sweet Sir John. 

Mrs. Page. [Within.'} What hoa, gossip 
Ford, what hoa ! 

Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, Sir John. 
[Exit FALSTAFF. 

Enter Mrs. PAGE. 

Mrs. Page. How now, sweetheart ? who 's at 
home beside yourself? 

Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people. 

Mrs. Page. Indeed ? 

Mrs. Ford. No, certainly ; Speak louder. 

[Aside. 

Mrs. Page. Truly I am so glad you have 
nobody here. 

Mrs. Ford. Why ? 

Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in 
his old lunes again : he so takes on yonder with 
my husband ; so rails against all married man- 
kind : so curses all Eve's daughters, of what 
complexion soever ; and so buffets himself on 
the forehead, crying Peer-out, peer-out! that any 
madness I ever yet beheld seemed but lameness, 
civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is 
in now : I am glad the fat knight is not here. 

Mrs. Ford. Why? does he talk of him? 

Mrs. Page. Of none but him ; and swears he 
was carried out, the last time he searched for 
him, in a basket: protests to my husband he is now 
here ; and hath drawn him and the rest of their 
company from their sport to make another experi- 
ment of his suspicion ; but I am glad the knight 
is not here ; now he shall see his own foolery. 

Mrs. Ford. How near is he, Mistress Page ? 

Mrs. Page. Hard by ; at street end ; he will 
be here anon. [here. 

Mrs. Ford. I am undone ! The knight is 

Mrs. Page. Why, then, you are utterly 
ashamed, and he 's but a dead man. What a 
woman are you ! Away with him, away with 
him ; better shame than murder. 

Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go? How 
should I bestow him ? Shall I put him into 
the basket again ? 

Re-enter FALSTAFF. 

Fal. No, I '11 come no more i' the basket. 
May I not go out ere he come ? 

Mrs. Page. Alas ! three of Master Ford's 
brothers watch the door with pistols, that 
none shall issue out : otherwise you might slip 
away ere he came. But what make you here ? 

Fal. What shall I do ? I Ml creep up into 
the chimney. 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT iv. 



Mrs. Ford. There they always used to discharge 
their birding pieces. Creep into the kiln -hole. 

Fal. Where is it ? 

Mrs. Ford. He will seek there, on my word. 
Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, 
but he hath an abstract for the remembrance 
of such places, and goes to them by his note. 
There is no hiding you in the house. 

Fal. I '11 go out then. 

Mrs. Page. If you go out in your own sem- 
blance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out 
disguised, 

Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him ? 

Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not. There 
is no woman's gown big enough for him ; other- 
wise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a 
kerchief, and so escape. 

Fal. Good hearts, devise something : any 
extremity rather than a mischief. 

Mrs. Ford. My maid's aunt, the fat woman 
of Brentford, has a gown above. 

Mrs. Page. On my word, it will serve him ; 
she 's as big as he is : and there 's her thrummed 
hat, and her muffle too. Run up, Sir John. 

Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress 
Page and I will look some linen for your head. 

Mrs. Page. Quick, quick; we'll come dress 
you straight : put on the gown the while. 

[Exit FALSTAFF. 

Mrs. Ford. I would my husband would meet 
him in this shape : he cannot abide the old 
woman of Brentford ; he swears she 's a witch, 
forbade her my house, and hath threatened to 
beat her. 

Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy husband's 
cudgel ; and the devil guide his cudgel after wards ! 

Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ? 

Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness is he ; and 
he talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath 
had intelligence. 

Mrs. Ford. We '11 try that ; for I '11 appoint 
my men to carry the basket again to meet him 
at the door with it as they did last time. 

Mrs. Page. Nay, but he '11 be here presently : 
let 's go dress him like the witch of Brentford. 

Mrs. Ford. I '11 first direct my men what they 
shall do with the basket. - Go up, I '11 bring 
linen for him straight. [Exit. 

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet ! we 
cannot misuse him enough. 

We '11 leave a proof, by that which we will do, 
Wives may be merry and yet honest too : 
We do not act that often jest and laugh ; 
"Tis old but true, Still swine eat all the draff. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter Mrs. FORD, with two Servants. 
Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again 



on your shoulders : your master is hard at door ; 
if he bid you set it down, obey him : quickly, 
despatch. [Exit. 

1 Serv. Come, come, take it up. 

2 Serv. Pray heaven it be not full of the 
knight again. [much lead. 

i Serv. I hope not ; I had as lief bear so 

Enter FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, CAIUS, and 
Sir HUGH EVANS. 

Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, 
have you any way then to unfool me again ? 
Set down the basket, villain : Somebody call 
my wife. You, youth in a basket, come out 
here ! O, you panderly rascals ! there 's a knot, 
a gin, a pack, a conspiracy against me. Now 
shall the devil be shamed. What ! wife, I say ! 
come, come forth ; behold what honest clothes 
you send forth to bleaching. 

Page. Why, this passes ! Master Ford, you are 
not to go loose any longer ; you must be pinioned. 

Eva. Why, this is lunatics ! this is mad as a 
mad dog ! 

Shal. Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well : 
indeed. 

Enter Mrs. FORD. 

Ford. So say I too, sir. Come hither, Mis- 
tress Ford; Mistress Ford, the honest woman, 
the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath 
the jealous fool to her husband ! I suspect 
without cause, mistress, do I ? 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness, you do, 
if you suspect me in any dishonesty. 

Ford. Well said, brazen-face; hold it out. 
Come forth, sirrah. 

[Pulls the clothes out of the basket. 

Page. This passes ! [clothes alone. 

Mrs. Ford. Are you not ashamed ? Let the 

Ford. I shall find you anon. 

Eva. 'Tis unreasonable ! Will you take up 
your wife's clothes ? Come away. 

Ford. Empty the basket, I say. 

Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why, 

Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there was 
one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this 
basket. Why may not he be there again ? In my 
house I am sure he is : my intelligence is true : my 
jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen. 

Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there he shall 
die a flea's death. 

Page. Here 's no man. 

Shal. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master 
Ford ; this wrongs you. 

Eva. Master Ford, you must pray, and not 
follow the imaginations of your own heart : this 
is jealousies. 



SCENE II.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



Ford. Well, he 's not here I seek for. 

Page. No, nor no where else but in your brain. 

Ford. Help to search my house this one time : 
if I find not what I seek, show no colour for my 
extremity ; let me for ever be your table sport ; 
let them say of me, As jealous as Ford, that 
searched a hollow walnut for his wife's leman. 
Satisfy me once more; once more search with me. 

Mrs. Ford. What, hoa, Mistress Page ! come 
you a"d the old woman down ; my husband 
will come into the chamber. 

Ford. Old woman! What old woman 's that? 

Mrs. Ford. Why, it is my maid's aunt of 
Brentford. 

Ford. A witch, a quean, an o'd cozening quean ! 
Have I not forbid her my house ? She comes of 
errands, does she? We are simple men ; we do 
not know v/hat 's brought to pass under the pro- 
fession of fortune telling. She works by charms, 
by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as 
this is ; beyond our element : we know nothing. 

Come down, you witch, you hag you ; come 

down, I say. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, good, sweet husband; good 
gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. 

Enter FALSTAFF in women's clothes, led by 
Mrs. PAGE. 

Mrs. Page. Gome, Mother Prat, come; give 
me your hand. 

Ford. I '11 prat her : Out of my door, 

you witch, [beats hini\ you rag, you baggage, 
you polecat, you ronyon ! out ! out ! I'll conjure 
you, I '11 fortune-tell you. [Exit FALSTAFF. 

Mrs. Page. Are you not ashamed? I think 
you have killed the poor woman. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it: Tis a goodly 
credit for you. 

Ford. Hang her, witch ! 

Eva. By yea and no, I think the 'oman is a 
witch indeed: I like not when a 'oman has a great 
peard ; I spy a great peard under her muffler. 

Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen? I be- 
seech you follow; see but the issue of my 
jealousy : if I cry out thus upon no trail, never 
trust me when I open again. 

Page. Let 's obey his humour a little farther. 
Come, gentlemen. 

[Exeunt PAGE, FORD, SHAL., and EVANS. 

Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most 
pitifully. 

Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he did 
not ; he beat him most unpitifully methought. 

Mrs. Page. I '11 have the cudgel hallowed 
And hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritori- 
ous service. 

Mrs. Ford. What think you? May we, with 



the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a 
good conscience, pursue him with any further 
revenge ? 

Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, 
scared out of him ; if the devil have him not in 
fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, 
I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. 

Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how 
we have served him ? 

Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means ; if it be but to 
scrape the figures out of your husband's brains. 
If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtu- 
ous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we 
two will still be the ministers. 

Mrs. Ford. I'll warrant they'll have him 
publicly shamed : and methinks there would be 
no period to the jest should he not be publicly 
shamed. 

Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then, 
shape it: I would not have things cool. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. A Room in the Garter Inn. 
Enter HOST and BARDOLPH. 

Bard. Sir, the Germans desire to have three 
of your horses: the duke himself will be to- 
morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. 

Host. What duke should that be comes so se- 
cretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me 
speak with the gentlemen ; they speak English. 

Bard. Ay, sir ; I '11 call them to you. 

Host. They shall have my horses ; but I '11 
make them pay ; I '11 sauce them : they have had 
my houses a week at command ; I have turned 
away my other guests : they must come off; I'll 
sauce them. Come. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. A Room in FORD'S House. 

Enter PAGE, FORD, Mrs. PAGE, Mrs. FORD, 
and Sir HUGH EVANS. 

Eva. 'Tis one of the pest discretions of a 
'oman as ever I did look upon. 

Page. And did he send you both these letters 
at an instant? 

Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour. 

Ford. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do 

what thou wilt ; 

I rather will suspect the sun with cold 
Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy 

honour stand, 

In him that was of late an heretic, 
As firm as faith. 

Page. 'Tis well, 'tis well ; no more. 

Be not as extreme in submission 
As in offence ; 
But let our plot go forward : let our wives 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT iv. 



Yet once again, to make us public sport, 
Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, 
Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. 
Ford. There is no better way than that they 

spoke of. 

Page. How ! to send him word they '11 meet 
him in the park at midnight ; fie, fie ; he '11 
never come. 

Eva. You say he has been thrown into the 
rivers ; and has been grievously peaten as an old 
'oman ; methinks there should be terrors in him 
that he should not come ; methinks his flesh is 
punished, he shall have no desires. 

Page. So think I too. [when he comes, 

Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you '11 use him 
And let us two devise to bring him thither. 
Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes, that 

Herne the hunter, 

Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, 
Doth all the winter time, at still midnight, 
Walk roundaboutan oak, with great ragg'dhorns; 
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, 
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes 

a chain 

In a most hideous and dreadful manner : [know 
You have heard of such a spirit ; and well you 
The superstitious idle-headed eld 
Received, and did deliver to our age, 
This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth, [fear 
Page. Why, yet there want not many that do 
In deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak : 
But what of this ? 

Mrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device ; 
That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us, 
Disguised, like Herne, with huge horns on his 

head. [come, 

Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he '11 

And in this shape. When you have brought him 

thither, 

What shall be done with him? what is your plot? 
Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought 

upon, and thus : 

Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, 
And three or four more of their growth, we '11 

dress [white, 

Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies, green and 
With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, 
And rattles in their hands ; upon a sudden, 
As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met, 
Let them from forth a saw- pit rush at once 
With some diffused song ; upon their sight 
We two in great amazedness will fly : 
Then let them all encircle him about, 
And fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight ; 
And ask him why that hour of fairy revel 
In their so sacred paths he dares to tread 
In shape profane. 



Mrs. Ford. And till he tell the truth, 
Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound, 
And burn him with their tapers. 

Mrs. Page. The truth being known, 

We '11 all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit, 
And mock him home to Windsor. 

Ford. The children must 

Be practised well to this or they'll ne'er do't. 

Eva. I will teach the children their behavi- 
ours ; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to 
burn the knight with my taber. 

Ford. That will be excellent. I'll go buy 
them vizards. [all the fairies, 

Mrs. Page. My Nan shall be the queen of 
Finely attired in a robe of white. [time 

Page. That silk will I go buy; and in that 
Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away. [A side. 
And marry her at Eton. Go, send to Fal- 
staff straight. [Brook ; 

Ford. Nay, I '11 to him again, in name of 
He '11 tell me all his purpose. Sure, he '11 come. 

Mrs. Page. Fear not you that. Go, get us 

properties, 
And tricking for our fairies. 

Eva. Let us about it. It is admirable plea- 
sures, and fery honest knaveries. 

[Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and EVANS 

Mrs. Page. Go, Mistress Ford, 
Send quickly to Sir John to know his mind. 

[Exit Mrs. FORD. 

I '11 to the doctor ; he hath my good-will, 
And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. 
That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot ; 
And he my husband best of all affects : 
The doctor is well money'd, and his friends 
Potent at court ; he, none but he, shall have her, 
Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave 
her. [Exit. 

SCENE V. A Room in the Garter Inn. 
Enter HOST and SIMPLE. 

Host. What wouldst thou have, boor ? what, 
thick-skin? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, 
quick, snap. 

Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir 
John Falstaff from Master Slender. 

Host. There's his chamber, hishouse,hiscastle, 
his standing-bed and truckle-bed ; 'tis painted 
about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and 
new. Go, knock and call ; he '11 speak like an 
Anthropophaginian unto thee. Knock, I say. 

Sim. There 's an old woman, a fat woman, 
gone up into his chamber ; I '11 be so bold as 
stay, sir, till she come down ; I come to speak 
with her, indeed. 

Host. Ha ! a fat woman ! the knight may be 



SCENE V.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



robbed : I '11 call. Bully knight ! Bully Sir 
John ! speak from thy lungs military. Art thou 
there ? it is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. 

Fal. [Above.] How now, mine host? 

Host. Here 's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the 
coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend , 
bully, let her descend ; my chambers are honour- 
able. Fie ! privacy ? fie ! 

Enter FALSTAFF. 

Fal. There was, mine host, an old fat woman 
even now with me ; but she 's gone. 

Sim. Pray you, sir, was 't not the wise woman 
of Brentford ? 

Fal. Ay, marry was it, muscle-shell. What 
would you with her ? 

Sim. My master, sir, my Master Slender, sent 
to her, seeing her go thorough the streets, to 
know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled 
him of a chain had the chain or no. 

Fal. I spake with the old woman about it. 

Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir ? 

Fal. Marry, she says that the very same man 
chat beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened 
him of it. 

Sim. I would I could have spoken with the 
woman herself ; I had other things to have spoken 
with her too, from him. 

Fal. What are they t let us know. 

Host. Ay, come ; quick. 

Sim. I may not conceal them, sir. 

Fal. Conceal them, or thou diest. 

Sim. Why, sir, they were nothing but about 
Mistress Anne Page ; to know if it were my mas- 
ter's fortune to have her or no. 

Fal. 'Tis, 'tis his fortune. 

Sim. What, sir ? 

Fal. To have her, or no. Go ; say the 
woman told me so. 

Sim. May I be so bold to say so, sir ? 

Fal. Ay, Sir Tike ; who more bold ? 

Sim. I thank your worship: I shall make my 
master glad with these tidings. [Ex SIMPLE. 

Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir 
John. Was there a wise woman with thee ? 

Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host ; one that 
hath taught me more wit than ever I learned 
before in my life : and I paid nothing for it 
neither, but was paid for my learning. 

Enter BARDOLPH. 

Bard. Out, alas, sir ! cozenage ! mere cozenage ! 

Host. Where be my horses? speak well of 
them, varletto. 

Bard. Run away with the cozeners : for so 
soon as I came beyond Eton they threw me off 
from behind one of them in a slough of mire ; 



and set spurs and away, like three German 
devils, three Doctor Faustuses. 

Host. They are gone but to meet the duke, 
villain : do not say they be fled ; Germans are 
honest men. 

Enter Sir HUGH EVANS. 

Eva. Where is mine host ? 

Host. What is the matter, sir ? 

Eva. Have a care of your entertainments : 
there is a friend of mine come to town tells me 
there is three couzin germans that has cozened 
all the hosts of Readings, of Maidenhead, of 
Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you 
for good-will, look you : you are wise, and full 
of gibes and vlouting-stogs ; and 'tis not con- 
venient you should be cozened : fare you well. 

[Exit. 
Enter Dr. CAIUS. 

Caius. Vere is mine Host de Jarterre ? 

Host. Here, master doctor, in perplexity 
and doubtful dilemma. 

Caius. I cannot tell vat is dat : but it is tell- 
a me dat you make grand preparation for a 
duke dejarmany : by my trot dere is no duke 
dat de court is know to come ; I tell you for 
good-vill : adieu. [Exit. 

Host. Hue and cry, villain, go : assist me, 
knight; I am undone: fly, run, hue and cry, 
villain ! I am undone ! 

[Exeunt HOST and BARD. 

Fal. I would all the world might be cozened ; 
for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it 
should come to the ear of the court how I have 
been transformed, and how my transformation 
hath been washed and cudgelled, they would 
melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor 
fishermen's boots with me ; I warrant they 
would whip me with their fine wits till I were 
as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never pros- 
pered since I foreswore myself at trimero. 
Well, if my wind were but long enough to say 
my prayers, I would repent. 

Ente Mrs. QUICKLY. 
Now ! whence come you ? 

Quick. From the two parties, forsooth. 

Fal. The devil take one party and his dam 
the other, and so they shall be both bestowed ! 
I have suffered more for their sakes, more than 
the villanous inconstancy of man's disposition 
is able to bear. 

Quick. And have not they suffered ? Yes, I 
warrant ; speciously one of them ; Mistress 
Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, 
that you cannot see a white spot about her. 

Fal. What tell'st thou me of black and blue? 



74 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT v. 



I was beaten myself into all the colours of the 
rainbow ; and I was like to be apprehended 
for the witch of Brentford ; but that my ad- 
mirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the 
action of an old woman, delivered me, the 
knave constable had set me i' the stocks, i' the 
common stocks, for a witch. 

Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your 
chamber : you shall hear how things go ; and, I 
warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will 
say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is 
to bring you together ! Sure, one of you does 
not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed. 

Fal. Come up into my chamber. [Exeunt. 

SCENE VI. Another Room in the Garter Inn. 
Enter FENTON and HOST. 

Host. Master Fen ton, talk not to me; my mind 
is heavy, I will give over all. [purpose, 

Pent. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my 
And, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee 
A hundred pound in gold, more than your loss. 

Host. I will hear you, Master Fenton ; and 
I will, at the least, keep your counsel. 

Pent. From time to time I have acquainted you 
With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page ; 
Who, mutually, hath answer'd my affection, 
So far forth as herself might be her chooser, 
Even to my wish : I have a letter from her 
Of such contents as you will wonder at ; 
The mirth whereof so larded with my matter 
That neither, singly, can be manifested 
Without the show of both; wherein fat Falstaff 
Hath a great scene : the image of the jest 

{Showing the letter. 

I '11 show you here at large. Hark, good mine 
host, [one, 

To-night at Herne's oak, just 'twixt twelve and 
Must my sweet Nan present the fairy queen : 
The purpose why is here ; in which disguise, 
While other jests are something rank on foot, 
Her father hath commanded her to slip 
Away with Slender, and with him at Eton 
Immediately to marry : she hath consented : 
Now, sir, 

Her mother, ever strong against that match, 
And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed 
That he shall likewise shuffle her away 
While other sports are tasking of their minds, 
And at the deanery, where a priest attends, 
Straight marry her : to this her mother's plot 
She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath 
Made promise to the doctor: Now thus it rests; 
Her father means she shall be all in white ; 
And in that habit, when Slender sees his time 
To take her by the hand and bid her go, 



She shall go with him : her mother hath intended, 
The better to denote her to the doctor, 
For they must all be mask'd and vizarded, 
That, quaint in green, she shall be loose enrobed, 
With ribands pendant, flaring 'bout her head; 
And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, 
To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token, 
The maid hath given consent to go with him. 

Host. Which means she to deceive? father 
or mother ? 

Pent. Both, my good host, to go along with me: 
And here it rests, that you '11 procure the vicar 
To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one, 
And, in the lawful name of marrying, 
To give our hearts united ceremony. [vicar : 

Host. Well, husband your device; I '11 to the 
Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. 

Pent. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; 
Besides, I '11 make a present recompense. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT V. 

SCENE I. A Room in the Garter Inn. 
Enter FALSTAFF and Mrs. QUICKLY. 

Fal. Pr'ythee, no more prattling: go. 

I '11 hold. This is the third time ; I hope good 
luck lies in odd numbers. Away, go ; they 
say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in 
nativity, chance, or death. Away. 

Quick. I '11 provide you a chain : and I '11 
do what I can to get you a pair of horns. 

Fal. Away, I say ; time wears : hold up your 
head, and mince. [Exit Mrs. QUICKLY. 

Enter FORD. 

How now, Master Brook ? Master Brook, the 
matter will be known to-night or never. Be 
you in the Park about midnight, at Herne's 
oak, and you shall see wonders. 

Ford. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as 
you told me you had appointed. 

Pal. I went to her, Master Brook, as you 
see, like a poor old man ; but I came from her, 
Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That 
same knave, Ford her husband, hath the finest 
mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, 
that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you. 
He beat me grievously, in the shape of a 
woman; for in the shape of man, Master 
Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver's 
beam ; because I know also life is a shuttle. I 
am in haste ; go along with me ; I '11 tell you 
all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, 
played truant, and whipped top, I knew not 
what it was to be beaten till lately. Follow 
me : I '11 tell you strange things of this knave 



SCENE II.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



75 



Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, 
and I will deliver his wife into your hand. 
Follow. Strange things in hand, Master 
Brook ! follow. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. Windsor Park. 
Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER. 

Page. Come, come ; we '11 couch i* the 
castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. 
Remember, son Slender, my daughter. 

Slen. Ay, forsooth ; I have spoke with her, 
and we have a nay-word how to know one 
another ; I come to her in white and cry mum ; 
she cries budget ; and by that we know one 
another. 

ShaL That 's good too : but what needs either 
your mum or her budget? the white will decipher 
her well enough. It hath struck ten o'clock. 

Page. The night is dark ; light and spirits 
will become it well. Heaven prosper our 
sport ! No man means evil but the devil, and 
we shall know him by his horns. Let 's away ; 
follow me. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. The Street in Windsor. 
Enter Mrs. PAGE, Mrs. FORD, and Dr. CAIUS. 

Mrs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is 
in green : when you see your time, take her by 
the hand, away with her to the deanery, and 
dispatch it quickly. Go before into the park ; 
we two must go together. 

Cams. I know vat I have to do ; adieu. 

Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [Exit 
CAIUS.] My husband will not rejoice so much 
at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the 
doctor's marrying my daughter : but 'tis no 
matter'; better a little chiding than a great deal 
of heart-break. 

Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now, and her 
troop of fairies ? and the Welsh devil, Hugh ? 

Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit 
hard by Herne's oak, with obscured lights ; 
which, at the very instant of FalstafFs and our 
meeting, they will at once display to the night. 

Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze 
him. 

Mrs. Page. If he be not amazed he will be 
mocked ; if he be amazed he will every way be 
mocked. 

Mrs. Ford. We '11 betray him finely. 

Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters and their 

lechery, 
Those that betray them do no treachery. 

Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on. To the 
oak, to the oak ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. Windsor Park. 

Enter Sir HUGH EVANS, and Fairies. 

Eva. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember 

your parts : be pold, I pray you ; follow me into 

the pit ; and when I give the watch-'ords, do as 

I pid you. Come, come ; trib, trib. [Exeunt. 

SCENE V. Another part of the Park. 

Enter FALSTAFF disguised, with a buck's 
"'] head on. 

Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve ; 
the minute draws on. Now the hot-blooded 
gods assist me : Remember, Jove, thou wast 
a bull for thy Europa ; love set on thy horns. 
O powerful love ! that in some respects 
makes a beast a man ; in some other a man a 
beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan, for the 
love of Leda : O omnipotent love ! how near 
the god drew to the complexion of a goose ? 
A fault done first in the form of a beast : O 
Jove, a beastly fault ! and then another fault in 
the semblance of a fowl ; think on 't, Jove ; a 
foul fault. When gods have hot backs what 
shall poor men do ? For me, I am here a 
Windsor stag ; and the fattest, I think, i' the 
forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who 
can blame me to piss my tallow ? Who comes 
here ? my doe ? 

Enter Mrs. FORD and Mrs. PAGE. 

Mrs. Ford. Sir John ? art thou there, my 
deer ? my male deer ? 

Fal. My doe with the black scut ? Let the 
sky rain potatoes ; let it thunder to the tune of 
Green Sleeves; hail kissing-comfits, and snow 
eringoes ; let there come a tempest of provoca- 
tion, I will shelter me here. [Embracing her. 

Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, 
sweetheart. 

Fal. Divide me like a bribe-buck, each a 
haunch : I will keep my sides to myself, my 
shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my 
horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a 
woodman ? ha ! Speak I like Herne the 
hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of con- 
science; he makes restitution. As I am a true 
spirit, welcome ! [Noise within. 

Mrs. Page. Alas ! what noise ? 

Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins ! 

Fal. What should this be ? 



ge. >- {.Theyrunoff. 

Fal. I think the devil will not have me 
damned lest the oil that is in me should set hell 
on fire ; he would never else cross me thus. 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT v. 



Enter Sir HUGH EVANS, like a satyr ; Mrs. 
QUICKLY and PISTOL ; ANNE PAGE, as the 
Fairy Queen, attended by her brother and 
others, dressed like fairies, with waxen tapers 
on their heads. 

Quick. Fairies, black, gray, green, and white, 
You moonshine revellers and shades of night, 
You orphan-heirs of fixed destiny, 
Attend your office and your quality. 
Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy o-yes. 

Pist. Elves, list your names ; silence, you airy 

toys. 

Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap : 
Where fires thou find'st unrak'd, and hearths un- 

swept, 

There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry : 
Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. 
Fal. They are fairies ; he that speaks to them 
shall die : [eye. 

I '11 wink and couch : no man their works must 
[Lies down upon his face. 
Eva. Where's Pede? Go you, and where 

you find a maid 

That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said, 
Raise up the organs of her fantasy, 
, Sleep she as sound as careless infancy ; 
But those as sleep and think not on their sins, 
Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, 

and shins. 

Qttick. About, about ; 

Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out : 
Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room ; 
That it may stand till the perpetual doom, 
In state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit, 
Worthy the owner and the owner it. 
The several chairs of order look you scour 
With juice of balm and every precious flower ; 
Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, 
With loyal blazon evermore be blest ! 
And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, 
Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring : 
The expressure that it bears, green let it be, 
More fertile-fresh than all the field to see ; 
And, Hony soit ytii mal y pense write, 
In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white : 
Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, 
Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee : 
Fairies use flowers for their charactery. 
Away ; disperse : but, 'tis one o'clock, 
Our dance of custom, round about the oak 
Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget. 

Eva. Pray you, lock hand in hand ; your- 
selves in order set : 

And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, 
To guide our measure round about the tree. 
But, stay : I smell a man of middle earth. 



Fal. Heavens defend me from that Welsh 
fairy ! lest he transform me to a piece of cheese ! 

Pist. Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even 
in thy birth. 

Quick. With trial-fire touch me his finger end: 
If he be chaste, the flame will back descend 
And turn him to no pain ; but if he start, 
It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. 

Pist. A trial, come. 

Eva. Come, will this wood take fire ? 

[ They burn him with their tapers. 

Fal. Oh, oh, oh ! 

Quick. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire ! 
About him, fairies ; sing a scornful rhyme ; 
And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. 

Eva. It is right ; indeed he is full of lecheries 
and iniquity. 

SONG. 

Fye on sinful fantasy ! 

Fye on lust and luxury ! 

Lust is but a bloody fire, 

Kindkd with unchaste desire, 

Fed in heart ; whose flames aspire, 

As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. 

Pinch him, fairies, mutually ; 

Pinch him for his villany ; 
Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, 
Till candles, and star-light, and moonshine be out. 

During this song tJie fairies pinch FALSTAFF. 
DffctorCAivs comes one way, and steals away 
a fairy in green ; SLENDER another way, and 
takes o^" a fairy in white ; and FENTON comes, 
and steals away Mrs. ANNE PAGE. A noise 
of hunting is made within. A II the fairies 
run away. FALSTAFF pulls off his buck's 
head and rises. 

Enter PAGE, FORD, Mrs. PAGE, and Mrs. 
FORD. They lay hold on him. 

Page. Nay, do not fly ; I think we have 

watch'd you now : 
Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn ? 

Mrs. Page. I pray you come ; hold up the 

jest no higher : 

Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives? 
See you these, husband ? do not these fair yokes 
Become the forest better than the town ? 

Ford. Now, sir, who 's a cuckold now ? 
Master Brook, Falstaff's a knave, a cuckoldly 
knave ; here are his horns, Master Brook : and, 
Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford's 
but his buck -basket, his cudgel, and twenty 
pounds of money ; which must be paid to 
Master Brook ; his horses are arrested for it, 
Master Brook. 

Mrs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill luck ; 
we could never meet. I will never take you 
for my love again, but I will always count you 
my deer. 



SCENE V.] 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



77 



Fal. I do begin to perceive that I am made 
an ass. 

Ford. Ay, and an ox too ; both the proofs 
are extant. 

Fal. And these are not fairies ? I was three 
or four times in the thought they were not 
fairies : and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the 
sudden surprise of my powers, drove the gross- 
ness of the foppery into a received belief, in de- 
spite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that 
they were fairies. See now how wit may be 
made a Jack-a-lent when 'tis upon ill employ- 
ment. 

Eva. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got and leave 
your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. 

Ford. Well said, fairy Hugh. 

Eva. And leave you your jealousies too, I 
pray you. 

Ford. I will never mistrust my wife again, 
till thou art able to woo her in good English. 

Fal. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and 
dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross 
o'er-reaching as this? Am I ridden with a 
Welsh goat too ? Shall I have a coxcomb of 
frize ? 'Tis time I were choked with a piece of 
toasted cheese. 

Eva. Seese is not good to give putter ; your 
pelly is all putter. 

Fal. Seese and putter ! have I lived to stand 
at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? 
This is enough to be the decay of lust and late- 
walking through the realm. 

Mrs. Page. Why, Sir John, do you think, 
though we would have thrust virtue out of our 
hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given 
ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the 
devil could have made you our delight ? 

Ford. What ! a hodge-puddirig? a bag of flax? 

Mrs. Page. A puffed man ? 

Page. Old, cold, withered, and of intolerable 
entrails ? 

Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan ? 

Page. And as poor as Job ? 

Ford. And as wicked as his wife ? 

Eva. And given to ornications, and to 
taverns, and sack, and wine, and metheglins, 
and to drinkings, and swearings, and starings, 
pribbles, and prabbles ? 

Fal. Well, I am your theme : you have the 
start of me ; I am dejected ; I am not able to 
answer the Welsh flannel : ignorance itself is a 
plummet o'er me ; use me as you will. 

Ford. Marry, sir, we '11 bring you to Windsor, 
to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of 
money, to whom you should have been a pander: 
over and above that you have suffered, I think, 
to repay that money will be a biting affliction. 



Mrs. Ford. Nay, husband, let that go to 

make amends : 
Forgive that sum, and so we '11 all be friends. 

Ford. Well, here 's my hand ; all 's forgiven 
at last. 

Page. Yet be cheerful, knight : thou shall eat 
a posset to-night at my house ; where I will de- 
sire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs 
at thee. Tell her Master Slender hath married 
her daughter. 

Mrs. Page. Doctors doubt that : if Anne 
Page be my daughter, she is by this Doctor 
Caius' wife. {Aside. 

Enter SLENDER. 

Slen. Who ho ! ho ! father Page ! 

Page. Son ! how now? how now, son ? have 
you dispatched ? 

Slen. Dispatched ! I '11 make the best in 
Gloucestershire know on 't ; would I were 
hanged, la, else. 

Page. Of what, son ? 

Slen. I cai:.e yonder at Eton to marry Mis- 
tress Aune Page, and she's a great lubberly 
boy. If it had not been i' the church I would 
have swinged him, or he should have swinged 
me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, 
would I might never stir, and 'tis a postmaster's 
boy. 

Page. Upon my life then you took the wrong. 

Slen. What need you tell me that ? I think 
so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been 
married to him, for all he was in woman's ap- 
parel, I would not have had him. 

Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not 
I tell you how you should know my daughter 
by her garments ? 

Slen. I went to her in white and cried mum, 
and she cried budget, as Anne and I had ap- 
pointed ; and yet it was not Anne, but a post- 
master's boy. 

Eva. Jeshu ! Master Slender, cannot you see 
but marry boys ? 

Page. Oh, I am vexed at heart : what shal lido? 

Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry : I 
knew of your purpose ; turned my daughter into 
green ; and, indeed, she is now with the doctor 
at the deanery, and there married. 

Enter CAIUS. 

Caius. Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I 
am cozened ; I ha' married un garfon, a boy ; 
tin paisan, by gar, a boy ; it is not Anne Page : 
by gar, I am cozened. 

Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green ? 

Caius. Ay, by gar, and 'tis a boy : by gar, 
I '11 raise all Windsor. {Exit CAIUS. 



MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



[ACT v. 



Ford. This is strange. Who hath got the 
right Anne ? 

Page. My heart misgives me : here comes 
Master Fenton. 

Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE. 

How now, Master Fenton ? 

Anne. Pardon, good father ! good my mother, 
pardon ! 

Page. Now, Mistress, how chance you went 
not with Master Slender ? 

Mrs. Page. Why went you not with master 
doctor, maid? 

Pent. You do amaze her : Hear the truth of it. 
You would have married her most shamefully, 
Where there was no proportion held in love. 
The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, 
Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. 
The offence is holy that she hath committed : 
And this deceit loses the name of craft, 
Of disobedience, or unduteous title ; 
Since therein she doth evitate and shun 
A thousand irreligious cursed hours, [her. 

Which forced marriagewould have brought upon 



Ford. Stand not amazed : here isno remedy: 
In love, the heavens themselves do guide the 

state ; 

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. 
Fal. I am glad, though you have ta'en a 
special stand to strike at me, that your arrow 
hath glanced. 

Page. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven 

give thee joy ! 

What cannot be eschewed must be embraced. 
Fal. When night-dogs run all sorts of deer 

are chased. 
Eva. I will dance and eat plums at your 

wedding. 
Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further : 

Master Fenton, 

Heaven give you many, many merry days ! 
Good husband, let us every one go home, 
And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire ; 
Sir John and all. 

Ford. Let it be so : Sir John, 
To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word ; 
For he, to-night, shall lie with Mistress Ford. 

{Exeunt. 






'v't'Ciont ifftAi :ysqai 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



ORSINO, .>#&? of Illyria. 

SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, brother to 
VIOLA. 

ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to SEBAS- 
TIAN. 

A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to VIOLA. 

VALENTINE, \ Gentlemen attending on the 

CURIO, / Duke. 

SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle ?/ OLIVIA. 

SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. 



MALVOLIO, Steward to OLIVIA. 
CLOWN,* \ Servants to Ql^i^ 

OLIVIA, a rich Countess. 
VIOLA, in love with the Duke. 
MARIA, OLIVIA'S Woman. 

Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, 
and other Attendants. 



SCENE, A City in ILLYRIA ; and the Sea-coast near it. 



ACT I. 






SCENEI. An Apartment in //fcDuKE's Palace. 

Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords ; Musicians 
attending. 

Duke. If music be the food of love, play on, 
Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, 
The appetite may sicken and so die. 
That strain again ; it had a dying fall ; 
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
Stealing, and giving odour. Enough; no more ; 
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before. 
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou ! 
That, notwithstanding thy capacity 
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, 
Of what validity and pitch soever, 
But falls into abatement and low price 
Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy, 
That it along is high-fantastical. 

Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord ? 

Duke. What, Curio? 

Cur. The hart. 

Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have : 
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence ; 
That instant was I tum'd into a hart ; 
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, 
E'er since pursue me. How now ? what 
news from her ? 

Enter VALENTINE. 

VaL So please my lord, I might not be ad- 
mitted, 

But from her handmaid do return this answer : 
The element itself, till seven years' heat, 
Shall not behold her face at ample view ; 



But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, 
And water once a-day her chamber round 
With eye-o ending brine : all this to season 
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh 
And lasting in her sad remembrance. [frame, 
Duke. O, she that hath a heart of that fine 
To pay this debt of love but to a brother, 
How will she love when the rich golden shaft 
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else 
That live in her ! when liver, brain, and heart, 
These sov'reign thrones, are all supplied and 

fill'd,- 

Her sweet perfections, with one self king ! 
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers ; 
Love- thoughts lie rich when canopied with 

bowers. {Exeunt. 

SCENE II. The Sea-coast. 
Enter VIOLA, Captain, and Sailors. 
Vio. What country, friends, is this ? 
Cap. Illyria, lady. 

Vio. And what should I do in Illyria ? 
My brother he is in Elysium. 
Perchance he is not drown'd : What think 
you, sailors? [sav'd. 

Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were 
Vio. O my poor brother ! and so perchance, 
may he be. [with chance, 

Cap. True, madam; and, to comfort you 
Assure yourself, after our ship did split, 
When you, and that poor number sav'd with you, 
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, 
Most provident in peril, bind himself, 
Courage and hope both teaching him the prac- 
tice, 

To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea ; 
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back, 



So 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



(ACT 



I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves 
So long as I could see. 

Vio. For saying so, there 's gold : 

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, 
Whereto thy speech serves for authority, 
The like of him. Know'st thou this country? 

Cap. Ay, madam, well ; for I was bred and 

born 
Not three hours' travel from this very place. 

Vio. Who governs here ? 

Cap. A noble duke, in nature 

As in his name. 

Vio. What is his name ? 

Cap. Orsino. 

Vio. Orsino ! I have heard my father name 

him. 
He was a bachelor then. 

Cap. And so is now, 

Or was so very late : for but a month 
Ago I went from hence ; and then 'twas fresh 
In murmur, as you know, what great ones do, 
The less will prattle of, that he did seek 
The love of fair Olivia. 

Vio. What's she? 

Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count 
That died some twelvemonth since ; then leav- 
ing her 

In the protection of his son, her brother, 
Who shortly also died : for whose dear love, 
They say, she hath abjured the company 
And sight of men. 

Vio. O that I served that lady ! 

And might not be delivered to the world, 
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow 
What my estate is. 

Cap. That were hard to compass : 

Because she will admit no kind of suit, 
No, not the duke's. 

Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain ; 
And though that nature with a beauteous wall 
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee 
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits 
With this thy fair and outward character. 
I pray thee, and I '11 pay thee bounteously, 
Conceal me what I am ; and be my aid 
For such disguise as, haply, shall become 
The form of my intent. I '11 serve this duke ; 
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him ; 
It may be worth thy pains ; for I can sing, 
And speak to him in many sorts of music 
That will allow me very worth his service. 
What else may hap to time I will commit ; 
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. 

Cap. Be you his eunuch and your mute I '11 be ; 
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see ! 

Vio. I thank thee. Lead me on. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House. 
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and MARIA. 

Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to 
take the death of her brother thus ? I am sure 
care 's an enemy to life. 

Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come 
in earlier o' nights ; your cousin, my lady, takes 
great exceptions to your ill hours. 

Sir To. Why, let her except, before excepted. 

Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself 
within the modest limits of order. 

Sir To. Confine? I '11 confine myself no finer 
than I am : these clothes are good enough to drink 
in, and so be these boots too ; an they be not, 
let them hang themselves in their own straps. 

Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo 
you : I heard my lady talk of it yesterday ; and 
of a foolish knight that you brought in one 
night here to be her wooer. 

Sir To. Who ? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek ? 

Mar. Ay, he. 

Sir To. He 's as tall a man as any 's in Illyria. 

Mar. What 's that to the purpose ? 

Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats 
a-year. 

Mar. Ay, but he '11 have but a year in all 
these ducats ; he 's a very fool, and a prodigal. 
Sir To. Fye, that you '11 say so ! he plays o' 
the viol-de-gambo, and speaks three or four 
languages word for word without book, and 
hath all the good gifts of nature. 

Mar. He hath, indeed, almost natural : for, 
besides that he 's a fool, he's a great quarreller ; 
and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to 
allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis 
thought among the prudent he would quickly 
have the gift of a grave. 

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and 
substractors that say so of him. Who are they ? 

Mar. They that add, moreover, he 's drunk 
nightly in your company. 

Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece ; 
I '11 drink to her as long as there is a passage in 
my throat and drink in Illyria. He 's a coward 
and a coystril that will not drink to my niece 
till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. 
What, wench ? Castiliano-vulgo ! for here 
comes Sir Andrew Ague-face. 

Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. 
Sir And. Sir Toby Belch ! how now, Sir 
Toby Belch ? 

Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew ? 

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. 

Mar. And you too, sir. 

Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost 



SCENE in.] TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



81 



Sir And. What 's that ? 

Sir To. My niece's chamber-maid. 

Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire 
better acquaintance. 

Mar. My name is Mary, sir. 

Sir And. Good Mistress Mary Accost, 

Sir To. You mistake, knight : accost is, 
front her, board her, woo her, assail her. 

Sir And. By my troth, I would not under- 
take her in this company. Is that the meaning 
of accost ? 

Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. 

Sir To. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 
would thou mightst never draw sword again. 

Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would 
I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, 
do you think you have fools in hand ? 

Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. 

Sir And. Marry, but you shall have ; and 
here 's my hand. 

Mar. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, 
bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let it 
drink. 

Sir And. Wherefore, sweetheart? what's 
your metaphor ? 

Mar. It's dry, sir. 

Sir And. Why, I think so ; I am not such 
an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But 
what 's your jest ? 

Mar. A dry jest, sir. 

Sir And. Are you full of them ? 

Mar. Ay, sir ; I have them at my fingers' 
ends : marry, now I let go your hand I am barren. 

[Exit MARIA. 

Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of 
canary : When did I see thee so put down ? 

Sir And. Never in your life, I think ; unless 
you see canary put me down. Methinks some- 
times I have no more wit than a Christian or an 
ordinary man has ; but I am a great eater of 
beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit. 

Sir To. No question. 

Sir And. An I thought that, I 'd forswear it. 
I '11 ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. 

Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight ? 

Sir And. What is pourquoy ? do or not do ? 
I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues 
that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-bait- 
ing. O, had I but followed the arts ! 

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent 
head of hair. 

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my 
hair? 

Sir To. Past question ; for thou seest it will 
not curl by nature. 

Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, 
does't not? 



Sir To. Excellent ; it hangs like ilax on a 
distaff ; and I hope to see a housewife take thee 
between her legs and spin it off. 

Sir And. Faith, I '11 home to-morrow, Sir 
Toby ; your niece will not be seen ; or, if she 
be, it 's four to one she '11 none of me ; the count 
himself here hard by woos her. 

Sir To. She '11 none o' the count ; she '11 not 
match above her degree, neither in estate, years, 
nor wit ; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's 
life in 't, man. 

Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am 
a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world ; I 
delight in masques and revels sometimes alto- 
gether. 

Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, 
knight ? 

Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he 
be, under the degree of my betters ; and yet I 
will not compare with an old man. 

Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, 
knight ? 

Sir And. Faith, I can cut a caper. 

Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to 't. 

Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick 
simply as strong as any man in Illyria. 

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid ? 
wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? 
are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall's 
picture ? why dost thou not go to church in a 
galliard and come home in a coranto ? My very 
walk should be a jig ; I would not so much as 
make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost 
thou mean ? is it a world to hide virtues in ? I 
did think, by the excellent constitution of thy 
leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. 

Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indiffer- 
ent well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we 
set about some revels? 

Sir To. What shall we do else ? were we not 
born under Taurus ? 

Sir And. Taurus ? that 's sides and heart. 

Sir To. No, sir ; it is legs and thighs. Let 
me see thee caper : ha ! higher : ha, ha ! ex- 
cellent ! [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace. 
Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire. 

VaL If the duke continue these favours to- 
wards you, Cesario, you are like to be much ad- 
vanced ; he hath known you but three days, and 
already you are no stranger. 

Via. You either fear his humour or my negli- 
gence, that you call in question the continuance 
of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours ? 

Val. No, believe me. 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT i. 



Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants. 

Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count. 

Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho ? 

Vio. On your attendance, my lord ; here. 

Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. Cesario, 
Thou know'st no less but all ; I have unclasp'd 
To thee the book even of my secret soul : 
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her ; 
Be not denied access, stand at her doors, 
And tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow 
Till thou have audience. 

Vio. Sure, my noble lord, 

If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow 
As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 

Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, 
Rather than make unprofited return. 

Vio. Say I do speak with her, my lord. 
What then? 

Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love, 
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith : 
It shall become thee well to act my woes ; 
She will attend it better in thy youth 
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. 

Vio. I think not so, my lord. 

Duke. Dear lad, believe it, 

For they shall yet belie thy happy years 
That say thou art a man : Diana's lip 
Is not more smooth and rubious ; thy small pipe 
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, 
And all is semblative a woman's part. 
I know thy constellation is right apt 
For this affair : Some four or five attend him : 
All, if you will ; for I myself am best 
When least in company : Prosper well in this 
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, 
To call his fortunes thine. 

Vio. I '11 do my best 

To woo your lady : yet, \aside\ a barful strife ! 
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. 

SCENE V. A Room in OLIVIA'S House. 
Enter MARIA and CLOWN. 

Mar. Nay ; either tell me where thou hast 
been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a 
bristle may enter in -way of thy excuse : my lady 
will hang thee for thy absence. 

Clo. Let her hang me : he that is well hanged 
in this world needs to fear no colours. 

Mar. Make that good. 

Clo. He shall see none to fear. 

Mar. A good lenten answer : I can tell thee 
where that saying was born, of, I fear no colours. 

Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary ? 

Mar. In the wars ; and that may you be bold 
to say in your foolery. 

Clo, Well, God give them wisdom that have 



it ; and those that are fools, let them use their 
talents. 

Mar. Yet you will be hanged for being so 
long absent : or, to be turned away ; is not 
that as good as a hanging to you ? 

Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad 
marriage ; and for turning away, let summer 
bear it out. 

Mar. You are resolute, then ? 

Clo. Not so neither : but I am resolved on 
two points. 

Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold ; 
or, if both break, your gaskins fall. 

Clo. Apt, in good faith ; very apt ! Well, 
go thy way ; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, 
thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any 
in Illyria. 

Mar. Peace, you rogue ; no more o' that ; 
here comes my lady : make your excuse wisely ; 
you were best. [Exit. 

Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO. 

Clo. Wit, and 't be thy will, put me into good 
fooling ! Those wits that think they have thee, 
do very oft prove fools ; and I, that am sure I 
lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what 
says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a 
foolish wit. --God bless thee, lady ! 

OK. Take the fool away. [the lady 

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take awa^. 

OK. Go to, you 're a dry fool ; I '11 no more 
of you : besides, you grow dishonest. 

Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and 
good counsel will amend : for give the dry fool 
drink, then is the fool not dry ; bid the dis- 
honest man mend himself : if he mend, he is no 
longer dishonest ; if he cannot, let the botcher 
mend him. Anything that's mended is but 
patched ; virtue that transgresses is but patched 
with sin ; and sin that amends is but patched 
with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will 
serve, so ; if it will not, what remedy ? As 
there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's 
a flower : the lady bade take away the fool ; 
therefore, I say again, take her away. 

Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. 

Clo. Misprision in the highest degree ! Lady, 
Cucullus non facit monachum ; that 's as much 
as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good 
madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. 

Oli. Can you do it ? 

Clo. Dexterously, good madonna. 

Oli. Make your proof. 

Clo. I must catechise you for it, madonna. 
Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. 

OK. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, 
I '11 'bide your proof. 



SCENE V.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



do. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou ? 

Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death. 

Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. 

OK. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. 

Clo. The more fool you, madonna, to mourn 
for your brother's soul being in heaven. Take 
away the fool, gentlemen. 

OH. What think you of this fool, Malvolio ? 
doth he not mend ? 

Mai. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of 
death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the 
wise, doth ever make the better fool. 

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, 
for the better increasing your folly ! Sir Toby 
will be sworn that I am no fox ; but he will not 
pass his word for twopence that you are no 
fool. 

OH. How say you to that, Malvolio ? 

Mai. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in 
such a barren rascal ; I saw him put down the 
other day with an ordinary fool that has no more 
brain than a stone. Look you now, he 's out 
of his guard already ; unless you laugh and 
minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I pro- 
test, I take these wise men, that crow so at these 
set kind of fools, no better than the fools' 
zanies. 

Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, 
and taste with a distempered appetite. To be 
generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to 
take those things for bird-bolts that you deem 
cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an 
allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail ; 
nor nc railing in a known discreet man, though 
he do nothing but reprove. 

Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, 
for thou speakest well of fools ! 

Re-enter MARIA. 

Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young 
gentleman much desires to speak with you. 

Oli. From the Count Orsino, is it ? 

Mar. I know not, madam ; 'tis a fair young 
man, and well attended. 

Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay ? 

Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 

OK. Fetch him off, I pray you ; he speaks 
nothing but madman. Fie on him! [Exit 
MARIA.] Go you, Malvolio ; if it be a suit 
from the count, I am sick, or not at home ; what 
you will to dismiss it. {Exit MALVOLIO.] 
Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, 
and people dislike it. 

Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if 
thy eldest son should be a fool : whose skull 
Jove cram with brains, for here he comes, one 
of thy kin, has a most weak/m mater. 



Enter Sir TOBY BELCH. 

Oli. By mine honour, half drunk. What is 
he at the gate, cousin ? 

Sir To. A gentleman. 

Oli. A gentleman ? What gentleman ? 

Sir To. 'Tis a gentleman here A plague o' 
these pickle-herrings ! How now, sot ? 

Clo. .Good Sir Toby, - 

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so 
early by this lethargy ? 

Sir To. Lechery ! I defy lechery. There 's 
one at the gate. 

Oli. Ay, marry ; what is he ? 

Sir To. Let him be the devil an he will, I 
care not : give me faith, say I. Well, it 's all 
one. [Exit. 

OK. What 's a drunken man like, fool ? 

Clo. Like a drowned man, a fool, and a mad- 
man : one draught above heat makes him a fool ; 
the second mads him ; and a third drowns him. 

OK. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let 
him sit o' my coz ; for he is in the third degree 
of drink ; he 's drowned : go, look after him. 

Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna ; and the 
fool shall look to the madman. [Exit CLOWN. 

Re-enter MALVOLIO. 

Mai. Madam, yond young fellow swears he 
will speak with you. I told him you were sick ; 
he takes on him to understand so much, and 
therefore comes to speak with you ; I told him 
you were asleep; he seems to have a fore- 
knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to 
speak with you. What is to be said to him, 
lady ? he 's fortified against any denial. 

OK. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. 

Mai. He has been told so ; and he says he '11 
stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be 
the supporter of a bench, but he '11 speak with 
you. 

OK. What kind of man is he ? 

Mai. Why, of mankind. 

OK. What manner of man ? 

Mai. Of very ill manner ; he '11 speak with 
you, will you or no. 

Ofa . Of what personage and years is he ? 

Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, nor 
young enough for a boy ; as a squash is before 
'tis a peascod, or a codling, when 'tis almost an 
apple : 'tis with him e'en standing water, be- 
tween boy and man. He is very well-favoured, 
and he speaks very shrewishly ; one would 
think his mother's milk were scarce out of him. 

Oli. Let him approach. Call in my gentle- 
woman. 

Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit. 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT 1. 



Re-enter MARIA. 
OK, Give me my veil : come, throw it o'er 

my face ; 
We '11 once more hear Orsino's embassy. 

Enter VIOLA. 

Vio. The honourable lady of the house, 
which is she ? 

OK. Speak to me, I shall answer for her. 
Your will ? 

Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable 
beauty, I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of 
the house, for I never saw her : I would be loath 
to cast away my speech ; for, besides that it is 
excellently well penned. I have taken great 
pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain 
no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the 
least sinister usage. 

OIL Whence came you, sir ? 

Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, 
and that question 's out of my part. Good gentle 
one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady 
of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. 

OH. Are you a comedian ? 

Vio. No, my profound heart : and yet, by 
the very fangs of malice, I swear I am not that 
I play. Are you the lady of the house ? 

OIL If I do not usurp myself, I am. 

Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do 
usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not 
yours to reserve. But this is from my commis- 
sion : I will on with my speech in your praise, 
and then show you the heart of my message. 

OIL Come to what is important in 't : I for- 
give you the praise. 

Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, 
and 'tis poetical. 

OIL It is the more like to be feigned ; I pray 
you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my 
gates ; and allowed your approach, rather to 
wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not 
mad, be gone ; if you have reason, be brief: 
'tis not that time of moon with me to make 
one in so skipping a dialogue. [way. 

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir ? here lies your 

Vio. No, good swabber ; I am to hull here 
a little longer. Some mollification for your 
giant, sweet lady. 

OIL Tell me your mind. 

Vio, I am a messenger. 

OIL Sure, you have some hideous matter to 
deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. 
Speak your office. 

Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no 
overture of war, no taxation of homage ; I hold 
the olive in my hand : my words are as full of 
peace as matter. 



Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you ? 
what would you ? 

Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me 
have I learned from my entertainment. What 
I am and what I would are as sacred as maiden- 
heads': to your ears, divinity ; to any other's, 
profanation. 

OIL Give us the place alone : we will hear 
this divinity. [Exit MARIA.] Now, sir, what 
is your text ? 

Vio. Most sweet lady, 

OK. A comfortable doctrine, and much may 
be said of it. Where lies your text ? 

Vio. In Orsino's bosom. 

Oli. In his bosom ? In what chapter of his 
bosom ? 

Vio. To answer by the method, in the first 
of his heart. 

OK. O, I have read it ; it is heresy. Have 
you no more to say ? 

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. 

Oli. Have you any commission from your lord 
to negotiate with my face? you are now out of 
your text : but we will draw the curtain and show 
you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I 
was this present. Is 't not well done ? 

[ Unveiling. 

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. 

OK. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind 
and weather. [white 

Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and 
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : 
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, 
If you will lead these graces to the grave, 
And leave the world no copy. 

OK. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted ; I 
will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It 
shall be inventoried; and every particle and uten- 
sil labelled to my will : as, item, two lips indif- 
ferent red; item, two gray eyes with lids to 
them ; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. 
Were you sent hither to praise me ? [proud ; 

Vio. I see you what you are : you are too 
But if you were the devil, you are fair. 
My lord and master loves you. O, such love 
Could be but recompens'd though you were 

crown'd 
The nonpareil of beauty ! 

OK. How does he love me ? 

Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears, 
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 

OK. Your lord does know my mind, I can- 
not love him : 

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, 
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth ; 
In voices well divulged, free, learn'd and valiant, 
And, in dimension and the shape of nature. 



SCENE V.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



A gracious person : but yet I cannot love him; 
He might have took his answer long ago. 

Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 
In your denial I would find no sense, 
I would not understand it. 

OH. Why, what would you ? 

Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
And call upon my soul within the house ; 
Write loyal cantons of contemned love, 
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night; 
Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 
And make the babbling gossip of the air 
Cry out Olivia ! O, you should not rest 
Between the elements of air and earth, 
But you should pity me. [parentage ? 

OIL You might do much. What is your 

Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: 
I am a gentleman. 

OH. Get you to your lord ; 

I cannot love him : let him send no more ; 
Unless, perchance, you come to me again, 
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well : 
I thank you for your pains : spend this for me. 

Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse; 
My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love; 
And let your fervour, like my master's, be 
Placed in contempt ! Farewell, fair cruelty. 

[Exit. 

OH. What is your parentage ? 
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 

I am a gentleman. 1 '11 be sworn thou art; 

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and 
spirit, [soft ! soft ! 

Do give thee fivefold blazon. Not too fast : 
Unless the master were the man. How now ? 
Even so quickly may one catch the plague ? 
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections 
With an invisible and subtle stealth 
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. 
What, ho, Malvolio ! 



Re-enter MALVOLIO. 



Mai. 



Here, madam, at your service. 

OH. Run after that same peevish messenger, 
The county's man : he left this ring behind him, 
Would I, or not ; tell him I '11 none of it. 
Desire him not to flatter with his lord, 
Nor hold him up with hopes ; I am not for him: 
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, 
I '11 give him reasons for 't. Hie thec, Malvolio. 

Mai. Madam, I will. [Exit. 

OH. I do I know not what : and fear to find 
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. 
Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe: 
What is decreed must be ; and be this so! f Exit. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I.T/ie Sea-coast. 

Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN. 

Ant. Will you stay no longer ? nor will you 
not that I go with you ? 

Seb. By your patience, no : my stars shine 
darkly over me ; the malignancy of my fate 
might, perhaps, distemper yours ; therefore I 
shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my 
evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your 
love, to lay any of them on you. 

Ant. Let me yet know of you whither you 
are bound. 

Seb. No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage 
is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so 
excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not 
extort from me what I am willing to keep in ; 
therefore it charges me in manners the rather to 
express myself. You must know of me then, 
Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called 
Rodorigo ; my father was that Sebastian of 
Messaline whom I know you have heard of: he 
left behind him myself and a sister, both bom 
in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, 
would we had so ended ! but you, sir, altered 
that ; for some hours before you took me from 
the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. 

Ant. Alas the day ! 

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much 
resembledme, wasyet of many accounted beauti- 
ful : but though I could not, with such estimable 
wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will 
boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy 
could not but call fair. She is drowned already, 
sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown 
her remembrance again with more. 

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. 

Seb. O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. 

Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, 
let me be your servant. 

Seb. If you will not undo what you have done 
that is, kill him whom you have recovered 
desire it not. Fare ye well at once; my bosom is 
full of kindness ; and I am yet so near the man- 
ners of my mother that, upon the least occasion 
more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound 
to the Count Orsino's court : farewell. [Exit. 

Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with 

thee ! 

I have many enemies in Orsino's court, 
Else would I very shortly see thee there : 
But come what may, I do adore thee so 
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. 

[Exit. 






86 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OK, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT ii. 



SCENE II. A Street. 
Enter VIOLA ; MALVOLIO following. 
Mai. Were not you even now with the Coun- 
tess Olivia ? 

Vio. Even now, sir ; on a moderate pace I 
have since arrived but hither. 

Mai She returns this ring to you, sir ; you 
might have saved me my pains, to have taken 
it away yourself. She adds moreover, that you 
should put your lord into a desperate assurance 
she will none of him : and one thing more; that 
you be never so hardy to come again in his 
affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking 
of this. Receive it so. 

Vio. She took the ring of me : I '11 none of it. 

Mai, Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her ; 

and her will is, it should be so returned. If it be 

worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye ; if 

not, be it his that finds it [Exit. 

Vio. I left no ring with her. What means 

this lady ? 

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! 
She made good view of me ; indeed, so much, 
That, sure, methought her eyes had lost her 

tongue, 

For she did speak in starts distractedly. 
She loves me, sure ; the cunning of her passion 
Invites me in this churlish messenger. 
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none. 
I am the man ; if it be so, as 'tis, 
Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness 
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 
How easy is it for the proper-false 
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms ! 
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we ; 
For, such as we are made of, such we be. 
How will this fadge? My master loves her 

dearly, 

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him ; 
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. 
What will become of this ? As I am man, 
My state is desperate for my master's love ; 
As I am woman, now alas the day ! 
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe? 
O time, thou must untangle this, not I ; 
It is too hard a knot for me to untie. [Exit. 

SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House. 

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and Sir ANDREW 
AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be 
a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes ; and 
dilttculo surgert) thou know'st. 



Sir And. Nay ; by my troth, I know not : 
but I know to be up late is to be up late. 

Sir To. A false conclusion ; I hate it as an 
unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and to 
go to bed then is early : so that to go to bed 
after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Do 
not our lives consist of the four elements? 

Sir And. Faith, so they say ; but I think it 
rather consists of eating and drinking. 

Sir To. Thou art a scholar ; let us therefore eat 
and drink. Marian, I say ! a stoop of wine. 

Enter CLOWN. 

Sir And. Here comes the fool, i' faith. 

Clo. How now, my hearts ? Did you never 
see the picture of we three ? [catch. 

Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let 's have a 

Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an ex- 
cellent breast. I had rather than forty .shillings 
I had such a leg ; and so sweet a breath to sing 
as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very 
gracious fooling last night when thou spokest of 
Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equi- 
noctial of Queubus ; 'twas very good, i' faith. 
I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it ? 

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity ; for Mal- 
volio's nose is no whipstock. My lady has a 
white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle- 
ale houses. 

Sir And. Excellent ! Why, this is the best 
fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. 

Sir To. Come on ; there is sixpence for you : 
let 's have a song. 

Sir And. There 's a testril of me too : if one 
knight give a 

Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song 
of good life ? 

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. 

Sir And. Ay, ay ; I care not for good life. 

SONG. 

Clo. O, mistress mine, where are" you roaming ? 
O stay and hear ; your true love 's coining, 

That can sing both high and low : 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 
Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 
Every wise man's son doth know. 

Sir And. Excellent good, i' faith. 
Sir To. Good, good. 

Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter ; 

Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty ; 
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 

Youth 's a stuff will not endure. 

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true 
knight. 
Sir To. A contagious breath. 



SCENE III.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. 

Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in 
contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance 
indeed ? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch 
that will draw three souls out of one weaver ? 
shall we do that ? 

Sir And. An you love me, let 's do 't : I am 
dog at a catch. 

Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will 
catch well. 

Sir And. Most certain : let our catch be, 
Thou knave. 

Clo. Hold thy peace ', thou knave, knight? I 
shall be constrained in't to call thee knave, 
knight. 

Sir And. 'Tis not the first time I have con- 
strained one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it 
begins Hold thy peace. 

Clo. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. 

Sir And. Good, i' faith ! Come begin. 

[They sing a catch. 

Enter MARIA. 

Mar. What a caterwauling do you keep here ! 
If my lady have not called up her steward, Mal- 
volio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never 
trust me. 

Sir To. Mylady'sa Catalan, we are politicians; 
Malvolio 's a Peg-a-Ramsay, and Three merry 
men be we. Am not I consanguineous? am I not 
of her blood? Tilly- valley, lady ! There dwelt a 
man in Babylon, lady, lady. [Singing. 

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight 's in admirable 
fooling. 

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough if he be 
disposed, and so do I too ; he does it with a 
better grace, but I do it more natural. 

Sir To. O, the twelfth day of December ; 

[Singing. 

Mar. For the love o' God, peace. 

Enter MALVOLIO. 

Mai. My masters, are you mad ? or what are 
you ? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, 
but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night ? 
Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house, 
that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without 
any mitigation or remorse of voice ? Is there 
no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you ? 

Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. 
Sneck up ! 

Mai. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. 
My lady bade me tell you that though she har- 
bours you as her kinsman she 's nothing allied 
to your disorders. If you can separate yourself 
and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to 
the house ; if not, an it would please you to 



take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you 
farewell. 

Sir To. Farewell, dear heart, since I rmtst 
needs be gone. 

Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby. 

Clo. His eyes do show his days are almost done. 

Mai. Is 't even so ? 

Sir To. But I will never die. 

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. 

Mai. This is much credit to you. 

Sir To. Shall I bid him go ? [Singing. 

Clo. What an if you do ? 

Sir To. Shall I bid him go and spare not ? 

Clo. O no, no, no, no, you dare not. 

Sir To. Out o' tune ? sir, ye lie. Art any 
more than a steward ? Dost thou think, because 
thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes 
and ale ? 

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne ; and ginger shall 
be hot i' the mouth too. 

Sir To. Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your 
chain with crumbs : A stoop of wine, Maria ! 

Mai. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's 
favour at anything more than contempt, you 
would not give means for this uncivil rule ; she 
shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit. 

Mar". Go shake your ears. 

Sir And.' 'Twere as good a deed as to drink 
when a man 's a-hungry, to challenge him to the 
field, and then to break promise with him and 
make a fool of him. 

Sir To. Do 't, knight ; I '11 write thee a chal- 
lenge ; or I '11 deliver thy indignation to him by 
word of mouth. 

Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night ; 
since the youth of the count's was to-day with 
my lady she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur 
Malvolio, let me alone with him : if I do not gull 
him into a nay word, and make him a common 
recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie 
straight in my bed. I know I can do it. 

Sir To. Possess us, possess us ; tell us some- 
thing of him. 

Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of 
Puritan. 

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I 'd beat him 
like a dog. 

Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy 
exquisite reason, dear knight ? 

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for 't, but 
I have reason good enough. 

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any- 
thing constantly but a time pleaser : anaffection'd 
ass that cons state without book and utters it by 
great swarths ; the best persuaded of himself, so 
crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it 
is his ground of faith that all that look on him 



88 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT ii. 



love him ; and on that vice in him will my re- 
venge find notable cause to work. 

Sir To. What wilt thou do ? 

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure 
epistles of love ; wherein, by the colour of his 
beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his 
gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and 
complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly 
personated. I can write very like my lady, your 
niece ; on a forgotten matter we can hardly 
make distinction of our hands. 

Sir To. Excellent ! I smell a device. 

Sir And. I have 't in my nose too. 

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that 
thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, 
and that she is in love with him. [colour. 

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that 

Sir And. And your horse now would make 
him an ass. 

Mar. Ass, I doubt not. 

Sir And. O 'twill be admirable. 

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know 
my physic will work with him. I will plant 
you two, and let the fool make a third, where 
he shall find the letter ; observe his construc- 
tion of it. For this night, to bed, and dream 
on the event. Farewell. [Exit. 

Sir To. Good-night, Penthesilea 1 . 

Sir And. Before me, she 's a good wench. 

Sir To. She's a beagle, true bred, and one 
that adores me. What o* that ? 

Sir And. I was adored once too. 

Sir To. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst 
need send for more money. 

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece I 
am a foul way out. 

Sir To. Send for money, knight ; if thou hast 
her not i' the end, call me Cut. 

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me ; take 
it how you will. 

Sir To. Come, come ; I '11 go burn some 
sack ; 'tis too late to go to bed now : come, 
knight ; come, knight. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace. 
Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others. 

Duke. Give me some music : Now, good 

morrow, friends : 

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, 
That old and antique song we heard last night ; 
Methought it did relieve my passion much ; 
More than light airs and recollected terms 

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times : 

Come, but one verse. 

Cur. He is not here, so please your lordsh'ip, 
that should sing it. 



Duke. Who was it ? 

Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord ; a fool that 
the Lady Olivia's father took much delight in : 
he is about the house. -^. -t 

Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the 
while. [Exit CURIO. Music. 

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, 
In the sweet pangs of it remember me : 
For, such as I am, all true lovers are ; 
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, 
Save in the constant image of the creature 
That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune ? 

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat 
Where Love is throned. 

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly : 
My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye 
Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves ; 
Hath it not, boy ? 

Vio. A little, by your favour. 

Duke. What kind of woman is 't ? 

Vio. Of your complexion. 

Ditke. She is not worth thee, then. What 
years, i' faith? 

Vio. About your years, my lord. 

Duke. Too old, by heaven. Let still the 

woman take 

An elder than herself ; so wears she to him, 
So sways she level in her husband's heart. 
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn 
Than women's are. 

Vio. I think it well, my lord. 

Dttke. Then let thy love be younger than thy- 

self. 

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent : 
For women are as roses, whose fair flower, 
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. 

Vio. And so they are : alas, that they are so ; 
To die even when they to perfection grow ! 

Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN. 
Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last 

night : 

Mark it, Cesario ; it is old and plain : 
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 
And the free maids, that weave their thread with 

bones, 

Do use to chant it : it is silly sooth, 
And dallies with the innocence of love 
Like the old age. 

Clo. Are you ready, sir ? 
Duke. Ay ; pr'ythee, sing. 

SONG. 

Clo. Come away, come away, death. 
And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 

Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 



[Music. 



SCENE IV.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



89 



My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 

O prepare it ; 
My part of death no one so true 

Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
On my black coffin let there be strown : 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse where my bones shall be 

thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, 

Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 
To weep there. 

Duke, There 's for thy pains. [sir. 

Clo. No pains, sir ; I take pleasure in singing, 

Duke. I '11 pay thy pleasure, then. 

Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one 
time or another. 

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. 

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee ; 
and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taf- 
fata, for thy mind is a very opal ! I would have 
men of such constancy put to sea, that their busi- 
ness might be everything, and their intent every- 
where ; for that 's it that always makes a good 
voyage of nothing. Farewell. [Exit CLOWN. 

Duke. Let all the rest give place. 

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants. 
Once more, Cesario, 
Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty : 
Tell her my love, more noble than the world, 
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands ; 
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, 
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune ; 
But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems 
That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul. 

Via. But if she cannot love you, sir ? 

Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. 

Vio. 'Sooth, but you must. 

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, 
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
As you have for Olivia : you cannot love her ; 
You tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd ? 

Duke. There is no woman's sides 
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
As love doth give my heart : no woman's heart 
So big to hold so much ; they lack retention. 
Alas, their love may be called appetite, 
No motion of thejiver, but the palate, 
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt ; 
But mine is all as hungry as the sea, 
And can digest as much : make no compare 
Between that love a woman can bear me 
And that I owe Olivia. 

Vio. Ay, but I know, 

Duke. What dost thou know? 

Vio. Too well what love women to men may 
owe. 



In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter loved a man, 
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
I should your lordship. 

Duke. And what 's her history ? 

Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her 

love, 

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ; 
And, with a green and yellow melancholy, 
She sat like patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more ; but, indeed, 
Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our love. 

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? 

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's 

house, 

And all thebrothers too ; and yet I know not. 
Sir, shall I to this lady ? 

Duke. Ay, that 's the theme. 

To her in haste : give her this jewel ; say 
My love can give no place, bide no denay. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE V. OLIVIA'S Garden. 

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, Sir ANDREW AGUE- 
CHEEK, and FABIAN. 

Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. 

Fab. Nay, I '11 come ; if I lose a scruple of this 
sport let me be boiled to death with melancholy. 

Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have 
the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some 
notable shame ? 

Fab. I would exult, man: you know he brought 
me out o' favour with my lady about a bear-bait- 
ing here. 

Sir To. To anger him we'll have the bear 
again ; and we will fool him black and blue : 
Shall we not, Sir Andrew ? 

Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives. 

Enter MARIA. 

Sir To. Here comes the little villain : How 
now, my nettle of India? 

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree : Mal- 
volio's coming down this walk ; he has been 
yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own 
shadow this half -hour : observe him, for the love 
of mockery ; for I know this letter will make a 
contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name 
of j esting ! [ The men hide themselves. ] Lie thou 
there ; [throws down a letter] for here comes the 
trout that must be caught with tickling. 

[Exit MARIA. 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT ii. 



Enter MALVOLIO. 

Mai. 'Tis but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria 
once told me she did affect me : and I have heard 
herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it 
should be one of my complexion. Besides, she 
uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone 
else that follows her. What should I think on 't ? 

Sir To. Here 's an overweening rogue ! 

Fab. O, peace ! Contemplation makes a rare 
turkey-cock of him ; how he jets under his ad- 
vanced plumes ! 

Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue : 

Sir To. Peace, I say. 

Mai. To be Count Malvolio ; 

Sir To. Ah, rogue ! 

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 

Sir To. Peace, peace. 

Mai. There is example for 't ; the lady of the 
Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. 

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel ! 

Fab. O, peace ! now he 's deeply in ; look 
how imagination blows him. 

Mai. Having been three months married to 
her, sitting in my state, [eye ! 

Sir To. O for a stone-bow to hit him in the 

Mai. Calling my officers about me in my 
branched velvet gown ; having come from a day- 
bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping. 

Sir To. Fire and brimstone ! 

Fab. O, peace, peace. 

Mai. And then to have the humour of state : 
and after a demure travel of regard, telling 
them I know my place as I would they should 
do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby. 

Sir To. Bolts and shackles ! 

Fab. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. 

Mai. Seven of my people, with an obedient 
start, make out for him : I frown the while ; and 
perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some 
rich jewel. Toby approaches ; court'sies there 
to me : 

Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 

Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us 
with cars, yet peace. 

Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, quench- 
ing my familiar smile with an austere regard of 
control:: 

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow 
o' the lips then ? 

Mai. Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes hav- 
ing cast me on your niece, give me this preroga- 
tive of speech : 

Sir To. What, what? 

Mai. You must amend your drunkenness. 

Sir To. Out, scab ! [of our plot. 

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews 



Mai. Besides, you waste the treasure of your 
time with a foolish knight / 

Sir And. That 's me, I warrant you. 

Mai. One Sir Andrew : 

Sir And. I knew 'twas I ; for many do call 
me fool. 

Mai. What employment have we here ? 

[ Taking up the letter. 

Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 

Sir To. O, peace ! and the spirit of humours 
intimate reading aloud to him ! 

Mai. By my life, this is my lady's hand : these 
be her very C's, her /'s, and her 7s ; and thus 
makes she her great P's. It is in contempt of 
question, her hand. 

Sir And. Her C"s, her /'s, and her T's. 
Why that ? 

Mai. {reads.'} To the unknown beloved, this, 
and my good wishes: her very phrases ! By your 
leave, wax. Soft ! and the impressure her 
Lucrece, with which she uses to seal : 'tis my 
lady. To whom should this be ? 

Fab. This wins him, liver and all. 

Mai. [reads. ~\ Jove knows I love : 

But -who ? 
Lips do not move, 
No man must know. 

No man must know. What follows? the 
numbers altered ! No man must know : If 
this should be thee, Malvolio ? 

Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock ! 

Mai. 2 may command where I adore : 

But silence, like a Lucrece knife, 
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; 
M, O, A, 1, doth sway my life. 

'-,"; '; 

Fab, A fustian riddle ! 

Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 

Mai. M, O, A, I, doth sway my life. Nay, 
but first let me see, let me see, let me 
see. 

Fab. What a dish of poison hath she dressed 
him ! 

Sir To. And with what wing the stannyel 
checks at it ! 

Mai. I may command where I adore. Why, 
she may command me : I serve her, she is my 
lady. Why, this is evident to any formal 
capacity. There is no obstruction in this ; 
And the end, What should that alphabetical 
position portend ? If I could make that re- 
semble something in me, Softly ! M, O, A, 
/. 

Sir To. O, ay ! make up that : he is now 
at a cold scent. ' 

Fab. Sowter will cry upon't for all this, 
though it be as rank as a fox. 



SCENE V.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



Mai. My Malvolio; M, why, that begins 
my name. 

Fab. Did not I say he would work it out ? 
the cur is excellent at faults. 

Mai. M, But then there is no consonancy 
in the sequel ; that suffers under probation : 
A should follow, but O does. 

Fab. And O shall end, I hope, [him cry O. 

Sir To. Ay, or I '11 cudgel him, and make 

Mai. And then / comes behind. 

Fab. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, 
you might see more detraction at your heels 
than fortunes before you. 

Mai. M, 0, A) I ; This simulation is not as 
the former : and yet, to crush this a little, it 
would bow to me, for every one of these letters 
are in my name. Soft ; here follows prose. 
If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars 
I am above thee ; but be not afraid of greatness. 
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, 
and some have greatness thrust upon them. 
Thy fates open their hands ; let thy blood and 
spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to 
what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough 
and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, 
surly with servants : let thy tongue tang argu- 
ments of state ; put thyself into the trick of 
singularity : She thus advises thee that sighs 
for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow 
stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross- 
gartered. I say, remember. Go to / thou art 
made, if thou desirest to be so ; if 'not ', let me see 
thee a steward still, the fellow of sen>ants, and 
not worthy to touch forttine's fingers. Fare- 
well. She that would alter services with thee, 
The fortiinate unhappy. 

Daylight and champian discovers not more : 
this is open. I will be proud, I will read 
politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will 
wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point -de- 
vice, the very man. I do not now fool myself 
to let imagination jade me ; for every reason 
excites to this, that my lady loves me. She 
did commend my yellow stockings of late, she 
did praise my leg being cross-gartered ; and in 
this she manifests herself to my love, and, with 
a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits 
of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. 
I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, 
and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of 
putting on. Jove and my stars be praised ! 
Here is yet a postscript. Thou canst not choose 
but know who I am. If thou entertainest my 
love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles 
become the& well: therefore in my presence still 
smile, dear my sweet, I pSythce. Jove, I 



thank thee. I will smile : I will do every- 
thing that thou wilt have me. [Exit. 

Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a 
pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy. 

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this 
device : 

Sir And. So could I too. 

Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her 
but such another jest. 

Enter MARIA. 

Sir And. Nor I neither. 

Fab. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. 

Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck ? 

Sir And. Or o' mine either ? 

Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray- 
trip, and become thy bond-slave ? 

Sir And. I' faith, or I either. 

Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a 
dream, that, when the image of it leaves him, 
he must run mad. 

Mar. Nay, but say true ; does it work upon 
him? 

Sir To. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife. 

Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the 
sport, mark his first approach before my lady : 
he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 
'tis a colour she abhors ; and cross-gartered, a 
fashion she detests; and he will smile upon 
her, which will now be so unsuitable to her 
disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as 
she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable 
contempt : if you will see it, follow me. 

Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most 
excellent devil of wit ! 

Sir And. I '11 make one too. [Exeunt. 

ACT III. 
SCENE I. OLIVIA'S Garden. 

Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor. 

Via. Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost 
thou live by thy tabor ? 

Clo. No, sir, I live by the church. 

Vio. Art thou a churchman ? 

Clo. No such matter, sir ; I do live by the 
church; for I do live at my house, and my 
house doth stand by the church. 

Vio. So thou mayst say, the king lies by a 
beggar, if a beggar dwell near him ; or the 
church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand 
by the church. 

Clo. You have said, sir. To see this age ! 
A sentence ig but a cheveril glove to a good wit. 
How quickly the wrong side may be turned 
outward 1 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT in. 



Vio. Nay, that : s certain ; they that dally nicely 
with words may quickly make them wanton. 

Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had 
no name, sir. 

Vio. Why, man? 

Clo. Why, sir, her name 's a word ; and to 
dally with that word might make my sister 
wanton. But indeed, words are very rascals, 
since bonds disgraced them. 

Vio. Thy reason, man ? 

Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without 
words ; and words are grown so false, I am 
loath to prove reason with them. 

Vio. I warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and 
carest for nothing. 

Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something : but 
irt my conscience, sir, I do not care for you ; if 
that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would 
make you invisible. 

Vio. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool ? 

Clo. No, indeed, sir ; the Lady Olivia has no 
folly : she will keep no fool, sir, till she be 
married ; and fools are as like husbands as 
pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the 
bigger ; I am, indeed, not her fool, but her 
corrupter of words. 

Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's. 

Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb 
like the sun ; it shines everywhere. I would 
be sorry, sir-, but the fool should be as oft with 
your master as with my mistress : I think I saw 
your wisdom there. 

Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no 
more with thee. Hold, there's expenses for 
thee. 

Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of 
hair, send thee a beard ! 

Vio. By my troth, I '11 tell thee, I am almost 
sick for one ; though I would not have it grow 
on my chin. Is thy lady within ? 

Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir ? 

Vio. Yes, being kept together and put to use. 

Clo. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, 
sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. 

Vio. I understand you, sir ; 'tis well begged. 

Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, 
begging but a beggar : Cressida was a beggar. 
My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them 
whence you come ; who you are and what you 
would are out of my welkin : I might say ele- 
ment ; but the word is overworn. [Exit. 

Vio. This fellow's wise enough to play the 

fool; 

And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit : 
He must observe their mood on whom he jests, 
The quality of persons, and the time j 
And, like the haggard, check at every feather 



That comes before his eye. This is a practice 

As full of labour as a wise man's art : 

For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit ; 

But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit. 

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and Sir ANDREW 
AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir To. Save you, gentleman. 

Vio. And you, sir. 

Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. 

Vio. Et vous aussi: votre seiviteur. 

Sir And. I hope, sir, you are ; and I am yours. 

Sir To. Will you encounter the house ? my 
niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade 
be to her. 

Vio. I am bound to your niece, sir : I mean, 
she is the list of my voyage. 

Sir To. Taste your legs, sir; put them to 
motion. 

Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, 
than I understand what you mean by bidding 
me taste my legs. 

Sir To. I mean to go, sir, to enter. 

Vio. I will answer you with gait and en- 
trance : but we are prevented. 

Enter' OLIVIA and MARIA. 

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens 
rain odours on you. 

Sir And. That youth 's a rare courtier ! 
Rain odours ! well. 

Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to 
your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. 

Sir And. Odours, pregnant, and vouch- 
safed : I '11 get 'em all three ready. 

OH. Let the garden door be shut, and leave 
me to my hearing. 

{Exeunt Sir To., Sir AND., and MAR. 
Give me your hand, sir. [service. 

Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble 

Oli. What is your name ? [princess. 

Vio. Cesario is your servant's name, fair 

Oli. My servant, sir ! 'Twas never merry 

world, 

Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment : 
You are servant to the Count Orsino, youth. 

Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be 

yours ; 
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam. 

Oli. For him, I think not on him : for his 

thoughts, [me ! 

Would they were blanks rather than fill'd with 

Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle 

thoughts 
On his behalf: 

Oli. O, by your leave, I pray you ; 

I bade you never speak again of him : 



SCENE I.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



93 



But, would you undertake another suit, 
I had rather hear you to solicit that 
Than music from the spheres. 

Vio. Dear lady, 

Oli. Give me leave, I beseech you : I did send, 
After the last enchantment you did here, 
A ring in chase of you ; so did I abuse 
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you : 
Under your hard construction must I sit ; 
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning, 
Which you knew none of yours. What might 

you think ? 

Have you not set mine honour at the stake, 
And baited it with all the unmuzzl'd thoughts 
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of 

your receiving 

Enough is shown ; a Cyprus, not a bosom, 
Hides my poor heart : so let me hear you speak. 

Vio. I pity you. 

Oli. That 's a degree to love. 

Vio. No, not a grise ; for 'tis a vulgar proof 
That very oft we pity enemies. [again : 

Oli. Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile 

world, how apt the poor are to be proud ! 
If one should be a prey, how much the better 
To fall before the lion than the wolf ! 

[Clock strikes. 

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. 
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you : 
And yet, when wit and youth is come to 

harvest, 

Your wife is like to reap a proper man. 
There lies your way due-west. 

Vio. Then westward-ho : 

Grace and good disposition 'tend your ladyship ! 
You '11 nothing, madam, to my lord by me ? 

Oli. Stay: 

1 pr'ythee tell me what thou think'st of me. 

Vio. That you do think you are not what you 
are. 

Oli. If I think so, I think the same of you. 

Vio. Then think you right ; I am not what 
I am. 

Oli. I would you were as I would have you be ! 

Vio. Would it be better, madam, that I am, 
I wish it might ; for now I am your fool. 

Oli. O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful 
In the contempt and anger of his lip ! 
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon 
Than love that would seem hid : love's night is 

noon. 

Cesario, by the roses of the spring, 
By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, 
I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride, 
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide : 
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, 
For, that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause : 



But, rather, reason thus with reason fetter : 
Love sought is good, but given unsought is 

better. 

Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, 
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth. 
And that no woman has ; nor never none 
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 
And so adieu, good madam ; never more 
Will I my master's tears to you deplore. 

Oli. Yet come again : for thou, perhaps, 

mayst move 

That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. A Room in OLIVIA'S House. 

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, Szr ANDREW AGUE- 
CHEEK, and FABIAN. 

Sir And. No, faith, I '11 not stay a jot longer. 

Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom: give thy 
reason. 

Fab. You must needs yield your reason, Sir 
Andrew. 

Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do more 
favours to the count's serving man than ever she 
bestowed upon me ; I saw 't i' the orchard. 

Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old boy ? 
tell me that. 

Sir And. As plain as I see you now. 

Fab. This was a great argument of love in her 
toward you. 

Sir Ana. 'Slight ! will you make an ass o' me ? 

Fab. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the 
oaths of judgment and reason. 

Sir To. And they have been grand jurymen 
since before Noah was a sailor. 

Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your 
sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dor- 
mouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brim- 
stone in your liver. You should then have ac- 
costed her ; and with some excellent jests, fire- 
new from the mint, you should have banged the 
youth into dumbness. This was looked for at 
your hand, and this was baulked : the double gilt 
of this opportunity you let time wash oft, and you 
are now sailed into the north of my lady's 
opinion ; where you will hang like an icicle on a 
Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by 
some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy. 

Sir And. And 't be any way, it must be with 
valour : for policy I hate ; I had as lief be a 
Brownist as a politician. 

Sir To. Why, then, build me thy fortunes 
upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the 
count's youth to fight with him ; hurt him in 
eleven places ; my niece shall take note of it : 
and assure thyself there is no love-broker in the 



94 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT III. 



world can more prevail in man's commenda- 
tion with woman than report of valour. 

Fab. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. 

Sir And. Will either of you bear me a chal- 
lenge to him ? 

Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand ; be curst 
and brief ; it is n5 matter how witty, so it be elo- 
quent and full of invention; taunt him with the 
licence of ink: if thou thorfst him some thrice, 
it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie 
in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were 
big enough for the bed of Ware in England, 
set 'em down ; go about it. Let there be gall 
enough in thy ink; though thou write with a 
goose-pen, no matter. About it. 

Sir And. Where shall I find you ? 

Sir To. We '11 call thee at the cubiculo. Go. 
[Exit Sir ANDREW. 

Fab. This is a dear manikin toyou, Sir Toby. 

Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad ; some 
two thousand strong, or so. , 

Fab. We shall have a rare letter from him : 
but you '11 not deliver it. 

Sir To. Never trust me then; and by all means 
stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen 
and wainropes cannot hale them together. For 
Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much 
blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, 
I '11 eat the rest of the anatomy. 

Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in 
his visage no great presage of cruelty. 

Enter MARIA. 

Sir To. Look where the youngest wren of 
nine comes. 

Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh 
yourselves into stitches, follow me : yon gull, 
Malvolio, is turned heathen, a very renegade; 
for there is no Christian, that means to be saved 
by believing rightly, can ever believe such im- 
possible passages of grossness. He 's in yellow 
stockings. 

Sir To. And cross-gartered ? 

Mar. Most villanously ; like a pedant that 
keeps a school i* the church. I have dogged 
him like his murderer. He does ooey every 
point of the letter that I dropped to betray 
him. He does smile his face into more lines 
than are in the new map, with the augmenta- 
tion of the Indies : you have not seen such a 
thing as 'tis ; I can hardly forbear hurling 
things at him. I know my lady will strike 
him ; if she do, he '11 smile, and take 't for a 
great favour. 

Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he 
is. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. A Street. 
Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN. 

Seb. I would not by my will have troubled 

you; 

But, since you make your pleasure of your pains, 
I will no further chide you. > rr: ar 

Ant. I could not stay behind you; my desire, 
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth ; 
And not all love to see you, though so much, 
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage, 
But jealousy what might befall your travel, 
Being skilless in these parts; which to astranger, 
Unguided and unfriended, often prove 
Rough and unhospitable. My willing love, 
The rather by these arguments of fear, 
Set forth in your pursuit. 

Seb. My kind Antonio, 

I can no other answer make but thanks, 
And thai iks, and ever thanks. Often good turns 
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay; 
But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm, 
You should find better dealing. What's to do? 
Shall we go see the reliques of this town ? 

Ant. To-morrow, sir ; best, first, go see 
your lodging. 

Seb. I am not weary, and 'tis long to night; 
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes 
With the memorials and the things of fame 
That do renown this city. 

Ant. Would you 'd pardon me : 

I do not without danger walk these streets : 
Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count, his 

galleys, 

I did some service ; of such note, indeed, 
That were I ta'en here, it would scarce be 
answered. [people. 

Seb. Belike you slew great number of his 

Ant. The offence is not of such a bloody 

nature ; 

Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel 
Might well have given us bloody argument. 
It might have since been answered in repaying 
What we took from them ; which, for traffic's 

sake, 

Most of our city did : only myself stood out : 
For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 
I shall pay dear. 

Seb. Do not then walk too open. 

Ant. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here 's 

my purse ; 

In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, 
Is best to lodge : I will bespeak our diet 
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your 

knowledge 

With viewing of the town; there shall you have 
'me. 



SCENE IV.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



95 



Seb. Why I your purse ? [toy 

Ant. Haply your eye shall light upon some 
You have desire to purchase ; and your store, 
I think, is not for idle markets, sir. 

Seb, I '11 be ycur purse-bearer, and leave you 
for an hour. 

Ant. To the Elephant. 

Seb. I do remember. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. OLIVIA'S Garden. 
Enter OLIVIA and MARIA. 

Oli. I have sent after him. He says he '11 

come ; 

How shall I feast him ? what bestow on him ? 
For youth is bought more oft than begged or 
borrowed. 

I speak too loud. 

Where is Malvolio ? he is sad and civil, 
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes; 
Where is Malvolio ? 

Mar. He 's coming, madam : 

But in strange manner. He is sure possessed. 

Oli. Why, what 's the matter ? does he rave ? 

Mar. No, madam, 

He does nothing but smile : your ladyship 
Were best have guard about you if he come ; 
For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. 

Oli. Go call him hither. I 'm as mad as he, 
If sad and merry madness equal be. 

Enter MALVOLIO. 
How now, Malvolio ? 

Mai. Sweet lady, ho, ho. 

[Smiles fantastically. 

Oli. Smil'st thou ? 
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 

Mai. Sad, lady ? I could be sad : this does 
make some obstruction in the blood, this cross- 
gartering. But what of that ; if it please the 
eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet 
is : Please one and please all. 

Oli. Why, how dost thou, man? what is the 
matter with thee ? 

Mai. Not black in my mind, though yellow 
in my legs. It did come to his hands, and 
commands shall be executed. I think we do 
know the sweet Roman hand. 

Oli. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio ? 

Mai. To bed ? ay, sweetheart ; and I '11 
come to thee. 

Oli. God comfort thee ! Why dost thou 
smile on, and kiss thy hand so oft ? 

Mar. How do you, Malvolio ? 

Mai. At your request? Yes; nightingales 
answer daws. 



Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous 
boldness before my lady ? 

Mai. Be not afraid of greatness: 'twas well 
writ. 

Oli. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio ? 

Mai. Some are born great, 

Oli. Ha? 

Mai. Some achieve greatness^ 

Oli. What say'st thou ? 

Mai. And some have greatness thrust upon 
them. 

Oli. Heaven restore thee ! 

Mai. Remember who commended thy yellow 
stockings ; 

Oli. Thy yellow stockings ? 

Mai. And wished to see thee cross -gartered. 

Oli. Cross-gartered ? 

Mai. Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest 
to be so : 

Oli. Am I made ? 

Mai. If not, let me see thee a servant still. 

Oli. Why, this is very midsummer madness. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Madam, the young gentleman of the 
Count Orsino's is returned ; I could hardly 
entreat him back ; he attends your ladyship's 
pleasure. 

Oli. I'll come to him. [Exit Servant.] 
Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. 
Where 's my cousin Toby ? Let some of my 
people have a special care of him ; I would not 
have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. 

[Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA. 

Mai. Oh, ho ! do you come near me now ? 
no worse man than Sir Toby to look to me ? 
This concurs directly with the letter : she sends 
him on purpose that I may appear stubborn to 
him ; for she incites me to that in the letter. 
Cast thy humble slough, says she ; be oppositt 
with a kinsman, surly with servants, let thy 
tongue tang with arguments of state, put thy- 
self into the trick of singularity ; and, con- 
sequently, sets down the manner how; as, a 
sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in 
the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I 
have limed her ; but it is Jove's doing, and 
Jove make me thankful ! And, when she 
went away now, Let this fellow be looked to : 
Fellow ! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, 
but fellow. Why, everything adheres together; 
that no dram oi a scruple, no scruple of a 
scruple, no obstacle, , no incredulous or unsafe 
circumstance, What can be said? Nothing, 
that can be, can come between me and the full 
prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is 
the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. 



9 6 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT in. 



Re-enter MARIA, with Sir TOBY BELCH and 
FABIAN. 

Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of 
sanctity ? If all the devils of hell be drawn in 
little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet 
I '11 speak to him. 

Fab. Here he is, here he is : How is 't with 
you, sir ? how is 't with you, man ? 

Mai. Go off ; I discard you ; let me enjoy 
my private; go off. 

Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks with- 
in him ! did not I tell you ? Sir Toby, my 
lady prays you to have a care of him. 

Mai. Ah, ah ! does she so ? 

Sir To. Go to, go to ; peace, peace, we 
must deal gently with him ; let me alone. 
How do you, Malvolio ? how is 't with you ? 
What, man ! defy the devil : consider, he 's an 
enemy to mankind. 

Mai. Do you know what you say ? 

Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, 
how he takes it at heart ! Pray God he be not 
bewitched. 

Fab. Carry his water to the wise woman. 

Mar. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow 
morning, if I live. My lady would not lose 
him for more than I '11 say. 

Mai. How now, mistress ? 

Mar. O lord ! 

Sir To. Pr'ythee, hold thy peace ; this is 
not the way. Do you not see you move him ? 
let me alone with him. 

Fab. No way but gentleness; gently, gently: 
the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. 

Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock? how 
dost thou, chuck. 

Mai. Sir? 

Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, 
man ! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit 
with Satan. Hang him, foul collier ! 

Mar. Get him to say his prayers ; good Sir 
Toby, get him to pray. 

Mai. My prayers, minx ? 

Mar. No, I warrant you, he will not hear 
of godliness. 

Mai. Go, hang yourselves all ! you are idle 
shallow things : I am not of your element ; 
you shall know more hereafter. [Exit. 

Sir To. Is 't possible ? 

Fab. If this were played upon the stage now, 
I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. 

Sir To. His very genius hath taken the in- 
fection of the device, man. 

Mar. Nay, pursue him now ; lest the device 
take air and taint. 

Fab. Why, we shall make him mad indeed. 



Mar. The house will be the quieter. 

Sir To. Come, we '11 have him in a dark room 
and bound. My niece is already in the belief 
that he is mad ; we may carry it thus, for our 
pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, 
tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on 
him : at which time we will bring the device 
to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of mad- 
men. But see, but see. 

Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. 

Fab. More matter for a May morning. 

Sir And. Here 's the challenge, read it ; I 
warrant there 's vinegar and pepper in 't. 

Fab. Is 't so saucy ? 

Sir And. Ay is it, I warrant him ; do but 
read. 

Sir To. Give me. [Reads. ] Youth, whatso- 
ever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow. 

Fab. Good and valiant. 

Sir To. Wonder not, nor admire not in thy 
mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee 
no reason for'' t. 

Fab. A good note : that keeps you from the 
blow of the law. 

Sir To. Thou contest to the Lady Olivia, and 
in my sight she uses thee kindly : but thou liest 
in thy throat ; that is not the matter I challenge 
thee for. [less. 

Fab. Very brief, and exceeding good sense- 

Sir To. I will way lay thee going home; where 
if it be thy chance to kill me, 

Fab. Good. 

Sir To. Thou killest me like a rogue and a 
villain. 

Fab. Still you keep o' the windy side of the 
law. Good. 

Sir To. Fare thee well ; and God have mercy 
upon one of our souls ! He may have mercy upon 
mine ; but my hope is better, and so look to thy- 
self. Thy fmnd, as thou usest him, and thy 
sworn enemy, ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir To. If this letter move him not, his legs 
cannot : I '11 give 't him. 

Mar. You may have very fit occasion for 't ; 
he is now in some commerce with my lady, and 
will by and by depart. 

Sir To. Go, Sir Andrew ; scout me for him 
at the corner of the orchard, like a bum-bailiff ; 
so soon as ever thou seest him, draw ; and, as 
thou drawest, swear horrible ; for it comes to 
pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering 
accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more 
approbation than ever proof itself would have 
earned him. Away. 

Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swearing. 

[Exit. 



SCENE IV.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



97 



Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter ; for 
the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him 
out to be of good capacity and breeding ; his em- 
ployment between his lord and my niece con- 
firms no less ; therefore this letter, being so 
excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the 
yomh : he will find it comes from a clodpole. 
But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of 
mouth, set upon Ague-cheek a notable report of 
valour, and drive the gentleman, as I know his 
youth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous 
opinion of his rage, skill , fury, and impetuosity. 
This will so fright thenr both that they will kill 
one another by the look, like cockatrices. 

A - ' ' ^ '' ' ' ^ . . - ' , * ilj-- i { . . Vt '- *.. '> V. * 

Enter OLIVIA and VIOLA. 

Fab. Here he comes with your niece ; give 
them way till he take leave, and presently after 
him. 

Sir To. I will meditate the while upon some 
horrid message for a challenge. 

[Exeunt Sir To., FAB., and MAR. 

Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of 

stone, 

And laid mine honour too unchary on it : 
There 's something in me that reproves my fault; 
But such a headstrong potent fault it is 
That it but mocks reproof. [bears 

Vio. With the same 'haviour that your passion 
Go on my master's griefs. [picture ; 

Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my 
Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you : 
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. 
What shall you ask of me that I '11 deny, 
That, honour saved, may upon asking give ? 

Vio. Nothing but this, your true love for my 
master. [that 

Oli. How with mine honour may I give him 
Which I have given to you ? 

Vio. I will acquit you. 

Oli. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare 

thee well ; 
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. 

\^LXlf. 

TOieimvjU *:m';t ^>r= -^\ '->. ;,- .-;,....; -.jSjsJ nfi ^ 

Re-enter Sir TOBY BELCH and FABIAN. 

Sir To. Gentleman, God save thee. 

Vio. And you, sir. 

Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee 
to 't. Of what nature the wrongs are thou hast 
done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, 
full of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends 
thee at the orchard end : dismount thy tuck, 
be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is 
quick, skilful, and deadly. 

Vio. You mistake, sir ; I am sure no man 



hath any quarrel to me ; my remembrance is 
very free and clear from any image of offence 
done to any man. 

Sir To. You'll find it otherwise, I assure 
you : therefore, if you hold your life at any 
price, betake you to your guard ; for your op- 
posite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, 
and wrath can furnish man withal. 

Vio. I pray you, sir, what is he ? 

Sir To. He is a knight, dubbed with un- 
hacked rapier, and on carpet consideration ; 
but he is a devil in private brawl ; souls and 
bodies hath he divorced three ; and his in- 
censement at this moment is so implacable that 
satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death 
and sepulchre : hob, nob, is his word ; give 't 
or take 't. 

Vio. I will return again into the house and 
desire some conduct of the lady. I am no 
fighter. I have heard of some kind of men 
that put quarrels purposely on others to taste 
their valour : belike this is a man of that quirk. 

Sir To. Sir, no ; his indignation derives it- 
self out of a very competent injury ; therefore, 
get you on, and give him his desire. Back you 
shall not to the house, unless you undertake 
that with me which with as much safety you 
might answer him : therefore on, or strip you* 
sword stark naked ; for meddle you must, 
that's certain, or forswear to wear iron about 
you. 

Vio. This is as uncivil as strange. I be- 
seech you, do me this courteous office as to 
know of the knight what my offence to him is ; 
it is something of my negligence, nothing of 
my purpose. 

Sir To. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay 
you by this gentleman till my return. 

{Exit Sir TOBY. 

Vio. Pray you, sir, do you know of this 
matter ? 

Fab. I know the knight is incensed against 
you, even to a mortal arbitrement ; but nothing 
of the circumstance more. 

Vio. I beseech you, what manner of man is 
he? 

Fab. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to 
read him by his form, as you are like to find 
him in the proof of his valour. He is indeed, 
sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite 
that you could possibly have found in any part 
of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I 
will make your peace with him if I can. 

Vio. I shall be much bound to you for 't. I 
am one that would rather go with sir priest 
than sir knight : I care not who knows so 
much of my mettle. [Exeunt. 

D 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT III. 



Re-enter Sir TOBY with Sir ANDREW. 

Sir To. Why, man, he's a very devil; I 
have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with 
him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me 
the stuck-in with such a mortal motion that it 
is inevitable ; and on the answer, he -pays you 
as surely as your feet hit the ground they step 
on. They say he has been fencer to the 
Sophy. 

Sir And. Pox on 't, I '11 not meddle with him. 

Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified : 
Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. 

Sir And. Plague on 't ; an I thought he had 
been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I 'd have 
seen him damned ere I 'd have challenged him. 
Let him let the matter slip and I '11 give him 
my horse, gray Capilet. 

Sir To. I '11 make the motion. Stand here, 
make a good show on 't ; this shall end without 
the perdition of souls. Marry, I '11 ride your 
horse as well as I ride you. [Aside. 

Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA. 

I have his horse [to FAB.] to take up the quarrel; 
I have persuaded him the youth ; s a devil. 

Fab. He is as horribly conceited of him ; 
and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at 
his heels. 

Sir To. There 's no remedy, sir ; he will 
fight with you for his oath sake: marry, he 
hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and 
he finds that now scarce to be worth talking 
of : therefore draw, for the supportance of his 
vow ; he protests he will not hurt you. 

Via. Pray God defend me ! A little thing 
would make me tell them how much I lack of 
a man. [Aside. 

Fab. Give ground if you see him furious. 

Sir To. Come, Sir Andrew, there 's no re- 
medy ; the gentleman will, for his honour's 
sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by 
the duello avoid it ; but he has promised me, 
as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not 
hurt you. Come on : to 't. 

Sir And. Pray God, he keep his oath. 

[Draws. 

Enter ANTONIO. 

Via. I do assure you 'tis against my will. 

[Draws. 
Ant. Put up your sword : if this young 

gentleman 

Have done offence, I take the fault on me ; 
If you offend him I for him defy you. 

[Drawing. 
Sir To. You, sir ? why, what are you ? 



Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do 

more 
Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 

Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker I am 
for you. [Draws. 

Enter two Officers. 

Fab. O good Sir Toby, hold ; here come 
the officers. 

Sir To. I '11 be with you anon. 

[To ANTONIO. 

Via. Pray, sir, put up your sword, if you 
please. [To Sir ANDREW. 

Sir And. Marry, will I, sir ; and, for that I 
promised you, I '11 be as good as my word. He 
will bear you easily and reins well. 

1 Off. This is the man ; do thy office. 

2 Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit 
Of Count Orsino. 

Ant. You do mistake me, sir. 

1 Off. No, sir, no jot ; I know your favour 

well, [head. 

Though now you have no sea-cap on your 
Take him away ; he knows I know him well. 
Ant. I must obey. This comes from seeking 

you; 

But there 's no remedy ; I shall answer it. 
What will you do ? Now my necessity [me 
Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves 
Much more for what I cannot do for you 
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed ; 
But be of comfort. 

2 Off. Come, sir, away. [money. 
Ant. I must entreat of you some of that 

Vio. What money, sir ? 

For the fair kindness you have showed me here, 
And part being prompted by your present 

trouble, 

Out of my lean and low ability [much ; 

I'll lend you something; my having is not 
I '11 make division of my present with you : 
Hold, there is half my coffer. 

Ant. Will you deny me now ? 

Is 't possible that my deserts to you 
Can lack persuasion ? Do not tempt my misery 
Lest that it make me so unsound a man 
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses 
That I have done for you. 

Vio. I know of none, 

Nor know I you by voice or any feature : 
I hate ingratitude more in a man 
Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, 
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption 
Inhabits our frail blood. 

Ant. O heavens themselves I 

2 Off. Come, sir, I pray you go. 



SCENE IV.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



99 



Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth that 

you see here 
I snatched one half out of the jaws of death, 

Relieved him with such sanctity of love, 

And to his image, which methought did promise 
Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 

i Off. What 's that to us ? The time goes 
by; away. 

Ant. But O how vile an idol proves this god ! 
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. 
In nature there 's no blemish but the mind ; 
None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind : 
Virtue is beauty ; but the beauteous-evil 
Are empty trunks o'erflourish'd by the devil. 

I Off. The man grcws mad; away with him. 
Come, come, sir. 

Ant. Lead me on. 

{Exeunt Officers with ANTONIO. 

Via. Methinks his words do from such 

passion fly 

That he believes himself ; so do not I. 
Prove true, imagination ; O prove true, 
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you ! 

Sir To. Come hither, knight ; come hither, 
Fabian ; we '11 whisper o'er a couple or two of 
most sage saws. 

Vio. He named Sebastian; I my brother know 
Yet living in my glass ; even such and so 
In favour was my brother ; and he went 
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, 
For him I imitate. O, if it prove, 
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! 

[Exit. 

Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and 
more a coward than a hare : his dishonesty ap- 
pears in leaving his friend here in necessity, 
and denying him ; and for his cowardship, ask 
Fabian. 

Fab. A coward, a most devout coward, re- 
ligious in it. [him. 

Sir And. 'Slid, I '11 after him again and beat 

Sir To. Do, cuff him soundly, but never 
draw thy sword. 

Sir And. An' I do not, [Exit. 

Fab. Come, let 's see the event. 

Sir To. I dare lay any money 'twill be no- 
thing yet. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 
SCENE \.~The Street before OLIVIA'S House. 

Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN. 
Clo. Will you make me believe that I am 
not sent for you ? 

Seb. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow j 
Let me be clear of thee. 



Clo. Well held out, i' faith ! No, I do not 
know you ; nor I am not sent to you by my 
lady, to bid you come speak with her ; nor 
your name is not Master Cesario ; nor this is 
not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so. 

Seb. I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere 
else. Thou knowst not me. 

Clo. Vent my folly ! he has heard that word 
of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. 
Vent my folly ! I am afraid this great lubber, 
the world, will prove a cockney. I pr'ythee 
now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what 
I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her 
that thou art coming ? 

Seb. I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me ; 
There 's money for thee ; if you tarry longer 
I shall give worse paymant. 

Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand : 
These wise men that give fools money get 
themselves a good report after fourteen years' 
purchase. 

Enter Sir ANDREW, Sir TOBY, and FABIAN. 

Sit And. Now, sir, have I met you again ? 

there 's for you. [Striking SEBASTIAN. 

Seb. Why, there 's for thee, and there, and 

there. 
Are all the people mad ? 

[Beating Sir ANDREW. 

Sir To. Hold, sir, or I '11 throw your dagger 
o'er the house. 

Clo. This will I tell my lady straight. I would 
not be in some of your coats for twopence. 

[Exit CLOWN. 
Sir To. Come on, sir ; hold. 

[Holding SEBASTIAN. 

Sir And. Nay, let him alone ; I '11 go an- 
other way to work with him ; I '11 have an 
action of battery against him, if there be any 
law in Illyria : though I struck him first, yet 
it 's no matter for that. 
Seb. Let go thy hand. 

Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. 
Come, my young soldier, put up your iron : you 
are well fleshed ; come on. 

Seb. I will be free from thee. What wouldst 

thou now ? 

If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword. 

[Draws. 

Sir To. What, what? Nay, then I must 
have an ounce or two of this malapert blood 
from you. [Draws. 

Enter OLIVIA. 

Oli. Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, 

hold. 
Sir To. Madam ? 



100 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT iv. 



OIL Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, 
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, 
Where manners ne'er were preach'd ! Out of 
my sight ! 

Be not offended, dear Cesario ! 

Rudesby, be gone ! I pr'ythee, gentle friend, 
[Exeunt Sir To., Sir AND., and FAB. 
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 
In this uncivil and unjust extent 
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, 
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks 
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby 
Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go; 
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, 
He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 

Seb. What relish is in this? how runs the stream? 
Or am I mad ? or else this is a dream :- 
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep ; 
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep ! 

Oli. Nay, come, I pr'ythee. Would thou 'dst 
be ruled by me ! 

Seb. Madam, I will. 

Oli. O, say so, and so be ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. A Room in OLIVIA'S House. 
Enter MARIA and CLOWN. 

Mar. Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and 
this beard ; make him believe thou art Sir 
Topas the curate ; do it quickly : I '11 call Sir 
Toby the whilst. [Exit MARIA. 

Clo. Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble 
myself in 't ; and I would I were the first that 
ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not fat 
enough to become the function well : nor lean 
enough to be thought a good student : but to be 
said, an honest man and a good housekeeper, 
goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a 
great scholar. The competitors enter. 

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and MARIA. 

Sir To. Jove bless thee, master parson. 

Clo. Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old 
hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, 
very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, 
That that is, is: so I, being master parson, am 
master parson : for what is that but that ? and 
is but is ? 

Sir To. To him, Sir Topas. 

Clo. What, hoa, I say, Peace in this prison! 

Sir To. The knave counterfeits well ; a good 
knave. [there ? 

Mai. [In an inner chamber. ~\ Who calls 

Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to 
visit Malvolio the lunatic. 

Mai. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, 
go to my lady. 



Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest 
thou this man ? talkest thou nothing but of 
ladies ? 

Sir To. Well said, master parson. 

Mai. Sir Topas, never was man thus 
wronged : good Sir Topas, do not think I am 
mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness. 

Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Sathan ! I call thee 
by the most modest terms ; for I am one of those 
gentle ones that will use the devil himself with 
courtesy. Say'st thou that house is dark ? 

Mai. As hell, Sir Topas. 

Clo. Why, it hath bay-windows, transparent 
as barricadoes, and the clear storeys towards 
the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and 
yet complainest thou of obstruction ? 

Mai. I am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to you 
this house is dark. 

Clo. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no 
darkness but ignorance; in which thou art more 
puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. 

Mai. I say this house is as dark as ignor- 
ance, though ignorance were as dark as hell ; 
and I say there was never man thus abused. I 
am no more mad than you are ; make the trial 
of it in any constant question. 

Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras con- 
cerning wild-fowl ? 

Mai. That the soul of our grandam might 
haply inhabit a bird. 

Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? 

Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no way 
approve of his opinion. 

Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in 
darkness : thou shalt hold the opinion of 
Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits ; and 
fear to kill a woodcock lest thou dispossess the 
soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. 

Mai. Sir Topas, Sir Topas ! 

Sir To. My most exquisite Sir Topas ! 

Clo. Nay, I am for all waters. 

Mar. Thou mightst have done this without 
thy beard and gown ; he sees thee not. 

Sir To. To him in thine own voice, and 
bring me word how thou findest him : I would 
we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be 
conveniently delivered, I would he were ; for I 
am now so far in offence with my niece that I 
cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the 
upshot. Come by and by to my chamber. 

[Exeunt Sir To. and MAR. 



Clo. 



Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, 

Tell me how thy lady does. [Singing. 



Mai. Fool, 

Clo. My lady is unkind, perdy, 

Mai. Fool, 



SCENE II.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



101 



Clo. Alas, why is she so? 

Mai. Fool, I say ; 

Clo. She loves another Who calls, ha ? 

Mai. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve 
well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, 
ink, and paper ; as I am a gentleman, I will 
live to be thankful to thee for 't. 

Clo. Master Malvolio ! 

Mai. Ay, good fool. 

Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five 
wits ? 

Mai. Fool, there was never man so notori- 
ously abused ; I am as well in my wits, fool, as 
thou art. 

Clo. But as well ? then you are mad indeed, 
if you be no better in your wits than a fool. 

Mai. They have here propertied me ; keep 
me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and 
do all they can to face me out of my wits. 

Clo. Advise you what you say ; the minister 
is here. Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the 
heavens restore ! endeavour thyself to sleep, 
and leave thy vain bibble-babble. 

Mai. Sir Topas, 

Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fellow. 
Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God b' wi' you, good 
Sir Topas. Marry, amen. I will, sir, I will. 

Mai. Fool, fool, fool, I say, 

Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, 
sir ? I am shent for speaking to you. 

Mai. Good fool, help me to some light and 
some paper ; I tell thee I am as well in my 
wits as any man in Illyria. 

Clo. Well-a-day, that you were, sir ! 

Mai. By this hand, I am : Good fool, some 
ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will 
set down to my lady ; it shall advantage thee 
more than ever the bearing of letter did. 

Clo. I will help you to 't. But tell me true, are 
you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit? 

Mai. Believe me, I am not ; I tell thee true. 

Clo. Nay, I '11 ne'er believe a madman till I 
see his brains. I will fetch you light, and 
paper, and ink. 

Mai. Fool, I '11 requite it in the highest de- 
gree : I pr'ythee, be gone. 

Clo. I am gone, sir, 

And anon, sir, 
I '11 be with you again, 
In a trice. 

Like to the old vice, 
Your need to sustain ; 

Who with dagger of lath, 
In his rage and his wrath, 

Cries ah, ha ! to the devil : 
Like a mad lad, 
Pare thy nails, dad, 

Adieu, goodman drivel. 

[Exit. 



SCENE III. OLIVIA'S Garden. 
Enter SEBASTIAN. 

Seb. This is the air ; that is the glorious sun ; 
This pearl she gave me, I do feel 't, and see 't : 
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, 
Yet 'tis not madness. Where 's Antonio, then ? 
I could not find him at the Elephant ; 
Yet there he was ; and there I found this credit, 
That he did range the town to seek me out. 
His counsel now might do me golden service : 
For though my soul disputes well with my sense, 
That this may be some error, but no madness, 
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune 
So far exceed all instance, all discourse, 
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes 
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me 
To any other trust but that I am mad, 
Or else the lady 's mad ; yet if 'twere so, 
She could not sway her house, command her 

followers, 

Take and give back afiairs and their despatch 
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing 
As I perceive she does : there 's something in '\ 
That is deceivable. But here comes the lady. 

Enter OLIVIA and a Priest. 

Oli. Blame not this haste of mine. If you 

mean well, 

Now go with me and with this holy man 
Into the chantry by : there, before him 
And underneath that consecrated roof, 
Plight me the full assurance of your faith, 
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul 
May live at peace. He shall conceal it 
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note ; 
What time we will our celebration keep 
According to my birth. What do you say ? 
Seb. I '11 follow this good man, and go with 

you ; 
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. 

Oli. Then lead the way, good father ; 

And heavens so shine 
That they may fairly note this act of mine ! 

[Exeunt. 

. V^JBE . ACT V. 
SCENE I. The Street before OLIVIA'S House. 

Enter CLOWN and FABIAN. 
Fab. Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his 
letter. 

Clo. Good Master Fabian, grant me another 
request. 

Fab. Anything. 

Clo. Do not desire to see this letter. 



102 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT v. 



Fab. That is to give a dog ; and in recom- 
pense, desire my dog again. 

Enter DUKE, VIOLA, and Attendants. 

Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, 
friends ? 

Clo. Ay, sir ; we are some of her trappings. 

Duke. I know thee well. How dost thou, 
my good fellow ? 

Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes and 
the worse for my friends. [friends. 

Duke. Just the contrary ; the better for thy 

Clo. No, sir, the worse. 

Duke. How can that be ? 

Clo. Marry, sir, they praise me, and make 
an ass of me ; now my foes tell me plainly I 
am an ass : so that by my foes, sir, I profit in 
the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I 
am abused : so that, conclusions to be as kisses, 
if your four negatives make your two affirma- 
tives, why then, the worse for my friends and 
the better for my foes. 

Duke. Why, this is excellent. 

Clo. By my troth, sir, no ; though it please 
you to be one of my friends. 

Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for me ; 
there 's gold. 

Clo. But that it would be double-dealing, 
sir, I would you could make it another. 

Duke. O, you give me ill counsel. 

Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for 
this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. 

Duke. Well, I will be so much a sinner to 
be a double-dealer : there 's another. 

Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play ; 
and the old saying is, the third pays for all ; the 
triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure ; or the 
bells of St. Bennet, sir, may put you in mind ; 
One, two, three. 

Duke. You can fool no more money out of 
me at this throw : if you will let your lady know 
I am here to speak with her, and bring her 
along with you, it may awake my bounty 
further. 

Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I 
come again. I go, sir ; but I would not have 
you to think that my desire of having is the sin 
of covetousness : but, as you say, sir, let your 
bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon. 

{Exit CLOWN. 

Enter ANTONIO and Officers. 

Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did 
rescue me. 

Duke. That face of his I do remember well : 
Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmeared 
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war : 



A bawbling vessel was he captain of, 
For shallow draught and bull: unprizable ; 
With which such scathful grapple did he make 
With the most noble bottom of our fleet, 
That very envy and the tongue of loss 
Cried fame and honour on him. What's the 

matter? 

I Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio [Candy : 
That took the Phcenix and her fraught from 
And this is he that did the Tiger board 
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg : 
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, 
In private brabble did we apprehend him. 
Vio. He did me kindness, sir ; drew on my 

side ; 

But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me, 
I know not what 'twas, but distraction. 

Duke. Notable pirate ! thou salt-water thief ! 
What foolish boldness brought thee to their 

mercies, 

Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear, 
Hast made thine enemies ? 

Ant. Orsino, noble sir, 

Be pleased that I shake off these names you give 

me ; 

Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, 
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough, 
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither : 
That most ingrateful boy there, by your side, 
From the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth 
Did I redeem ; a wreck past hope he was : 
His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
My love, without retention or restraint, 
All his in dedication : for his sake, 
Did I expose myself, pure for his love, 
Into the danger of this adverse town ; 
Drew to defend him when he was beset : 
Where being apprehended, his false cunning, 
Not meaning to partake with me in danger, 
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, 
And grew a twenty-years-removed thing 
While one would wink ; denied me mine own 

purse, 

Which I had recommended to his use 
Not half an hour before. 

Vio. How can this be 

Duke. When came he to this town ? 

Ant. To-day, my lord; and for three months 

before, 

No interim, not a minute's vacancy, 
Both day and night did we keep company. 

Enter OLIVIA and Attendants. 

Dttke. Here comes the countess ; now 

heaven walks on earth. 

But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are 
madness : 



SCENE I.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OK, WHAT YOU WILL. 



103 



Three months this youth hath tended upon 
me ; 

But more of that anon. Take him aside. 

OIL What would my lord, but that he may 

not have, 

Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ! 
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. 
Vio. Madam? 

Duke. Gracious Olivia, 

Oli. What do you say, Cesario? Good 

my lord, [me. 

Vio. My lord would speak, my duty hushes 
Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, 
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear 
As howling after music. 

Duke. Still so cruel ? 

Oli. Still so constant, lord. [lady, 

Duke. What ! to perverseness? you uncivil 
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars 
My soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed 

out 

That e'er devotion tender'd ! What shall I do ? 
Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall 
become him. [to do it. 

Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart 
Like to the Egyptian thief, at point of death, 
Kill what I love ; a savage jealousy [this : 
That sometime savours nobly? But hear me 
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, 
And that I partly know the instrument 
That screws me from my true place in your 

favour, 

Live you the marble -breasted tyrant still ; 
But this your minion, whom I know you love, 
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, 
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye 
Where he sits crowned in his master's sprite. 
Come, boy, with me ; my thoughts are ripe in 

mischief: 

I '11 sacrifice the lamb that I do love, 
To spite a raven', heart within a dove. 

{Going. 

Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly, 
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. 

{Following. 

Oli. Where goes Cesario ? 
Vio. After him I love 

More than I love these eyes, more than my life, 
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife ; 
If I do feign, you witnesses above 
Punish my life for tainting of my love ! 

Oli. Ah me, detested ! how am I beguiled ? 

Vio. Who does beguile you? who does do 

you wrong ? [long ? 

Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so 

Call forth the holy father. 

[Exit an Attendant. 



Duke. Come away. [To VIOLA. 

Oli. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, 
stay. 

Duke. Husband? 

Oli. Ay, husband, can he that deny ? 

Duke. Her husband, sirrah ? 

Vio. No, my lord, not I. 

Oli. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear 
That makes thee strangle thy propriety : 
Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up ; 
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou 
art [father ! 

As great as that thou fear'st O, welcome, 

Re-enter Attendant and Priest. 

Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence, 
Here to unfold, though lately we intended 
To keep in darkness what occasion now 
Reveals before 'tis ripe, what thou dost know 
Hath newly past between this youth and me. 

Priest. A contract of eternal bond of love, 
Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands, 
Attested by the holy close of lips, 
Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings ; 
And all the ceremony of this compact 
Sealed in my function, by my testimony : 
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward 

my grave 
I have travelled but two hours. [thou be, 

Duke. O thou dissembling cub ! what wilt 
When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case ? 
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow 
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow ? 
Farewell, and take her ; but direct thy feet 
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. 

Vio. My lord, I do protest, 

Oli. O, do not swear ; 

Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. 

Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, with his 
head broke. 

Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon ; 
send one presently to Sir Toby. 

Oli. What's the matter? 

Sir And. He has broke my head across, and 
has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too : for 
the love of God, your help : I had rather than 
forty pound I were at home. 

Oli. Who has done this, Sir Andrew ? 

Sir And. The count's gentleman, one 
Cesario : we took him for a coward, but he 's 
the very devil incardinate. 

Duke. My gentleman, Cesario ? 

Sir And. Od's lifelings, here he is : You 
broke my head for nothing ; and that that I did 
I was set on to do 't by Sir Toby. [hurt you : 

Vio. Why do you speak to me? I never 



104 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT \. 



YOH drew your sword upon me without cause ; 
But I bespake you fair and hurt you not. 

Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, 
you have hurt me ; I think you set nothing by 
a bloody coxcomb. 

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH drunk, led by the 
CLOWN. 

Here comes Sir Toby halting ; you shall hear 
more : but if he had not been in drink he would 
have tickled you othergates than he did. 

Duke. How now, gentleman ? how is 't with 
you? 

Sir To. That 's all one ; he has hurt me, and 
there 's the end on 't. Sot, didst see Dick 
surgeon, sot? 

Clo. O he's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone ; 
his eyes were set at eight i' the morning. 

Sir To. Then he 's a rogue. After a passy- 
measure, or a pavin, I hate a drunken rogue. 

Oli. Away with him. Who hath made this 
havoc with them ? 

Sir And. I '11 help you, Sir Toby, because 
we '11 be dressed together. 

Sir To. Will you help an ass-head, and a cox- 
comb, and a knave? a thin-faced knave, a gull? 

Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be 
looked to. 

. [Exeunt CLOWN, Sir To., and Sir AND. 
;;rv ;-. '.; .vntvi 

OXKO v1t a. Enter SEBASTIAN. 

Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your 

kinsman ; 

But, had it been the brother of my blood, 
I must have done no less, with wit and safety. 
You throw a strange regard upon me, and 
By that I do perceive it hath offended you ; 
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 
We made each other but so late ago. 

Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and 

two persons ; 
A natural perspective, that is, and is not. 

Seb. Antonio, O my dear Antonio ! 
How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me 
Since I have lost thee. 

Ant. Sebastian are you ? 

Seb. Fear'st thou that, Antonio ? 

Ant. How have you made division of your- 
self? 

An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin 
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian? 

Oli. Most wonderful ! 

Seb. Do I stand there ? I never had a brother : 
Nor can there be that deity in my nature 
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister 
Whom the blind waves and surges have de- 
voured : 



Of charity, what kin are you to me? [ To VIOLA. 
What countryman? what name? what parentage? 

Via. Of Messaline : Sebastian was my father ; 
Such a Sebastian was my brother too ; 
So went he suited to his watery tomb : 
If spirits can assume both form and suit, 
You come to fright us. 

Seb. A spirit I am indeed : 

But am in that dimension grossly clad, 
Which from the womb I did participate. 
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, 
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, 
And say Thrice welcome, drowned Viola ! 

Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow. 

Seb. And so had mine. 

Vio. And died that day when Viola from her 

birth 
Had numbered thirteen years. 

Seb. O, that record is lively in my soul ! 
He finished, indeed, his mortal act 
That day that made my sister thirteen years. 

Vio. If nothing lets to make us happy both 
But this my masculine usurp'd attire, 
Do not embrace me till each circumstance 
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and jump, 
That I am Viola : which to confirm, 
I '11 bring you to a captain in this town, [help 
Where lie my maiden's weeds ; by whose gentle 
I was preserv'd to serve this noble count ; 
All the occurrence of my fortune since 
Hath been between this lady and this lord. 

Seb. So comes it, lady, you have been mis- 
took : [BOLIVIA. 
But nature to her bias drew in that. 
You ~vould have been contracted to a maid ; 
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived ; 
You are betroth'd both to a maid and man. 

Duke. Be not amazed ; right noble is his 

blood. 

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, 
I shall have share in this most happy wreck : 
Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times, 

[To VIOLA. 
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. 

Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear ; 
And all those swearings keep as true in soul 
As doth that orbed continent the fire 
That severs day from night. 

Duke. Give me thy hand ; 

And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds. 

Vio. The captain that did bring me first on 
shore [action, 

Hath my maid's garments : he, upon some 
Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit ; 
A gentleman and follower of my lady's. 

Oli. He shall enlarge him : Fetch Malvolio 
hither : 



SCENE I.] 



TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



105 



And yet, alas, now I remember me, 

They say, poor gentleman, he 's much distract. 

Re-enter CLOWN, with a letter. 

A most extracting frenzy of mine own 

From my remembrance clearly banished his. 

How does he, sirrah ? 

Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Beelzebub at 
the stave's end as well as a man in his case may 
do : he has here writ a letter to you ; I should 
have given it you to-day morning ; but as a 
madman's epistles are no gospels, so it skills not 
much when they are delivered. 
Oli. Open it, and read it. 
Clo. Look then to be well edified when the fool 
delivers the madman : By the Lord, madam, 
Oli. How now ! art thou mad ? 
Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness : an 
your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you 
must allow vox. 

Oli. Pr'ythee, read i' thy right wits. 
Clo. So I do, madonna ; but to read his right 
wits is to read thus : therefore perpend, my 
princess, and give ear. 

Oli. Read it you, sirrah. [To FABIAN. 

Fab. [reads.] By 'the Lord ', madam, you wrong 
me, and the world shall know it : though you 
have put me into darkness and given your 
drunken cousin rule over me, yet have J the 
benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I 
have your own letter that induced me to the 
semblance I ptit on ; with the which I doubt not 
but to do myself much right or you nnich shame. 
Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a 
little unthought of, and speak out of my injury. 

The madly used MALVOLIO. 
Oli. Did he write this ? 
Clo. Ay, madam. 

Duke. This savours not much of distraction. 

Oli. See him delivered, Fabian : bring him 

hither. [Exit FABIAN. 

My lord, so please you, these things further 

thought on, 

To think me as well a sister as a wife, 
One day shall crown the alliance on 't, so please 

you, 

Here at my house, and at my proper cost. 
Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrace your 
offer. [service done him, 

Your master quits you ; [to VIOLA] and, for your 
So much against the metal of your sex, 
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, 
And since you called me master for so long, 
Here is my hand ; you shall from this time be 
Your master's mistress. 

Oli. A sister ? you are she. 

' 



Re-enter FABIAN with MALVOLIO. 

Duke. Is this the madman ? 
Oli. Ay, my lord, this same ; 

How now, Malvolio ? 

Mai. Madam, you have done me wrong, 
Notorious wrong. 

Oli. Have I, Malvolio? no. 

Mai. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that 

letter : 

You must not now deny it is your hand, 
Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase ; 
Or say, 'tis not your seal, nor your invention : 
You can say none of this. Well, grant it then, 
And tell me, in the modesty of honour, 
Why you have given me such clear lights of 

favour ; 

Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you ; 
To put on yellow stockings, and to frown 
Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people : 
And, acting this in an obedient hope, 
Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd, 
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, 
And made the most notorious geek and gull 
That e'er invention play'd on ? tell me why. 

Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, 
Though, I confess, much like the character : 
But, out of question, 'tis Maria's hand. 
And now I do bethink me, it was she 
First told me thou wast mad ; then cam'st in 

smiling, 

And in such forms which here were presuppos'd 
Upon thee in the letter. Pr'ythee, be content : 
This practice has most shrewdly pass'd upon 

thee: 
But, when we know the grounds and authors 

of it, 

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge 
Of thine own cause. 

Fab. Good madam, hear me speak ; 

And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come, 
Taint the condition of this present hour, 
Which I have wonder'd at. In hope it shall not, 
Most freely I confess, myself and Toby 
Set this device against Malvolio here, 
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts 
We had conceiv'd against him. Maria writ 
The letter, at Sir Toby's great importance ; 
In recompense whereof he hath married her. 
How with a sportful malice it was follow'd 
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge, 
If that the injuries be justly weigh'd 
That have on both sides past. 

Oli. Alas, poor fool ! how have they baffled 

thee! 

Clo. Why, some are born great, some achieve 
greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon 



io6 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



[ACT v. 



them. I was one, sir, in this interlude ; one Sir 
Topas, sir ; but that 's all one : By the Lord, 
fool, I am not mad ; But do you remember ? 
Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal t 
an you smile not, he 's gagged. And thus the 
whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 

Mai. I '11 be revenged on the whole pack of 
you. [Exit. 

Oli. He hath been most notoriously abus'd. 

Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a 

peace : 

He hath not told us of the captain yet ; 
When that is known, and golden time convents, 
A solemn combination shall be made 
Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, 
We will not part from hence. Cesario, 

come : 

For so you shall be while you are a man ; 
But, when in other habits you are seen, 
Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen. 

[Exeunt. 



SONG. 

Clo. When that I was and a little tiny boy, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
A foolish thing was but a toy, 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came to man's estate, 
\Vith hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

'Gainst knave and thief men shut their gate, 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

.1 . rnJaDBi .~ : t f'~!l ...' 

But when I came, alas ! to wive, 






, , 

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

By swaggering could I never thrive, 

For the rain it raineth every day. 






But when I came unto my bed, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

With toss-pots still had drunken head, 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

A great while ago the world began, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

But that 's all one, our play is done, 
And we Ml strive to please you every day. 

\Exit. 



infill a'^ 






MtGD 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



VICENTIO, Duke of Vienna. 
ANGELO, Lord Deputy in the Duke's absence. 
ESCALUS, an ancient Lord y joined with AN- 
GELO in the Deputation. 
CLAUDIO, a young Gentleman. 
Lucio, a Fantastic. 
TWO OTHER LIKE GENTLEMEN. 

VARRIUS, a Gentleman, Servant to the Duke. 

PROVOST. 

THOMAS, \ . . 

PETER, / *" Friars ' 

A JUSTICE. 

ELBOW, a simple Constable. 



FROTH, a foolish Gentleman. 
CLOWN, Servant to MRS. OVERDONE. 
ABHORSON, an Executioner. 
BARNARDINE, a dissolute Prisoner. 

ISABELLA, Sister to CLAUDIO. 
MARIANA, betrothed to ANGELO. 
JULIET, beloved by CLAUDIO. 
FRANCISCA, a Nun. 
MISTRESS OVERDONE, a Bawd. 

Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, Officers, ana 
other Attendants. 



SCENE, VIENNA. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. An Apartment in the DUKE'S 
Palace. 



KE, ESCALUS, Lords, and Attendants. 

Duke. Escalus, 

Escal. My lord. 

Duke. Of government the propertiestounfold, 
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse; 
Since I am put to know that your own science 
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice 
My strength can give you : then no more remains 
But that to your sufficiency, as your worth isable, 
And let them work. The nature of our people, 
Our city's institutions, and the terms 
For common justice, you are as pregnant in 
As art and practice hath enriched any 
That we remember. There is our commission, 
From which we would not have you warp. 

Call hither, 
I say, bid come before us Angelo. 

[Exit an Attendant. 

What figure of us think you he will bear ? 
For you must know we have with special soul 
Elected him our absence to supply ; 
Lent him our terror, drest him with our love, 
And given his deputation all the organs 
Of our own power : what think you of it ? 

EscaL If any in Vienna be of worth 
To undergo such ample grace and honour, 
It is Lord Angelo. 

Enter ANGELO. 
Duke. Look where he comes. 



Ang. Always obedient to your grace's will, 
I come to know your pleasure. 

Duke. Angelo, 

There is a kind of character in thy life, 
That to the observer doth thy history 
Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings 
Are not thine own so proper as to waste 
Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thec. 
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, 
Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues 
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike 
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely 

touch'd 

But to fine issues : nor nature never lends 
The smallest scruple of her excellence 
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines 
Herself the glory of a creditor, 
Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech 
To one that can my part in him advertise ; 
Hold, therefore, Angelo ; 
In our remove be thou at full ourself : 
Mortality and mercy in Vienna 
Live in thy tongue and heart! Old Escalus, 
Though first in question, is thy secondary : 
Take thy commission. 

Ang. Now, good my lord, 

Let there be some more test made of my metal, 
Before so noble and so great a figure 
Be stamped upon it. 

Duke. No more evasion : 

We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice 
Proceeded to you ; therefore take your honours. 
Our haste from hence is of so quick condition 
That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd 



io8 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



LACT i. 



Matters of needful value. We shall write to you 
As time and our concernings shall importune 
How it goes with us : and do look to know 
What doth befall ycu here. So, fare you well : 
To the hopeful execution do I leave you 
Of your commissions. 

Ang. Yet, give leave, my lord, 

That we may bring you something on the way. 

Duke. My haste may not admit it ; 
Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do 
With any scruple : your scope is as mine own : 
So to enforce or qualify the laws 
As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand ; 
I '11 privily away : I love the people, 
But do not like to stage me to their eyes : 
Though it do well, I do not relish well 
Their loud applause and aves vehement : 
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion 
That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. 

Ang: The heavens give safety to your pur- 
poses ! [happiness. 

EscaL Lead forth and bring you back in 

Duke. I thank you. Fare you well. [Exit. 

EscaL I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave 
To have free speech with you ; and it concerns me 
To look into the bottom of my place : 
A power I have, but of what strength and nature 
I am not yet instructed. [together, 

Ang. 'Tis so with me. Let us withdraw 
And we may soon our satisfaction have 
Touching that point. 

EscaL I '11 wait upon your honour. 

[Exeunt. 

yA'llB HJS 313WJ ,3(1 tO ffetO> OJJ 

SCENE II. A Street. 
Enter Lucio and two GENTLEMEN. 

Lucio. If the duke, with the other dukes, 
come not to composition with the King of 
Hungary, why, then, all the dukes fall upon 
the king. [the King of Hungary's ! 

1 Gent. Heaven grant us its peace, but not 

2 Gent. Amen. 

Lucio. Thou concludest like the sanctimoni- 
ous pirate that went to sea with the ten com- 
mandments, but scraped one out of the table. 

2 Gent. Thou shalt not steal ? 

Lucio. Ay, that he razed. 

1 Gent. Why, 'twas a commandment to com- 
mand the captain and all the rest from their 
functions ; they put forth to steal. There 's 
not a soldier of us all that, in the thanksgiving 
before meat, doth relish the petition well that 
prays for peace. 

2 Gent. I never heard any soldier dislike it. 
Lucio. I believe thee ; for I think thou never 

wast where grace was said. 



2 Gent. No ? a dozen times at least. 

I Gent. What ? in metre ? 

Lttcio. In any proportion or in any language. 

I Gent. I think, or in any religion. 

Lucio. Ay ! why not ? Grace is grace, de- 
spite of all controversy. As for example ; 
thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all 
grace. 

I Gent. Well, there went but a pair of 
shears between us. 

Lucio. I grant ; as there may between the 
lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. 

i Gent. And thou the velvet : thou art good 
velvet ; thou art a three-piled piece, I warrant 
thee : I had as lief be a list of an English 
kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a 
French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now ? 

Lucio. I think thou dost ; and, indeed, with 
most painful feeling of thy speech. I will, out 
of thine own confession, learn to begin thy 
health ; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after 
thee. 

1 Gent. I think I have done myself wrong ; 
have I not ? 

2 Gent. Yes, that thou hast ; whether thou 
art tainted or free. 

Lucio. Behold, behold, where Madam Miti- 
gation comes ! I have purchased as many 
diseases under her roof as come to &\\ 

2 Gent. To what, I pray ? 

1 Gent. Judge. 

2 Gent. To three thousand dollars a-year. 
i Gent. Ay, and more. 

Lucio. A French crown more. 

I Gent. Thou art always figuring diseases in 
me, but thou art full of error ; I am sound. 

Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, healthy ; 
but so sound as things that are hollow : thy 
bones are hollow : impiety has made a feast of 
thee. 

Enter BAWD. 

I Gent. How now ! which of your hips has 
the most profound sciatica ? 

Bawd. Well, well; there's one yonder ar- 
rested and carried to prison was worth five 
thousand of you all. 

I Gent. Who 's that, I pray thee ? 

Bawd. Marry, sir, that's Claudio, Signior 
Claudio. 

I Gent. Claudio to prison ! 'tis not so. 

Bawd. Nay, but I know 'tis so : I saw him 
arrested ; saw him carried away ; and, which 
is more, within these three days his head 's to 
be chopped off. 

Lucio. But, after all this fooling, I would 
not have it so. Art thou sure of this ? 



SCENE II.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



109 



Bawd. I am too sure of it : and it is for 
getting Madam Julietta with child. 

Lticio. Believe me, this may be : he pro- 
mised to meet me two hours since ; and he was 
ever precise in promise-keeping. 

2 Gent. Besides, you know, it draws some- 
thing near to the speech we had to such a pur- 
pose, [proclamation. 

I Gent. But most of all agreeing with the 

Lucio. Away ; let 's go learn the truth of it. 
[Exetmt Lucio and GENTLEMEN. 

Bawd. Thus, what with the war, what with 
the sweat, what with the gallows, and what 
with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. How now! 
what 's the news with you ? 

Enter CLOWN. 

Clo. Yonder man is carried to prison. 

Bawd. Well : what has he done ? 

Clo. A woman. 

Bawd. But what 's his offence ? 

Clo. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. 

Bawd. What ! is there a maid with child by 
him? 

Clo. No; but there's a woman with maid 
by him. You have not heard of the proclama- 
tion, have you ? 

Bawd. What proclamation, man ? 

Clo. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna 
must be plucked down. [the city ? 

Bawd. And what shall become of those in 

Clo. They shall stand for seed : they had 
gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in 
for them. 

Bawd. But shall all our houses of resort in 
the suburbs be pulled down ? 

Clo. To the ground, mistress. 

Bawd. Why, here 's a change indeed in the 
commonwealth ! What shall become of me ? 

Clo. Come ; fear not you : good counsellors 
lack no clients : though you change your place 
you need not change your trade ; I '11 be your 
tapster still. Courage ; there will be pity taken 
on you : you that have worn your eyes almost 
out in the service, you will be considered. 
^ Bawd. What's to do here, Thomas Tapster? 
Let 's withdraw. 

Clo. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by 
the provost to prison : and there 's Madam 
Juliet. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. The same. 

Enter PROVOST, CLAUDIO, JULIET, and 
Officers ; Lucio and two GENTLEMEN. 

Claud. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus 

to the world ? 
Bear me to prison, where I am committed. 



Prov. I do it not in evil disposition, 
But from Lord Angelo by special charge. 

Claud. Thus can the demi-god Authority 
Make us pay down for our offence by weight. 
The words of heaven ; on whom it will, it will ; 
On whom it will not, so ; yet still 'tis just. 

Lucio. Why, how now, Claudio ? whence 
comes this restraint ? [liberty : 

Claud. Frorr too much liberty, my Lucio, 
As surfeit is the father of much fast, 
So every scope by the immoderate use 
Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, 
Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, 
A thirsty evil ; and when we drink we die. 

Lucio. If I could speak so wisely under an 
arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors ; 
and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the 
foppery of freedom as the morality of imprison- 
ment. What's thy offence, Claudio? 

Claud. What but to speak of would offend 
again. 

Lucio. What, is it murder ? 

Claud. No. 

Lucio. Lechery ? 

Claud. Call it so. 

Prov. Away, sir ; you must go. 

Claud. One word, good friend : Lucio, a 
uv*x'v : . word with you. [ Takes him aside. 

Lucio. A hundred, if they '11 do you any good. 
Is lechery so looked after ? 

Claud. Thus it stands with me : Upon a 

true contract 

I got possession of Julietta's bed : 
You know the lady ; she is fast my wife, 
Save that we do the denunciation lack 
Of outward order : this we came not to 
Only for propagation of a dower 
Remaining in the coffer of her friends ; 
From whom we thought it meet to hide our love 
Till time had made them for us. But it chances 
The stealth of our most mutual entertainment, 
With character too gross, is writ on Juliet. 

Lucio. With child, perhaps? 

Claud. Unhappily, even so. 
And the new deputy now for the duke, 
Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, 
Or whether that the body public be 
A horse whereon the governor doth ride, 
Who, newly in the seat, that it may know 
He can command, lets it straight feel the spur : 
Whether the tyranny be in his place, 
Or in his eminence that fills it up, 
I stagger in. But this new governor 
Awakes me all the enrolled penalties 
Which have, like unscour'd armour, hung by 

the wall 
So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round 



no 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT i. 



And none of them been worn ; and, for a name, 
Now puts the drowsy and neglected act 
Freshly on me ; 'tis surely for a name. 

Lucio. I warrant it is : and thy head stands 
so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if 
she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the 
duke, and appeal to him. [found. 

Clatid. I have done so, but he 's not to be 
I pr'ythee, Lucio, do me this kind service : 
This day my sister should the cloister enter, 
And there receive her approbation : 
Acquaint her with the danger of my state ; 
Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends 
To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him ; 
I have great hope ia that : for in her youth 
There is a prone and speechless dialect 
Such as moves men ; beside, she hath prosper- 
ous art 

When she will play with reason and discourse, 
And well she can persuade. 

Lucio. I pray she may ; as well for the en- 
couragement of the like, which else would stand 
under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of 
thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus 
foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I '11 to her. 

Claud, I thank you, good friend Lucio. 

Lucio. Within two hours, 

Claud. Come, officer, away. \_Ex9ttnt. 

SCENE IV. A Monastery. 
Enter DUKE and Friar THOMAS. 

Duke. No ; holy father ; throw away that 

thought ; 

Believe not that the dribbling dart of love 
Can pierce a complete bosom : why I desire thee 
To give me secret harbour hath a purpose 
More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends 
Of burning youth. 

Fri. May your grace speak of it ? 

Duke. My holy sir, none better knows than 

you 

How I have ever lov'd the life remov'd, 
And held in idle price to haunt assemblies 
Where youth, and cost, and witless bra very keeps. 
I have deliver'd to Lord Angelo, 
A man of stricture and firm abstinence, 
My absolute power and place here in Vienna 
And he supposes me travel I'd to Poland ; 
For so I have strew'd it in the common ear, 
And so it is received. Now, pious sir, 
You will demand of me why I do this ? 

Fri. Gladly, my lord. [laws, 

Duke. We have strict statutes and most biting 
The needful bits and curbs for headstrong 

steeds, 
Which for these fourteen years we have let sleep, 



Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave, 

That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond 

fathers, 

Having bound up the threat'ning twigs of birch, 
Only to stick it in their children's sight 
For terror, not to use, in time the rod 
Becomes more mock 'd than fear'd : so our decrees , 
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead ; 
And liberty plucks justice by the nose ; 
The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart 
Goes all decorum. 

Fri. It rested in your grace 

To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas'd : 
And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd 
Than in Lord Angelo. 

Duke. I do fear, too dreadful : 

Sith 'twas my fault to give the people scope, 
'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them 
For what I bid them do : for we bid this be done 
When evil deeds have their permissive pass 
And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, 

my father, 

I have on Angelo impos'd the office ; 
Who may, in the ambush of my name, strikehome, 
And yet my nature never in the fight, 
To do it slander. And to behold his sway, 
I will, as 'twere a brother of your order, 
Visit both prince and people : therefore, I 

pr'ythee, 

Supply me with the habit, and instruct me 
How I may formally in person bear me 
Like a true friar. More reasons for this action 
At our more leisure shall I render you ; 
Only, this one : Lord Angelo is precise ; 
Stands at a guard with envy ; scarce confesses 
That his blood flows, or that his appetite 
Is more to bread than stone : hence shall we see, 
If power change purpose, what our seemers be. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE V. A Nunnery. 
Enter ISABELLA and FRANCISCA. 

Isab. And have you nuns no further privileges? 

Fran. Are not these large enough ? 

Isab. Yes, truly: I speak not as desiring more, 
But rather wishing a more strict restraint 
Upon the sisterhood, the votaries of St. Clare. 

Lucio. Ho! Peace be in this place! \Within. 

Isab. Who 's that which calls ? 

Fran. It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella, 
Turn you the key, and know his business of him ; 
You may, I may not ; you are yet unsworn : 
When you have vow'd, you must not speak with 

men 

But in the presence of the prioress ; [face ; 
Then, if you speak, you must not show your 



SCENE V.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



in 



Or, if you show your /ace, you must not speak. 
He calls again ; I pray you answer him. 

[Exit FRANCISCA. 

I sab. Peace and prosperity ! Who is 't that 
calls ? 

_ 
Enter LuciO. . 

Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be ; as those 

cheek-roses 

Proclaim you are no less ! Can you so stead me 
As bring me to the sight of Isabella, 
A novice of this place, and the fair sister 
To her unhappy brother Claudio ? 

Isab. Why her unhappy brother? let me ask ; 
The rather, for I now must make you know 
I am that Isabella, and his sister. 

Lucio. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly 

greets you : 
Not to be weary with you, he 's in prison. 

Isab. Woe me ! For what ? 

Lucio. For that which, if myself might be his 

judge, 

He should receive his punishment in thanks : 
He hath got his friend with child. 

Isab. Sir, make me not your story. 

Lucio. It is true. 

I would not though 'tis my familiar sin 
With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest 
Tongue far from heart play with all virgins so : 
I hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted ; 
By your renouncement an immortal spirit ; 
And to be talk'd with in sincerity, 
As with n saint. [me. 

Isab. You do blaspheme the good in mocking 

Lucio. Do not believe it. Fewness and 

truth, 'tis thus: 

Your brother and his lover have embraced : 
As those that feed grow full : as blossoming time, 
That from the seedness the bare fallow brings 
To teeming foison ; even so her plenteous womb 
Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. 

Isab. Some one with child by him ? My 
cousin Juliet ? 

Lucio. Is she your cousin ? 

Isab. Adoptedly ; as schoolmaids change 

their names 
By vain though apt affection. 

Lucio. She it is. 

Isab. O, let him marry her ! 

Lucio. This is the point. 

The duke is very strangely gone from hence ; 
Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, 
In hand, and hope of action : but we do learn 
By those that know the very nerves of state, 
His givings out were of an infinite distance 
From his true-meant design. Upon his place, 
And with full line of his authority, 



Governs Lord Angelo : a man whose blood 
Is very snow-broth ; one who never feels 
The wanton stings and motions of the sense. 
But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge 
With profits of the mind, study, and fast. 
He, to give fear to use and liberty, 
Which have for long run by the hideous law, 
As mice by lions, hath pick'd out an act, 
Under whose heavy sense your brother's life 
Falls into forfeit : he arrests him on it ; 
And follows close the rigour of the statute 
To make him an example ; all hope is gone. 
Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer 
To soften Angelo : and that 's my pith 
Of business 'twixt you and your poor brother. 

Isab. Doth he so seek his life ? 

Lucio. Has censur'd him 

Already ; and, as I hear, the provost hath 
A warrant for his execution. 

Isab. Alas ! what poor ability 's in me 
To do him good. 

Lucio. Assay the power you have. 

Isab. My power ! alas, I doubt, 

Lucio. Our doubts are traitors, 

And make us lose the good we oft might win 
By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, 
And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, 
Men give like gods ; but when they weep and 

kneel, 

All their petitions are as freely theirs 
As they themselves would owe them. 

Isab. I '11 see what I can do. 

Lucio. But speedily. 

Isab. I will about it straight ; 
No longer staying but to give the mother 
Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you : 
Commend me to my brother : soon at night 
I '11 send him certain word of my success. 

Lucio. I take my leave of you. 

Isab. Good sir, adieu. 

\_Exeunt. 

ACT II. 

SCENE I. A Hall in ANGELO'S House. 

Enter ANGELO, ESCALUS, a JUSTICE, PRO- 
VOST, Officers, and other Attendants. 

Ang. We must not make a scarecrow of the 

law, 

Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, 
And let it keep one shape till custom make it 
Their perch, and not their terror. 

Escal. Ay, but yet 

Let us be keen, and rather cut a little 
Than fall and bruise to death. Alas ! this 
gentleman, 



112 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT ii. 



Whom I would save, had a most noble father. 
Let but your honour know, - 
Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue, 
That, in the working of your own affections, 
Had time coher'd with place, or place with 

wishing, 

Or that the resolute acting of your blood 
Could have attain'd the effect of your own 

purpose, 

Whether you had not sometime in your life 
Err'd in this point which now you censure him, 
And pull'd the law upon you. 

Ang. 'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, 
Another thing to fall. I not deny. 
The jury, passing on the prisoner's life, 
May, in the sworn twelve, have a thief or two 
Guiltier than him they try. What's open 

made to justice, 

That justice seizes. What know the laws 
That thieves do pass on thieves ? 'Tis very 

pregnant, 

The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it, 
Because we see it ; but what we do not see 
We tread upon, and never think of it. 
You may not so extenuate his offence 
For I have had such faults ; but rather tell me, 
When I, that censure him, do so offend, 
Let mine own judgment pattern out my death, 
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. 

EscaL Be it as your wisdom will. 

Ang. Where is the provost ? 

Prov. Here, if it like your honour. 

Ang. See that Claudio 

Be executed by nine to-morrow morning : 
Bring him his confessor ; let him be prepared ; 
For that 's the utmost of his pilgrimage. 

[Exit PROVOST. 

EscaL Well, heaven forgive him ! and for- 
give us all ! 

Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall : 
Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none ; 
And some condemned for a fault alone. 

Enter ELBOW, FROTH, CLOWN, Officers, &c. 

Elb. Come, bring them away: if these be 
good people in a commonweal that do nothing 
but use their abuses in common houses, I know 
no law ; bring them away. 

Ang. How now, sir ! What 's your name ? 
and what 's the matter ? 

Elb. If it please your honour, I am the poor 
duke's constable, and my nme is Elbow ; I do 
lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here be- 
fore your good honour two notorious bene- 
factors. 

Ang. Benefactors! Well; what benefactors 
are they? are they not malefactors? 



Elb. If it please your honour, I know not 
well what they are : but precise villains they 
are, that I am sure of ; and void of all profana- 
tion in the world that good Christians ought to 
have. [officer. 

EscaL This comes off well ; here 's a wise 

Ang. Go to ; what quality are they of ? 
Elbow is your name ? Why dost thou not 
speak, Elbow? 

Clo. He cannot, sir ; he 's out at elbow. 

Ang. What are you, sir ? 

Elb. He, sir ? a tapster, sir ; parcel-bawd ; 
one that serves a bad woman ; whose house, 
sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the 
suburbs ; and now she professes a hot-house, 
which, I think, is a very ill house too. 

EscaL How know you that ? 

Elb. My wife, sir, whom I detest before 
heaven and your honour, 

EscaL How ! thy wife ! 

Elb. Ay, sir ; who, I thank heaven, is an 
honest woman, 

EscaL Dost thou detest her therefore ? 

Elb. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as 
well as she, that this house, if it be not a 
bawd's house, it is pity of her life, for it is a 
naughty house. 

EscaL How dost thou know that, constable? 

Elb. Marry, sir, by my wife ; who, if she 
had been a woman cardinally given, might 
have been accused in fornication, adultery, and 
all uncleanliness there. 

EscaL By the woman's means? 

Elb. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone's means : 
but as she spit in his face, so she defied him. 

Clo. Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. 

Elb. Prove it before these varlets here, thou 
honourable man, prove it. 

EscaL Do you hear how he misplaces ? 

[To ANGELO. 

Clo. Sir, she came in great with child ; and 
longing saving your honour's reverence for 
stewed prunes, sir ; we had but two in the 
house, which at that very distant time stood, 
as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish of some three- 
pence ; your honours have seen such dishes ; 
they are not China dishes, but very good 
dishes. [sir. 

EscaL Go to, go to ; no matter for the dish, 

Clo. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin ; you are 
therein in the right : but to the point. As I 
say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with 
child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as 
I said, for prunes ; and having but two in the 
dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very 
man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I 
say, paying for them very honestly ; for, as 



SCENE I.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



you know, Master Froth, I could not give you 
threepence again, 

Froth. No, indeed. 

do. Very well : you being then, if you be 
remembered, cracking the stones of the afore- 
said prunes, 

Froth. Ay, so I did, indeed. 

Clo. Why, very well : I telling you then, if 
you be remembered, that such a one and such 
a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, 
unless they kept very good diet, as I told 
you, 

Froth. All this is true. 

Clo. Why, very well then. 

Escal. Come, you are a tedious fool : to the 
purpose. What was done to Elbow's wife that 
he hath cause to complain of? Come me to 
what was done to her. 

Clo. Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet. 

Escal. No, sir, nor I mean it not. 

Clo. Sir, but you shall come to it, by your 
honour's leave. And, I beseech you, look into 
Master Froth here, sir ; a man of fourscore 
pound a-year ; whose father died at Hallow- 
mas: was't not at Hallowmas, Master Froth? 

Froth. All-hallond eve. 

Clo. Why, very well ; I hope here be truths : 
He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir ; 
'twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, 
you have a delight to sit, have you not ? 

Froth. I have so ; because it is an open 
room, and good for winter. [truths. 

Clo. Why, very well then ; I hope here be 

Ang. This will last out a night in Russia, 
When nights are longest there: I '11 take my leave, 
And leave you to the hearing of the cause ; 
Hoping you '11 find good cause to whip them all. 

Escal. I think no less. Good morrow to 

your lordship. [Exit ANGBLO. 

Now, sir, come on : what was done to Elbow's 

wife, once more ? [her once. 

Clo. Once, sir? there was nothing done to 

Elb. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this 
man did to my wife. 

Clo. I beseech your honour, ask me. 

Escal. Well, sir : what did this gentleman 
to her ? 

Clo. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentle- 
man's face. Good Master Froth, look upon 
his honour ; 'tis for a good purpose. Doth 
your honour mark his face ? 

Escal. Ay, sir, very well. 

Clo. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. 

Escal. .Well, I do so. 

Clo. Doth your honour see any harm in his face? 

Escal. Why, no. 

Cfa. I '11 be supposed upon a book, his face 



is the worst thing about him. Good then ; if 
bis face be the worst thing about him, how 
could Master Froth do the constable's wife any 
harm ? I would know that of your honour. 

Escal. He 'sin the right. Constable, what 
say you to it ? 

Elb. First, an it like you, the house is a re- 
spected house ; next, this is a respected fellow ; 
and his mistress is a respected woman. 

Clo. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more re- 
spected person than any of us all. 

Elb. Varlet, thou liest ; thou liest, wicked 
varlet : the time is yet to come that she was 
ever respected with man, woman, or child. 

Clo. Sir, she was respected with him before 
he married with her. 

Escal. Which is the wiser here ? Justice or 
Iniquity ? Is this true ? 

Elb. O thou caitiff ! O thou varlet ! O thou 
wicked Hannibal ! I respected with her before 
I was married to her ? If ever I was respected 
with her, or she with me, let not your worship 
think me the poor duke's officer. Prove this, 
thou wicked Hannibal, or I '11 have mine 
action of battery on thee. 

Escal. If he took you a box o' th' ear, you 
might have your action of slander too. 

Elb. Marry, I thank your good worship for 
it. What is 't your worship's pleasure I should 
do with this wicked caitiff? 

Escal. Truly, officer, because he hath some 
offences in him that thou wouldst discover if 
thou couldst, let him continue in his courses 
till thou knowest what they are. 

Elb. Marry, I thank your worship for it. 
Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what 's 
come upon thee ; thou art to continue now, 
thou varlet ; thou art tc continue. 

Escal. Where were } >\i born, friend ? 

[To FROTH. 

Froth. Here in Vienna, sir. 

Escal. Are you of fourscore pounds a-year ? 

Froth. Yes, an 't please you, sir. 

Escal. So. What trade are you of, sir ? 

[To the CLOWN. 

Clo. A tapster ; a poor widow's tapster. 

Escal. Your mistress's name ? 

Clo. Mistress Overdone. 

Escal. Hath she had any more than one 
husband ? 

Clo. Nine, sir ; Overdone by the last. 

Escal. Nine ! Come hither to me, Master 
Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you 
acquainted with tapsters : they will draw you, 
Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get 
you gone, and let me hear no more of you. 

Froth. I thank your worship. For mine 



114 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



FACT IT. 



own part, I never come into any room in a tap- 
house but I am drawn in. 

Escal. Well ; no more of it, Master Froth : 
farewell. [Exit FROTH.] Come you hither 
to me, master tapster ; what 's your name, 
master tapster ? 

Clo. Pompey. 

Escal. What else? 

Clo. Bum, sir. 

Escal. 'Troth, and your bum is the greatest 
thing about you ; so that, in the beastliest 
sense, you are Pompey the great. Pompey, 
you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever 
you colour it in being a tapster. Are you not? 
come, tell me true ; it shall be the better for you. 

Clo. Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that 
would live. 

Escal. How would you live, Pompey? by 
being a bawd ? What do you think of the 
trade, Pompey ? is it a lawful trade ? 

Clo. If the law would allow it, sir. 

Escal. But the law will not allow it, Pom- 
pey : nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. 

Clo. Does your worship mean to geld and 
splay all the youth in the city ? 

Escal. No, Pompey. 

Clo. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they 
.vill to 't then. If your worship will take order 
for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to 
fear the bawds. 

Escal. There are pretty orders beginning, I 
can tell you. It is but heading and hanging. 

Clo. If you head and hang all that offend 
that way but for ten year together, you '11 be 
glad to give out a commission for more heads. 
If this law hold in Vienna ten year, I '11 rent 
the fairest house in it, after threepence a bay. 
If you live to see this  ome to pass, say Pom- 
pey told you so. 

Escal. Thank you, *ood Pompey: and, in 
requital of your prophecy, hark you, I advise 
you, let me not find you before me again upon 
any complaint whatsoever, no, not for dwell- 
ing where you do ; if I do, Pompey, I shall 
beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd 
Csesar to you ; in plain dealing, Pompey, I 
shall have you whipt : so for this time, Pom- 
pey, fare you well. 

Clo. I thank your worship for your good 
counsel ; but I shall follow it as the flesh and 
fortune shall better determine. 
Whip me ? No, no ; let carman whip his jade ; 
The valiant heart's not whipt out of his trade. 

[Exit. 

Escal. Come hither to me, Master Elbow ; 
come hither, Master Constable. How long have 
you been Jn this place of constable ? 



Elb. Seven year and a half, sir. 

Escal. I thought, by your readiness in the 
office, you had continued in it some time. You 
say seven years together ? 

Elb. And a half, sir. 

Escal. Alas ! it hath been great pains to you ! 
They do you wrong to put you so oft upon 't. Are 
there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it? 

Elb. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such mat- 
ters : as they are chosen, they are glad to choose 
me for them ; I do it for some piece of money, 
and go through with all. 

Escal. Look you, bring me in the names of 
some six or seven, the most sufficient of your 
parish. 

Elb. To your worship's house, sir ? 

Escal. To my house. Fare you well. [Exit. 
ELBOW.] What's o'clock, think you ? 

Just. Eleven, sir. 

Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. 

Just. I humbly thank you. 

Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio ; 
But there 's no remedy. 

Just. Lord Angelo is severe. 

Escal. It is but needful : 

Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so ; 
Pardon is still the nurse of second woe : 
But yet, Poor Claudio 1 There 's no remedy. 
Come, sir. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. Another Room in the same. 
Enter PROVOST and a Servant. 

Serv. He 's hearing of a cause ; he will come 

straight. 
I '11 tell him of you. [know 

Prov. Pray you do. [Exit Servant.] I'll 
His pleasure ; may be he will relent. Alas, 
He hath but as offended in a dream ! 
All sects, all ages, smack of this vice ; and he 
To die for it ! 

f.*r:'fM fj .^5 r.-'ffV, -. 9f/f fTr r j } C -,',;; .\--,fff) 

Enter ANGELO. 

Ang. Now, what 's the matter, provost? 

Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to- 
morrow ? 

Ang. Did I not tell thee yea? hadst thou 

not order ? 
Why dost thou ask again ? 

Prov. Lest I might be too rash : 

Under your good correction, I have seen 
When, after execution, judgment hath 
Repented o'er his doom. 

Ang. Go to ; let that be mine : 

Do you your office, or give up your place, 
And you shall well be spared. 

Prov* I crave your honour's pardon : 



SCENE II.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet? 
She 3 s very near her hour. 

Ang. Dispose of her 

To some more fitter place ; and that with speed. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Set v. Here is the sister of the man condemned 
Desires access to you. 

Ang. Hath he a sister ? 

Prov. Ay, my good lord ; a very virtuous maid, 
And to be shortly of a sisterhood, 
If not already. 

Ang. Well, let her be admitted. 

[Exit Servant. 

See you the fornicatress be remov'd ; 
Let her have needful but not lavish means ; 
There shall be order for it. 



I 



Enter Lucio and ISABELLA. 



Prov. Save your honour ! [Offering to retire. 

Ang. Stay a little while. [To ISAB.] You 
are welcome. What 's your will ? 

Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, 
Please but your honour hear me. 

Ang. Well ; what 's your suit ? 

Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor, 
And most desire should meet the blow of justice ; 
For which I would not plead, but that I must ; 
For which I must not plead, but that I am 
At war 'twixt will and will not. 

Ang. Well ; the matter ? 

Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die ; 
I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 
And not my brother. 

Prov. Heaven give thee moving graces. 

Ang. Condemn the fault and not the actor of it ! 
Why, every fault 's condemn'd ere it be done ; 
Mine were the very cipher of a function, 
To find the fault whose fine stands in record, 
And let go by the actor. 

Isab. O just but severe law ! 

I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your hon- 
our ! [Retiring. 

Lucio. [To ISAB.] Give't not o'er so: to 

him again, entreat him ; 

Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown ; 
You are too cold ; if you should need a pin, 
You could not with more tame a tongue desire it : 
To him, I say. 

Isab. Must he needs die ? 

Ang Maiden, no remedy. 

Isab. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon 

him, 
And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. 

Ang. I will not do 't. 

Isab. But can you, if you would ? 



Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. 

Isab. But might you do 't, and do the world 

no wrong, 

If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse 
As mine is to him. 

Ang. He 's sentenc'd ; 'tis too late. 

Lucio. You are too cold. [ To ISABELLA. 

Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a 

word, 

May call it back again. Well, believe this, 
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
Not the king's crown nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal's truncheon nor the judge's robe, 
Become them with one half so good a grace 
As mercy does. If he had been as you, 
And you as he, you would have slipp'd like him ; 
But he, like you, would not have been so stern. 

Ang. Pray you, be gone. 

Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency. 
And you were Isabel ! should it then be thus ? 
No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge 
And what a prisoner. 

Lucio. Ay, touch him ; there 's the vein. 

[Aside. 

Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, 
And you but waste your words. 

Isab. Alas ! alas ! 

Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once ; 
And He that might the vantage best have took 
Found out the remedy. How would you be 
If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
But judge you as you are ? O, think on that ; 
And mercy then wijl breathe within your lips, 
Like man new made. 

Ang. Be you content, fair maid : 

It is the law, not I, condemns your brother : 
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, 
It should be thus with him ; he must die to- 
morrow, [him, spare him ! 

Isab. To-morrow! O that 's sudden ! Spare 
He's not prepared for death. Even for our 

kitchens 

We kill the fowl of season : shall we serve heaven 
With less respect than we do minister [you : 
Toour gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink 
Who is it that hath died for this offence ? 
There 's many have committed it. 

Lucio. Ay, well said. 

Ang. The law hath not been dead, though 

it hath slept : 

Those many had not dared to do that evil 
If the first man that did the edict infringe 
Had answer'd for his deed : now 'tis awake ; 
Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet, 
Looks in a glass that shows what future evils, 
Either now, or by remissness new-conceiv'd, 
And so in progress to be hatch'd and born, 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT ii. 



Are now to have no successive degrees, 
But, where they live, to end. 

Isab. Yet show some pity. 

Ang. I show it most of all when I shjw justice; 
For then I pity those I do not know, 
Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall, 
And do him right thatj answering one foul wrong, 
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; 
Your brother dies to-morrow : be content. 

Isab. So you must be the first that gives this 

sentence ; 

And he that suffers. O, it is excellent 
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. 

Lucio. That 's well said. 

Isab. Could great men thunder 
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, 
For every pelting petty officer 
Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but 

thunder. 

Merciful heaven ! 

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 
Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 
Than the soft myrtle ; but man, proud man ! 
Dress'd in a little brief authority, 
Most ignorant of what he 's most assured, 
His glassy essence, like an angry ape, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens, 
Would all themselves laugh mortal. 

Lucio. O, to him, to him, wench : he will re- 
lent; 
He 's coming ; I perceive 't. 

Prov. Pray heaven she win him ! 

Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with our- 
self : [them ; 

Great men may jest with saints : 'tis wit in 
But, in the less, foul profanation. 

Lucio. Thou 'rt in the right, girl ; more o' that. 

Isab. That in the captain 's but a choleric word 
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. 

Lucio. Art advised o' that ? more on 't. 

Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? 

Isab. Because authority, though it err like 

others, 

Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself 
That skins the vice o' the top. Go to you r bosom ; 
Knock there ; and ask your heart what it doth 

know 

That's like my brother's fault; if it confess 
A natural guiltiness such as is his, 
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
Against my brother's life. 

Ang. She speaks, and 'tis 

Such sense that my sense breeds with it. 

Fare you well. 

Isab. Gentle, my lord, turn back. 



Ang. I will bethink me : Come again to- 
morrow, [lord, turn back. 

Isab. Hark how I '11 bribe you. Good, my 

Ang. How ! bribe me ? 

Isab. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall 
share with you. 

Lucio. You had marr'd all else. 

Isab. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, 
Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor 
As fancy values them : but with true prayers, 
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there, 
Ere sunrise : prayers from preserved souls, 
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate 
To nothing temporal. 

Ang. Well ; come to me 

To-morrow. 

Lucio. Go to ; it is well ; away. 

[Aside to ISABELLA. 

Isab. Heaven keep your honour safe ! 

Ang. Amen : for I 

Am that waygoing to temptation, [Aside. 

Where prayers cross. 

Isab. At what hour to-morrow 

Shall I attend your lordship ? 

Ang. At any time 'fore noon. 

Isab. Save your honour ! 

[Exeunt Lucio, ISAB. , and PROV. 

Ang. From thee ; even from thy virtue ! 
What's this? what's this? Is this her fault or 
mine ? [Ha ! 

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most ? 
Not she ; nor doth she tempt ; but it is I 
That, lying by the violet, in the sun 
Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower, 
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be 
That modesty may more betray our sense 
Than woman's lightness ? Having waste 

ground enough, 

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary 
And pitch our evils there ? O, fie, fie, fie ! 
What dost thou ? or what art thou, Angelo ? 
Dost thou desire her foully for those things 
That make her good ? O, let her brother live ; 
Thieves for their robbery have authority 
When judges steal themselves. What ! do I 

love her, 

That I desire to hear her speak again [on ? 
And feast upon her eyes ? What is 't I dream 
O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, 
With saints dost bait thy hook ! Most dangerous 
Is that temptation that doth goad us on 
Tosin in loving virtue : never could the strumpet, 
With all her double vigour, art, and nature, 
Once stir my temper ; but this virtuous maid 
Subdues me quite. Ever till now, 
When men were fond, I smil'd and wonder'd 
how. [Exit. 



SCENE III,] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



117 



SCENE III. A Room in a Prison. 

Enter DUKE, habited like a Friar , and 
PROVOST. 

Duke. Hail to you, provost ! so I think you 
are. [good friar ? 

Prov. I am the provost. What's your will, 

Duke. Bound by my charity and my bless'd 

order, 

I come to visit the afflicted spirits uh;i 
Here in the prison : do me the common right 
To let me see them, and to make me know 
The nature of their crimes, that I may minister 
To them accordingly. [were needful. 

Frov. I would do more than that, if more 

Enter JULIET. 

Look, here comes one ; a gentlewoman of mine, 
Who, falling in the flames of her own youth, 
Hath blister'd her report. She is with child; 
And he that got it, sentenc'd : a young man ; 
More fit to do another such offence 
Than die for this. 

Duke. When must he die ? 

Prov. As I do think, to-morrow, 
I have provided for you ; stay awhile 

[To JULIET. 
And you shall be conducted. [carry ? 

Duke. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you 

Juliet. I do ; and bear the shame most 
patiently. 

Duke. I '11 teach you how you shall arraign 

your conscience. 

And try your penitence, if it be sound 
Or hollowly put on. 

Tuliet. ' I '11 gladly learn. 

Duke. Love you the man that wrong'd you ? 

Juliet. Yes, as I love the woman that 
wrong'd him. [act 

Duke. So then, it seems, your most offenceful 
Was mutually committed ? 

Juliet. Mutually. [than his. 

Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind 

Juliet. I do confess it, and repent it, father. 

Duke. 'Tis meet so, daughter : but lest you 

do repent [shame, 

As that the sin hath brought you to this 

Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not 

heaven, [love it, 

Showing we would not spare heaven as we 

But as we stand in fear, 

Juliet. I do repent me as it is an evil, 
And take the shame with joy. 

Duke. There rest. 

Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow, 
And I am going with instruction to him. 



Juliet. Grace go with you ! 

Duke. Benedicite! [Exit. 

Juliet. Must die to-morrow ! O, injurious 

law, 

That respites me a life whose very comfort 
Is still a dying horror ! 

Prov. Tis pity of him ! [Exeunt. 

Joo ntvi ! iu.-v. ;ir' JjsriT 
SCENE TV. A Room in ANGELO'S House. 

Enter ANGELO. 
Ang. When I would pray and think, I think 

and pray [words ; 

To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty 
Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue. 
Anchors on Isabel : Heaven in my mouth, 
As if I did but only chew his name ; 
And in my heart the strong and swelling evil 
Of my conception. The state whereon I studied 
Is like a good thing, being often read, 
Grown sear'd and tedious ; yea, my gravity, 
Wherein let no man hear me I take pride, 
Could I with boot change for an idle plume, 
Which the air beats for vain. O place ! O 

form ! 

How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, 
Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls 
To thy false seeming ? Blood, thou still art 
. ,,., blood: 

Let's write good angel on the devil's horn, 
'Tis not the devil's crest. 



Enter Servant. 



One Isabel, a sister, 



How now, who's there ? 

Serv. 
Desires access to you. 

Ang. Teach her the way. [Exit Serv. 
O heavens ! 

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, 
Making both it unable for itself 
And dispossessing all the other parts 
Of necessary fitness ? [swoons ; 

So play the foolish throngs with one that 
Come all to help him, and so stop the air 
By which he should revive : and even so 
The general, subject to a well-wished king, 
Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness 
Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love 
Must needs appear offence. 

Enter ISABELLA. 
How now, fair maid ? 

Isab. I am come to know your pleasure. 

Ang. That you might know it, would much 

better please me [not live. 

Than to demand what 'tis. Your brother can- 

hab. Even so? Heaven keep your honour! 

[Retiring. 



iiS 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT n. 



Ang. Yet may he live awhile : and, it may 

be, 
As long as you or I : yet he must die. 

I sab. Under your sentence ? 

Ang. Yea. [prieve, 

Isab. When, I beseech you ? that in his re- 
Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted 
That his soul sicken not. [as good 

Ang. Ha ! Fie, these filthy vices ! It were 
To pardon him that hath from nature stolen 
A man already made, as to remit [image 

Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven's 
In stamps that are forbid ; 'tis all as easy 
Falsely to take away a life true made 
As to put metal in restrained means 
To make a false one. [earth. 

Isab. 'Tis set down so in heaven, but not in 

Ang. Say you so? then I shall poze you 

quickly. 

Which had you rather, that the most just law 
Now took your brother's life ; or, to redeem him 
Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness 
As she that he hath stain'd ? 

Isab. Sir, believe this, 

I had rather give my body than my soul. 

Ang. I talk not of your soul ; our compell'd 

sins 
Stand more for number than accompt. 

Isab. How say you ? 

Ang. Nay, I '11 not warrant that ; for I can 

speak 

Against the thing I say. Answer to this ; 
I, now the voice of the recorded law, 
Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life : 
Might there not be a charity in sin, 
To save this brother's life ? 

Isab. Please you to do 't, 

I '11 take it as a peril to my soul 
It is no sin at all, but charity. 

Ang. Pleas'd you to do 't at peril of your soul, 
Were equal poise of sfn and charity. 

Isab. That I do beg his life, if it be sin, 
Heaven let me bear it ! you granting of my suit, 
If that be sin, I '11 make it my morn prayer 
To have it added to the faults of mine, 
And nothing of your answer. 

Ang. Nay, but hear me : 

Your sense pursues not mine : either you are 

ignorant 
Or seem so, craftily ; and that 's not good. 

Isab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good 
But graciously to know I am no better. 

Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most 

bright 

When it doth tax itself : as these black masks 
Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder 
Than beauty could, displayed. But mark me; 



To be received plain, I '11 speak more gross : 
Your brother is to die. 

Isab. So. 

Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears 
Accountant to the law upon that pain. 

Isab. True. 

Ang. Admit no other way to save his life, 
As I subscribe not that, nor any other, 
But in the loss of question, that you, his sister, 
Finding yourself desir'd of such a person, 
Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, 
Could fetch your brother from the manacles 
Of the all-binding law ; and that there were 
No earthly mean to save him but that either 
You must lay down the treasures of your body 
To this suppos'd, or else let him suffer ; 
What would you do? 

Isab. As much for my poor brother as myself: 
That is, were I under the terms of death, 
The impression of keen whips I 'd wear as rubies, 
And strip myself to death, as to a bed 
That longing I have been sick for, ere I'd yield 
My body up to shame. 

Ang. Then must your brother die. 

Isab. And 'twere the cheaper way : 
Better it were a brother died at once 
Than that a sister, by redeeming him, 
Should die for ever. [sentence 

Ang. Were not you, then, as cruel as the 
That you have slandered so ? 

Isab. Ignominy in ransom and free pardon 
Are of two houses ; lawful mercy is 
Nothing akin to foul redemption. [tyrant ; 

Ang. You seem'd of late to make the law a 
And rather prov'd the sliding of your brother 
A merriment than a vice. 

Isab. O, pardon me, my lord ; it oft falls out, 
To have what we would have, we speak not 

what we mean : 

I something do excuse the thing I hate, 
For his advantage that I dearly love. 

Ang. We are all frail. 

Isab. Else let my brother die, 

If not a feodary, but only he, 
Owe, and succeed by weakness. 

Ang. Nay, women are frail too. 

Isab. Ay, as the glasses where they view 

themselves ; 

Which are as easy broke as they make forms. 
Women ! Help heaven ! men their creation mar 
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times 

frail ; 

For we are soft as our complexions are, 
And credulous to false prints. 

Ang. I think it well : 

And from this testimony of your own sex, 
Since* I suppose, we are made to be no stronger 



SCENE IV.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



119 



Than faults may shake our frames, let me be 

bold; 

I do arrest your words. Be that you are, 
That is, a woman ; if you be more, you 're none ; 
If you be one, as you are well express'd 
By all external warrants, show it now 
By putting on the destin'd livery. [lord, 

Isab. I have no tongue but one : gentle, my 
Let me intreat you, speak the former language. 

Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you. 

Isab. My brother did love Juliet ; and you 

tell me 
That he shall die for it. 

Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. 

Isab. I know your virtue hath a license in 't, 
Which seems a little fouler than it is, 
To pluck on others. 

Ang. Believe me, on mine honour, 

My words express my purpose. 

Isab. Ha ! little honour to be much believed, 
And most pernici -us purpose ! Seeming, 

seeming ! 

I will proclaim thee, Angelo ; look for 't : 
Sign me a present pardon for my brother 
Or, with anoutstretch'd throat, I '11 tell the world 
Aloud what man thou art. 

Ang. Who will believe thee, Isabel ? 

My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life, 
My vouch against you, and my place i' the state 
Will so your accusation overweigh 
That you shall stifle in your own report, 
And smell of calumny. I have begun ; 
And now I give my sensual race the rein : 
Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite ; 
Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes 
That banish what they sue for : redeem thy 

brother 

By yielding up thy body to my will ; 
Or else he must not only die the death, 
But thy unkindness shall his death draw out 
To lingering sufferance : answer me to-morrow, 
Or, by the affection that now guides me most, 
I '11 prove a tyrant to him. As for you, 
Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your 
true. [Exit. 

Isab. To whom shall I complain ? Did I 

tell this, 

Who would believe me ? O perilous mouths, 
That bear in them one and the self-same tongue 
Either of condemnation or approof ! 
Bidding the .aw make court'sy to their will ; 
Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, 
To follow as it draws ! I '11 to my brother : 
Though he hath fallen by promptureof the blood, 
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour 
That, had he twenty heads to tender down 
On twenty bloody blocks, he J d yield them up 



Before his sister should her lx>dy stoop 

To such abhorr'd pollution. 

Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die : 

More than our brother is our chastity. 

I '11 tell him yet of Angelo's request, 

And fit his mind to death for his soul's rest. 

{Exit. 

A/-T TTT 

ACT III. 

SCENE I. A Room in the Prison. 
Enter DUKE, CLAUDIO, and PROVOST. 

Duke. So, then you hope of pardon from 

Lord Angelo ? 

Claud. The miserable have no other medicine 
But only hope : 

I have hope to live, and am prepar'd to die. 
Duke. Be absolute for death ; either death or 

life [with life, 

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus 
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing [art, 

That none but fools would keep : a breath thou 
Servile to all the skiey influences 
That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st, 
Hourly afflict ; merely, thou art death's fool ; 
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun, 
And yet runn'st toward him still. Thou art not 

noble ; 

For all the accommodations that thou bear'st 
Are nurs'd by baseness. Thou art by no means 

valiant ; 

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, 
And that thou oft provok'st ; yet grossly fear'st 
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not 

thyself: 

For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains 
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not ; 
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get ; 
And what thou hast, forgett'st. Thou art not 

certain ; 

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, 
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou art poor; 
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, 
And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou 

none ; 

For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, 
The mere effusion of thy proper loins, 
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, 
For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor 

youth nor age, 

But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, 
Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth 
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms 
Of palsied eld ; and when thou art old and rich 



120 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT III. 



Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor 
beauty, [this 

To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in 
That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life 
Lie hid more thousand deaths : yet death we 

fear, 
That makes these odds all even. 

Claud. I humbly thank you. 

To sue to live, I find I seek to die ; 
And, seeking death, find life. Let it come on. 
Isab. {Within.'] What, ho! Peace here; 

grace and good company ! 
Prov. Who 's there ? come in : the wish de- 
serves a welcome. 

Duke. Dear sir, ere long I '11 visit you again. 
Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you. 

Enter ISABELLA. 

Isab. My business is a word or two with 
Claudio. [here 's your sister. 

Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior, 

Duke. Provost, a word with you. 

Prov. As many as you please. 

Duke. Bring me to hear them speak where 
I may be conceal'd. 

{Exeunt DUKE and PROVOST. 

Claud. Now, sister, what 's the comfort ? 

Isab. Why, as all comforts are ; most good 

in deed : 

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, 
Intends you for his swift embassador, 
Where you shall be an everlasting lieger : 
Therefore, your best appointment make with 

speed ; 
To-morrow you set on. 

Claud. Is there no remedy ? 

Isab. None, but such remedy as, tosave a head. 
To cleave a heart in twain. 

Claud. But is there any ? 

Isab. Yes, brother, you may live : 
There is a devilish mercy in the judge, 
If you '11 implore it, that will free your life, 
But fetter you till death. 

Claud. Perpetual durance ? 

Isab. Ay, just perpetual durance ; a restraint, 
Though all the world's vastidity you had, 
To a determin'd scope. 

Claud. But in what nature ? 

Isab. In such a one as, you consenting to 't, 
Would bark your honour from that trunk you 

bear, 
And leave you naked. 

Claud. Let me know the point. 

Isab. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, 
Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, 
And six or seven winters more respect 
Than a perpetual honour.. Dar'st thou die ? 



The sense of death is most in apprehension ; 
And the poor beetle that we tread upon, 
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great 
As when a giant dies. 

Claud. Why give you me this shame ? 

Think you I can a resolution fetch 
From flowery tenderness ? If I must die 
I will encounter darkness as a bride, 
And hug it in mine arms. [father's grave 

Isab. There spake my brother ; there my 
Did utter forth a voice ! Yes, thou must die : 
Thou art too noble to conserve a life 
In base appliances. This out ward -sainted de- 
puty, 

Whose settled visage and deliberate word 
Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth emmew 
As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil ; 
His filth within being cast, he would appear 
A pond as deep as hell. 

Claud. The princely Angelo * 

Isab. O, 'tis the cunning livery of hell, 
The damned'st body to invest and cover 
In princely guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio, 
If I would yield him my virginity 
Thou mightst be freed ? 

Claud. O heavens ! it cannot be. 

Isab. Yes, he would give it thee, from this 

rank offence 

So to offend him still. This night 's the time 
That I should do what I abhor to name, 
Or else thou diest to-morrow. 

Claud. Thou shalt not do 't 

Isab. O, were it but my life, 
I 'd throw it down for your deliverance 
As frankly as a pin. 

Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. 

Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to- 
morrow. 

Claud. Yes. Has he affections in him 
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose 
When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin ; 
Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 

Isab. Which is the least ? 

Claud, If it were damnable, he, being so wise, 
Why would he for the momentary trick 
Be perdurably fined ? O Isabel ! 

Isab. What says my brother ? 

Claud. Death is a fearful thing. 

Isab. And shamed life a hateful. 

Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not 

where ; 

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; 
This sensible warm motion to become 
A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit 
To bathe in fiery floods or to reside 
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice $ 
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, 



SCENE I.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



121 



O you beast ! 
O dishonest wrecch ! 



And blown with restless violence round about 
The pendent world ; or to be worse than worst 
Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts 
Imagine howling ! 'tis too horrible ! 
The weariest and most loathed worldly life 
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment 
Can lay on nature is a paradise 
To what we fear of death. 

Isab. Alas ! alas ! 

Claud. Sweet sister, let me live : 

What sin you do to save a brother's life 
Nature dispenses with the deed so far 
That it becomes a virtue. 

Isab. 

faithless coward ! 

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? 
Is 't not a kind of incest to take life [I think ? 
From thine own sister's shame. What should 
Heaven shield my mother play'd my father 

fair! 

For such a warped slip of wilderness 
Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance: 
Die ; perish ! might but my bending down 
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed : 

1 '11 pray a thousand prayers for thy death, 
No word to save thee. 

Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel. 

Isab. O fie, fie, fie ! 

Thy sin 's not accidental, but a trade : 
Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd : 
'Tis best that thou diest quickly. [Going. 

Claud. O hear me, Isabella. 

Re-enter DUKE. 

Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but 
one word. 

Isab. What is your will ? 

Dtike. Might you dispense with your leisure 
I would by and by have some speech with you: 
the satisfaction I would require is likewise 
your own benefit. 

Isab. I have no superfluous leisure ; my stay 
must be stolen out of other affairs ; but I will 
attend you awhile. 

Duke. [To CLAUDIO aside."] Son, I have 
overheard what hath passed between you and 
your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to 
corrupt her ; only he hath made an essay of her 
virtue to practise his judgment with the dis- 
position of natures ; she, having the truth of 
honour in her, hath made him that gracious 
denial which he is most glad to receive : I am 
confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be 
true ; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do 
not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are 
fallible : to-morrow you must die ; go to your 
knees and make ready. 



Claud. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am 
so out of love with life that I will sue to be 
rid of it. 

Duke. Hold you there. Farewell. 

[Exit CLAUDIO. 

- 
Re-enter PROVOST. 

Provost, a word with you. 

Prov. What's your will, father? 

Duke. That, now you are come, you will be 
gone. Leave me a while with the maid ; my 
mind promises with my habit no loss shall 
touch her by my company. 

Prov. In good time. [Exit PROVOST. 

Duke. The hand that hath made you fair 
hath made you good : the goodness that is 
cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; 
but grace, being the soul of your complexion, 
should keep the body of it ever fair. The 
assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune 
hath conveyed to my understanding ; and, but 
that frailty hath examples for his falling, I 
should wonder at Angelo. How will you do 
to content this substitute, and to save your 
brother ? 

Isab. I am now going to resolve him ; I had 
rather my brother die by the law than my son 
should be unlawfully born. But O, how much 
is the good duke deceived in Angelo ! If ever 
he return, and I can speak to him, I will open 
my lips in vain, or discover his government. 

Duke. That shall not be much amiss : yet, 
as the matter now stands, he will avoid your 
accusation ; he made trial of you only. There- 
fore fasten your ear on my advisings ; to the 
love I have in doing good a remedy presents 
itself. I do make myself believe that you may 
most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a 
merited benefit ; redeem your brother from the 
angry law ; do no stain to your own gracious 
person ; and much please the absent duke if, 
peradventure, he shall ever return to have 
hearing of this business. 

Isab. Let me hear you speak further ; I have 
spirit to do anything that appears not foul in 
the truth of my spirit. 

Duke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never 
fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, 
the sister of Frederick the great soldier who 
miscarried at sea ? 

Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good 
words went with her name. 

Duke. Her should this Angelo have married ; 

was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial 

"appointed: between which time of the contract 

and limit of the solemnity her brother Frederick 

was wrecked at sea, having in that perished 



112 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT in. 



vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how 
heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman : 
there she lost a noble and renowned brother, 
in his love toward her ever most kind and 
natural ; with him the portion and sinew of her 
fortune, her marriage-dowry ; with both, her 
combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. 

Isab. Can this be so ? Did Angelo so leave 
her? 

Duke. Left her in her tears, and dried not 
one of them with his comfort ; swallowed his 
vows whole, pretending, in her, discoveries of 
dishonour ; in few, bestowed her on her own 
lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake ; 
and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with 
them, but relents not. 

Isab. What a merit were it in death to take 
this poor maid from the world ! What corrup- 
tion in this life that it will let this man live ! 
But hovr out of this can she avail ? 

Duke. It is a rupture that you may easily 
heal ; and the cure of it not only saves your 
brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing 
it. 

Isab. Show me how, good father. 

Duke. This forenamed maid hath yet in her 
the continuance of her first affection ; his un- 
just unkindness, that in all reason should have 
quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in 
the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go 
you to Angelo ; answer his requiring with a plaus- 
ible obedience ; agree with his demands to the 
point: only refer yourself to this advantage, 
first, that your stay with him may not be long ; 
that the time may have all shadow and silence 
in it ; and the place answer to convenience : this 
being granted in course, now follows all. We 
shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your 
appointment, go in your place ; if the encounter 
acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him 
to her recompense : and here, by this, is your 
brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor 
Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy 
scaled'. The maid will I frame and make fit 
for his attempt. If you think well to carry this 
as you may, the doubleness of the benefit de- 
fends the deceit from reproof. What think you 
of it? 

Isab. The image of it gives me content already ; 
and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous 
perfection. 

Duke. It lies much in your holding up. 
Haste you speedily to Angelo : if for this night 
he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of 
satisfaction. I will presently to St. Luke's ; 
there, at the moated grange, resides this de- 
jected Mariana. At that place call upon me ; 



and despatch with Angelo, that it may be 
quickly. 

Isab. I thank you for this comfort. Fare 
you well, good father. [Exeunt severally. 

SCENE II. The Street before the Prison. 

Enter DUKE, as a Friar ; to him ELBOW, 
CLOWN, and Officers. 

Elb. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but 
that you will needs buy and sell men and women 
like beasts, we shall have all the world drink 
brown and white bastard. 

Duke. O heavens ! what stuff is here ? 

Clo. 'Twas never merry world since, of two 
usuries, the merriest was put down, and the 
worser allowed by order of law a furred gown 
to keep him warm ; and furred with fox and 
lamb-skins, too, to signify that craft, being 
richer than innocency, stands for the facing. 

Elb. Come your way, sir. Bless you, good 
father friar. 

Duke. And you, good brother father. 
What offence hath this man made you, sir ? 

Elb. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law; 
and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir ; for 
we havefound upon him, sir, a strange picklock, 
which we have sent to the deputy. 

Duke. Fie, sirrah ; a bawd, a wicked bawd ! 
The evil that thou causest to be done, 
That is thy means to live. Do thou but think 
What 'tis to cram a maw or clothe a back 
From such a filthy vice . say to thyself, 
From their abominable and beastly touches 
I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. 
Canst thou believe thy living is a life, 
So stinkingly depending ? Go mend, go mend. 

Clo. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir ; 
but yet, sir, I would prove 

Duke. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs 

for sin, 

Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer ; 
Correction and instruction must both work 
Ere this rude beast will profit. 

Elb. He must before the deputy, sir ; he has 
given him warning : the deputy cannot abide a 
whoremaster : if he be a whoremonger, and 
comes before him, he were as good go a mile 
on his errand. 

Duke. That we were all, as some would 

seem to be, 

Free from our faults, as faults from seeming 
free! 

Elb. His neck will come to your waist, a cord, 
sir. 

Clo. I spy comfort; I cry bail ! Here's \ 
gentleman, and a friend of mine. 



SCENE II.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE, 



123 



Enter Lucio. 

Lucio. How now, noble Pompey ? What, at 
the heels of Caesar ! Art thou led in triumph ? 
What, is there none of Pygmalion's images, 
newly made woman, to be had now, for putting 
the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? 
What reply, ha ? What say'st thou to this tune, 
matter, and method ? Is 't not drowned i' the 
last rain, ha ? What say'st thou to 't ? Is the 
world as it was, man ? Which is the way ? Is 
it sad, and few words ? or how ? The trick of it ? 

Duke. Still thus, and thus ! still worse ! 

Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mis- 
tress? Procures she still, ha? 

Clo. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her 
beef, and she is herself in the tub. 

Liicio. Why, 'tis good : it is the right of it : 
it must be so : ever your fresh whore and your 
powdered bawd : an unshunned consequence ; 
it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey ? 

Clo. Yes, faith, sir. 

Lucio. Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey. Fare- 
well ; go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, 
Pompey ? or how ? 

Elb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. 

Lucio. Well, then, imprison him: if imprison- 
ment be the due of a bawd, why, 'tis his right ; 
bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity, too : 
bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Com- 
mend me to the prison, Pompey. You will 
turn good husband now, Pompey; you will 
keep the house. 

Clo. I hope, sir, your good worship will be 
my bail. 

Liicio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey ; it 
is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to in- 
crease your bondage : if you take it not patiently, 
why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty 
Pompey. Bless you, friar. 

Duke. And you. 

Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha? 

Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 

Clo. You will not bail me then, sir ? 

Lucio. Then, Pompey, nornow. What news 
abroad, friar ? what news ? 

Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 

Lucio. Go, to kennel, Pompey, go : 

{Exeunt ELBOW, CLOWN, and Officers. 
Wh^t news, friar, of the duke ? 

Duke. I know none. Can you tell me of 
any? 

Lucio. Some say he is with the Emperor of 
Russia ; other some, he is in Rome : but where 
is he, think you ? 

Duke. I know not where; but wheresoever, 
I wish him well. 



Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him 
to steal from the state and usurp the beggary he 
was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well 
in his absence ; he puts transgression to't. 

Duke. He does well in 't 

Lucio. A little more lenity to lechery would 
do no harm in him : something too crabbed that 
way, friar. 

Duke. It is too general a vice, and severity 
must cure it. 

Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a 
great kindred ; it is well allied : but it is im 
possible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and 
drinking be put down. They say this Angelo 
was not made by man and woman after the down- 
right way of creation : is it true, think you ? 

Duke. How should he be made, then ? 

Lucio. Some report a sea-maid spawned him ; 
some, that he was begot between two stock- 
fishes. But it is certain that, when he makes 
water, his urine is congealed ice ; that I know 
to be true : and he is a motion ungenerative ; 
that 's infallible. 

Ditke. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. 

Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in 
him, for the rebellion of a cod-piece to take away 
the life of a man ? Would the duke that is ab- 
sent have done this ? Ere he would have hanged 
a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he 
would have paid for the nursing a thousand. 
He had some feeling of the sport ; he knew the 
service, and that instructed him to mercy. 

Duke. I never heard the absent duke much 
detected for women ; he was not inclined that 
way. 

Lucio. O, sir, you are deceived. 

Duke. 'Tis not possible. 

Lucio. Who, not the duke? yes, your beggar 
of fifty ; and his use was to put a ducat in her 
clack-dish : the duke had crotchets in him. He 
would be drunk too : that let me inform you. 

Duke. You do him wrong, surely. 

Lucio. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy 
fellow was the duke : and I believe I know the 
cause of his withdrawing. 

Duke. What, I pr'ythee, might be the cause? 

Lucio. No, pardon ; 'tis a secret must be 
locked within the teeth and the lips : but this 
I can let you understand, the greater file of 
the subject held the duke to be wise. 

Duke. Wise ? why, no question but he was. 

Lucio. A very superficial, ignorant, unweigh- 
ing fellow. 

Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or 
mistaking ; the very stream of his life, and the 
business he hath helmed, must, upon a war. 
ranted need, give him a better proclamation. , 



124 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT in. 



Let him be but testimonied in his own bring- 
ings forth, and he shall appear to the envious a 
scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore 
you speak unskilfully -, or, if your knowledge 
be more, it is much darkened in your malice. 

Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him. 

Duke. Love talks with better knowledge, 
and knowledge with dearer love. 

Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know. 

Duke, I can hardly believe that, since you 
Know not what you speak. But, if ever the 
duke return, as our prayers are he may, let 
me desire you to make your answer before him. 
If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage 
to maintain it : I am bound to call upon you ; 
and, I pray you, your name ? 

Lucio. Sir, my name is Lucio ; well known 
to the duke. 

Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if I 
may live to report you. 

Lucio. I fear you not. 

Duke. O, you hope the duke will return no 
more ; or you imagine me too unhurtful an 
opposite. But, indeed, I can do you little 
harm : you '11 forswear this again. 

Lucio. I '11 be hanged first ! thou art deceived 
in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou 
tell if Claudio die to-morrow or no ? 

Duke. Why should he die, sir ? 

Lucio. Why, for filling a bottle with a tun- 
dish. I would the duke we talk of were re- 
turned again : this ungenitured agent will un- 
people the province with continency ; sparrows 
must not build in his house-eaves because they 
are lecherous. The duke yet would have dark 
deeds darkly answered ; he would never bring 
them to light : would he were returned ! 
Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrus- 
sing. Farewell, good friar : I pr'ythee, pray 
for me. The duke, I say to thee again, would 
eat mutton on Fridays. He 's now past it ; yet, 
and I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar 
though she smelt brown bread and garlic : say 
that I said so. Farewell. [Exit. 

Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality 
Can censure 'scape ; back-wounding calumny 
The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong 
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ? 
But who comes here ? 

EnterEscALUS, PROVOST, BAWD,W^ Officers. 

Escal. Go, away with her to prison. 

Bawd. Good my lord, be good to me ; your 
honour is accounted a merciful man ; good my 
lord. 

Escal. Double and treble admonition, and 



still forfeit in the same kind? This would 
make mercy swear and play the tyrant. 

Prov. A bawd of eleven years' continuance, 
may it please your honour. 

Bawd. My lord, this is one Lucio's informa- 
tion against me : Mistress Kate Keepdown was 
with child by him in the duke's time ; he pro- 
mised her marriage ; his child is a year and a 
quarter old come Philip and Jacob : I have 
kept it myself ; and see how he goes about to 
abuse me. 

Escal. That fellow is a fellow of much 
licence : let him be called before us. Away 
with her to prison. Go to ; no more words. 
{Exeunt BAWD and Officers.] Provost, my 
brother Angelo will not be altered, Claudio 
must die to-morrow : let him be furnished with 
divines, and have all charitable preparation : 
if my brother wrought by my pity it snould not 
be so with him. 

Prov. So please you, this friar hath been 
with him, and advised him for the entertain- 
ment of deatu. 

Escal. Good even, good father. 

Duke. Bliss and goodness on you ! 

Escal. Of whence are you ? [is now 

Duke. Not of this country, though my chance 
To use it for my time : I am a brother 
Of gracious order, late come from the see 
In special business from his holiness. 

Escal. What news abroad i' the world ? 

Duke. None, but that there is so great a fever 
on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure 
it : novelty is only in request ; and it is as dan- 
gerous to be aged in any kind of course as it is 
virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. 
There is scarce truth enough alive to make 
societies secure ; but security enough to make 
fellowships accursed : much upon this riddle 
runs the wisdom of the world. This news is 
old enough, yet it is every day's news. I pray 
you, sir, of what disposition was the duke ? 

Escal. One that, above ail other strifes, con- 
tended especially to know himself. 

Duke. What pleasure was he given to ? 

Escal. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, 
than merry at anything which professed to make 
him rejoice : a gentleman of all temperance. 
But leave we him to his events, with a prayer 
they may prove prosperous ; and let me desire 
to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am 
made to understand that you have lent him 
visitation. 

Duke. He professes to have received no sini- 
ster measure from his judge, but most willingly 
humbles himself to the determination of justice : 
yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction . 



SCENE II. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE* 



of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life ; 
which I, by my good leisure, have discredited 
to him, and how is he resolved to die. 

EscaL You have paid the heavens your func- 
tion and the prisoner the very debt of your call- 
ing. I have laboured for the poor gentleman 
to the extremest shore of my modesty ; but my 
brother justice have I found so severe that he 
hath forced me to tell him he is indeed justice. 

Duke. If his own life answer the straitness 
of his proceeding, it shall become him well ; 
wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced 
himself. 

EscaL I am going to visit the prisoner. 
Fare you well. 

Duke. Peace be with you ! 

[Exeunt ESCAL. and PROV. 
He who the sword of heaven will bear 
Should be as holy as severe ; 
Pattern in himself to know, 
Grace to stand, and virtue go ; 
More nor less to others paying 
Than by self-offences weighing. 
Shame to him whose cruel striking 
Kills for faults of his own liking ! 
Twice treble shame on Angelo, 
To weed my vice and let his grow ! 
O, what may man within him hide, 
Though angel on the outward side ! 
How may likeness, made in crimes, 
Making practice on the times, 
Draw with idle spiders 3 strings 
Most pond'rous and substantial things ! 
Craft against vice I must apply ; 
With Angelo to-night shall He 
His old betrothed but despis'd ; 
So disguise shall, by the disguis'd, 
Pay with falsehood false exacting, 
And perform an old contracting. [Exit. 

ACT IV. 

SCENE I. A Room in MARIANA'S House. 
MARIANA discovered sitting ; a Boy singing, 

SONG. 
Take, O take those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn : 
But my kisses bring again, 

Bring again ; 
Seals of lovt, but seal'd in vain, 

Sealed in vain. 

Mart. Break off thy song, and haste thee 

quick away ; 

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice 
Hath often still'd my brawling discontent. 

[Exit Boy. 



Enter DUKE. 

I cry you mercy, sir ; and well could wish 
You had not found me here so musical : 
Let me excuse me, and believe me so, [woe. 
My mirth it much displeas'd, but pleas'd my 

Duke. 5 Tis good : though music* oft hath such 

a charm 

To make bad good and good provoke to harm. 
I pray you, tell me, hath anybody inquired for 
me here to-day ? much upon this time have I 
promised here to meet. 

Mart. You have not been inquired after : I 
have sat here all day. 

Enter ISABELLA. 

Duke. I do constantly believe you. The 
time is come even now. I shall crave your 
forbearance a little : may be I will call upon 
you anon, for some advantage to yourself. 

Mari. I am always bound to you. [Exit. 

Duke. Very well met, and welcome. 
What is the news from this good deputy ? 

Isab. He hath a garden circummur'd with 

brick, 

Whose western side is with a vineyard back'd ; 
And to that vineyard is a planched gate 
That makes his opening with this bigger key : 
This other doth command a little door 
Which from the vineyard to the garden leads ; 
There have I made my promise to call on him 
Upon the heavy middle of the night. 

Duke. But shall you on your knowledge find 
this way ? 

Isab. I have ta'en a due and wary note upon 't ; 
With whispering and most guilty diligence, 
In action all of precept, he did show me 
The way twice o'er. 

Duke. Are there no other tokens 

Between you 'greed concerning her observance? 

Isab. No, none, but only a repair i' the dark ; 
And that I have possess'd him my most stay 
Can be but brief : for I have made him know 
I have a servant comes with me along, 
That stays upon me ; whose persuasion is 
I come about my brother. 

Duke* 'Tis well borne up. 

I have not yet made known to Mariana. 
A word of this. What, ho ! within ! come forth. 



Re-enter MARIANA. 






I pray you be acquainted with this maid ; 
She comes to do you good. 

Isab. I do desire the like. 

Duke. Do you persuade yourself that I re 
spect you ? 



126 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT iv. 



Mart, Good friar, I know you do, and I 
have found it. [the hand, 

Duke. Take, then, this your companion by 
Who hath a story ready for your ear : 
I shall attend your leisure ; but make haste ; 
The vaporous night approaches. 
Mart. Will't please you walk aside ? 

[Exeunt MARL and ISAB. 
Dtike. O place and greatness, millions of 

false eyes 

Are stuck upon thee ! volumes of report 
Run with these false and most contrarious quests 
Upon thy doings ! thousand 'scapes of wit 
Make thee the father of their idle dream, 
And rack thee in their fancies ! -Welcome ! 
How agreed ? 

Re-enter MARIANA and ISABELLA. 

hab. She'll take the enterprise upon her, 

father, 
If you advise it. 

Duke. It is not my consent, 

But my entreaty too. 

Isab. Little have you to say, 

When you depart from him, but, soft and low, 
Remember now my brother. 

Marl. Fear me not. 

Duke. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at 

all: 

He is your husband on a pre-contrlct : 
To bring you thus together 'tis no sin, 
Sith that the justice of your title to him 
Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go ; 
Our corn 's to reap, for yet our tilth 's to sow. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. A Room in the Prison. 
Enter PROVOST and CLOWN. 

Prov. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off 
a man's head ? 

Clo. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can : 
but if he be a married man, he is his wife's head, 
and I can never cut off a woman's head. 

Prov. Come, sir, leave me your snatches and 
yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning 
are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in 
our prison a common executioner who in his 
office lacks a helper ; if you will take it on you 
to assist him, it shall redeem you from your 
gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of 
imprisonment, and your deliverance with an 
unpitied whipping ; for you have been a no- 
torious bawd. 

Clo. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time 
out of mind ; but yet I will be content to be a 



lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive 
some instruction from my fellow-partner. 

Prov. What ho, Abhorson ! Where's Ab- 
horson, there ? 

Enter ABHORSON. 

Abhor. Do you call, sir ? 

Prov. Sirrah, here 's a fellow will help you 
to-morrow in your execution. If you think it 
meet, compound with him by the year, and let 
him abide here with you ; if not, use him for the 
present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his 
estimation with you ; he hath been a bawd. 

Abhor. A bawd, sir? Fie upon him ; he will 
discredit our mystery. 

Prov. Go to, sir ; you weigh equally ; a 
feather will turn the scale. [Exit. 

Clo. Pray, sir, by your good favour, for, 
surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you 
have a hanging look, do you call, sir, your 
occupation a mystery ? 

Abhor. Ay, sir ; a mystery. 

Clo. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mys- 
tery ; and your whores, sir, being members of 
my occupation, using painting, do prove my 
occupation a mystery : but what mystery there 
should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I 
cannot imagine. 

Abhor. Sir, it is a mystery. 

Clo. Proof. 

Abhor. Every true man's apparel fits your 
thief : if it be too little for your thief, your true 
man thinks it big enough ; if it be too big for 
your thief, your thief thinks it little enough : so 
every true man's apparel fits your thief. 

Re-enter PROVOST. 

Prov. Are you agreed ? 

Clo. Sir, I will serve him ; for I do find your 
hangman is a more penitent trade than your 
bawd ; he doth oftener ask forgiveness. 

Prov. You, sirrah, provide your block and 
your axe to-morrow four o'clock. 

Abhor. Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee 
in my trade ; follow. 

Clo. I do desire to learn, sir ; and I hope, if 
you have occasion to use me for your own turn, 
you shall find me yare : for, truly sir, for your 
kindness I owe you a good turn. 

Prov. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio. 

[Exeunt CLO. and ABHOR. 
One has my pity ; not a jot the other, 
Being a murderer, though he were my brother. 

Enter CLAUDIO. 

Look, here's the warrant, Claudia, for thy death ; 
'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow 



SCENE II.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



127 



Thou must be made immortal. Where 's Bar- 
nardine ? [labour 

Claud. As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless 
When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones : 
He will not wake. 

Prov. Who can do good on him ? 

Well, go, prepare yourself. But, hark ! what 
noise ? [Knocking within. 

Heaven give your spirits comfort ! 

[Exit CLAUDIO. 
By and by ! 

I hope it is some pardon or reprieve 
For the most gentle Claudio. Welcome, father. 

Enter DUKE. 

Duke. The best and wholesomest spirits of 

the night [of late ? 

Envelop you, good provost ! Who call'd here 

Prov. None, since the curfew rung. 

Duke. Not Isabel ? 

Prov. No. 

Duke. They will, then, ere 't be long. 

Prov. What comfort is for Claudio ? 

Duke. There 's some in hope. 

Prov. It is a bitter deputy. 

Duke. Not so, not so ; his life is parallel'd 
Even with the stroke and lineof his great justice ; 
He doth with holy abstinence subdue 
That in himself which he spurs on his power 
To qualify in others : were he meal'd 
With that which he corrects, then were he 

tyrannous ; 

But this being so, he's just. Now are they come. 
[Knocking within. PROVOST goes out. 
This is a gentle provost : seldom when 
The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. 
How now ? what noise ? That spirit 's possess'd 
with haste [strokes. 

That wounds the unsisting postern with these 

PROVOST returns, speaking to one at the door. 

Prov. There he must stay until the officer 
Arise to let him in ; he is call'd up. [yet, 

Dtike. Have you no countermand for Claudio 
But he must die to-morrow ? 

Prov. None, sir, none. 

Duke. As near the dawning, Provost, as it is, 
You shall hear more ere morning. 

Prov. Happily 

You something know ; yet I believe there comes 
No countermand ; no such example have we : 
Besides, upon the very siege of justice, 
Lord Angelo hath to the public ear 
Profess'd the contrary. 

Enter a Messenger. 
Duke. This is his lordship's man. 



Prov. And here comes Claudio's pardon. 

Mess. My lord hath sent you this note ; and 
by me this further charge, that you swerve not 
from the smallest article of it, neither in time, 
matter, or other circumstance. Good-morrow ; 
for as I take it, it is almost day. 

Prov. I shall obey him. [Exit Messenger. 

Duke. This is his pardon ; purchas'd by such 
sin, [Aside. 

For which the pardoner himself is in : 
Hence hath offence his quick celerity 
When it is borne in high authority : 
When vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended 
That for the fault's love is the offender friended. 
Now, sir, what news ? 

Prov. I told you : Lord Angelo, belike 
thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me 
with this unwonted putting on ; methinks 
strangely, for he hath not used it before. 

Duke. Pray you, let 's hear. 

Prov. [Reads.] Whatsoever you may hear to 
the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of 
the clock ; and, in the afternoon, Bamardine : 
for my better satisfaction, let me have Claudius 
head sent me by five. Let this be duly per- 
formed ; with a thought that more depends on 
it thai, v~e must yet deliver. Thus fail not to 
do your office, as you will answer it at your peril. 
What say you to this, sir ? 

Duke. What is that Barnardine who is to be 
executed in the afternoon ? 

Prov. A Bohemian born ; but here nursed 
up and bred : one that is a prisoner nine years 
old. 

Duke. How came it that the absent duke had 
not either delivered him to his liberty or executed 
him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. 

Pro-J. His friends still wrought reprieves for 
him : and, indeed, his fact, till now in the 
government of Lord Angelo, came not to an 
undoubtful proof. 

Duke. Is it row apparent ? 

Prov. Most manifest, and not denied by him- 
self. 

Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in 
prison ? How swems he to be touched ? 

Prov. A man that apprehends death no more 
dreadfully but as a drunken sleep ; careless, 
reakless, and fearless of what 's past, present, 
or fo come ; 'nscnsible of mortality and desper- 
ately mortal. 

Du,le. He wants advice. 

Prov. He will hear none ; he hath evermore 
had the liberty of the prison ; give him leave to 
escape h nee, he would not : drunk many times 
a-day, if not many days entirely drunk. We 
have very often awaked him, as if to carry him 



128 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT IV. 



to execution, and showed him a seeming war- 
rant for it : it hath not moved him at all. 

Duke. More of him anon. There is written 
in your brow, Provost, honesty and constancy : 
if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles 
me ; but in the boldness of my cunning I will 
lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you 
have a warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit 
to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced 
him. To make you understand this in a mani- 
fested effect, I crave but four days' respite ; for 
the which you are to do me both a present and 
a dangerous courtesy. 

Prov, Pray, sir, in what ? 

Duke. In the delaying death. 

Prov. Alack ! how may I do it ? having the 
hour limited ; and an express command, under 
penalty, to deliver his head in the view of 
Angelo ? I may make my case as Claudio's, 
to cross this in the smallest. 

Duke. By the vow of mine order, I warrant 
you, if my instructions may be your guide. 
Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, 
and his head borne to Angelo. 

Prov. Angelo hath seen them both, and 'ill 
discover the favour. 

Duke. O, death 's a great disguiser : and you 
may add to it. Shave the head and tie the 
beard ; and say it was the desire of the penitent 
to be so bared before his death. You know the 
course is common. If anything fall to you upon 
this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the 
saint whom I profess, I will plead against it 
with my life. 

Prov. Pardon me, good father ; it is against 
my oath. 

Duke. Were you sworn to the duke, or to 
the deputy ? 

Prov. To him and to his substitutes. 

Duke. You will think you have made no 
offence if the duke avouch the justice of your 
dealing ? 

Prov. But what likelihood is in that ? 

Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. 
Yet since I see you fearful that neither my coat, 
integrity, nor my persuasion can with ease at- 
tempt you, I will go further than I meant, to 
pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here 
is the hand and seal of the duke. You know 
the character, I doubt not ; and the signet is 
not strange to you. 

Prov. I know them both. 

Duke. The contents of this is the return of 
the duke ; you shall anon over-read it at your 
pleasure ; where you shall find, within these 
two days he will be here. This is a thing that 
Angelo knows not : for he this very day receives 



letters of strange tenor : perchance of the duke's 
death ; perchance entering into some monastery ; 
but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, 
the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put 
not yourself into amazement how these things 
should be : all difficulties are but easy when 
they are known. Call your executioner, and off 
with Barnardine's head : I will give him a pre- 
sent shrift, and advise him for a better place. 
Yet you are amazed : but this shall absolutely 
resolve you. Come away ; it is almost clear 
dawn. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. Another Room in the same. 
Enter CLOWN. 

do. I am as well acquainted here as I was 
in our house of profession : one would think it 
were Mistress Overdone's own house, for here 
be many of her old customers. First, here 's 
young Master Rash ; he 's in for a commodity 
of brown paper and old ginger, ninescore and 
seventeen pounds; of which he made five marks, 
ready money : marry, then, ginger was not 
much in request, for the old women were all 
dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, 
at the suit of Master Threepile the mercer, for 
some four suits of peach-coloured satin, which 
now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here 
young Dizy, and young Master Deepvow, and 
Master Copperspur, and Master Starvelackey 
the rapier and dagger-man, and young Dropheir 
that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forth- 
right the tilter, and brave Master Shoetie the 
great traveller, and wild Halfcan that s abbed 
Pots, and; I think, -orty more ; all great doers 
in our ti '.ue, and are now " or the Lord's sake." 



Enter ABHORSON. 






Abhor. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. 

Clo. Master Barn, din, ! you must rise and 
be hanged, Master Barnardine ! 

Aohor. "V.hat, ho, Barnardine ! 

Barnar. \Within.~} A pox o } your throats ! 
Who : lakes that noise there ? What are you ? 

Clo. Your friend, sir ; the hangman. You 
must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death. 

Barnar. [Within.'] Away, you rogue, away; 
I am sleepy. 

Abhor. Tell him he must awake, and that 
quickly too. 

Clo. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till 
you are executed, and sleep afterwards. 

Abhor. Go in to him, and fetch him out. 

Clo. He is coming, sir, he is coming ; I hear 
his straw rustle. 



SCENE III.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



129 



Enter BARNARDINE. 

Abhor. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah ? 

Clo. Very ready, sir. 

Barnar. How now, Abhorson ? what 's the 
news with you ? 

Abhor. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap 
into your prayers ; for, look you, the warrant 's 
come. 

Barnar. You rogue, I have been drinking 
all night ; I am not fitted for 't. 

Clo. O, the better, sir ; for he that drinks 
all night and is hanged betimes in the morning 
may sleep the sounder all the next day. 

Enter DUKE. 

Abhor. Look you, sir, here comes your 
ghostly father. Do we jest now, think you ? 

Duke. Sir, induced by my charity, and hear- 
ing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to 
advise you, comfort you, and pray with you. 

Barnar. Friar, not I ; I have been drinking 
hard all night, and I will have more time to 
prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains 
with billets : I will not consent to die this day, 
that 's certain. 

Duke. O, six, you must ; and therefore, I 

beseech you, 
Look forward on the journey you shall go. 

Barnar. I swear I will not die to-day for 
any man's persuasion. 

Duke. But hear you, 

Barnar. Not a word ; if you have anything 
to say to me, come to my ward ; for thence 
will not I to-day. [Exit. 

Duke. Unfit to live or die. O gravel heart ! 
After him, fellows ; bring him to the block. 

[Exeunt ABHOR, and CLOWN. 

Enter PROVOST. 

Prov. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner? 

Duke. A creature unprepar'd, unmeet for 

death ; 

And to transport him in the mind he is 
Were damnable. 

Prov. Here in the prison, father, 

There died this morning of a cruel fever 
One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, 
A man of Claudio's years ; his beard and head 
Just of his colour. What if we do omit 
This reprobate till he were well inclined ; 
And satisfy the deputy with the visage 
Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio ? 

Duke. O, 'tis an accident that Heaven pro- 
vides ! 

Despatch it presently ; the hour draws on 
Prefix'd by Angelo : see this be done, 



And sent according to command ; whiles I 
Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. 

Prov. This shall be done, good father, pre- 

sently. 

But Barnardine must die this afternoon : 
And how shall we continue Claudio, 
To save me from the danger that might come 
If he were known alive ? 

Duke. Let this be done ; 

Put them in secret holds ; both Barnardine and 
Claudio. [ing 

Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greet- 
To the under generation, you shall find 
Your safety manifested. 

Prov. I am your free dependent. 

Duke. Quick, despatch, 

And send the head to Angelo. 

[Exit PROVOST. 

Now will I write letters to Angelo, [tents 
The provost, he shall bear them, whose con- 
Shall witness to him I am near at home, 
And that, by great injunctions, I am bound 
To enter publicly : him I '11 desire 
To meet me at the consecrated fount, 
A league below the city ; and from thence, 
By cold gradation and weal-balanced form, 
We shall proceed with Angelo. 
' 



- r . . 

Re-enter PROVOST. 

Prov. Here is the head ; I '11 carry it myself. 

Duke. Convenient is it. Make a swift return ; 
For I would commune with you of such things 
That want no ear but yours. 

Prov. I '11 make all speed. [Exit. 

I sab. [Within.] Peace, ho, be here ! 

Duke. The tongue of Isabel. She's come 

to know 

If yet her brother's pardon be come hither : 
But I will keep her ignorant of her good, 
To make her heavenly comforts of despair 
When it is least expected. 

X-id-ptri.'rt b&A. , 

Enter ISABELLA. , OT {ylj : i;il s 

Isab. Ho, by your leave ! 

Duke. Good morning to you, fair and gracious 

daughter. 

Isab. The better, given me by so holy a man. 

Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's pardon? 

Duke. He hath released him, Isabel, from 

the world : 

His head is off and sent to Angelo. 
Isab. Nay, but it is not so. 
Duke. It is no other : 

Show your wisdom, daughter, in your close 

patience. 

Isab. O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes. 
Duke. You shall not be admitted to his sight- 



130 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT iv. 



Isab. Unhappy Claudio ! Wretched Isabel ! 
Injurious world ! Most damned Angelo I 

Duke. This nor hurts him nor profits you a 

jot: 

Forbear it, therefore; give your cause to Heaven. 
Mark what I say ; which you shall find 
By every syllable a faithful verity : 
The duke comes home to-morrow ; nay, dry 

your eyes ; 

One of our convent, and his confessor, 
Gives me this instance. Already he hath carried 
Notice to Escalus and Angelo, 
Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, 
There to give up their power. If you can, 

pace your wisdom 

In that good path that I would wish it go, 
And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, 
Grace of the duke, revenges to your heart, 
And general honour. 

Isab. I am directed by you. 

Duke. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give ; 
'Tis that he sent me of the duke's return : 
Say, by this token, I desire his company 
At Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and 

yours 

I '11 perfect him withal ; and he shall bring you 
Before the duke ; and to the head of Angelo 
Accuse him home, and home. For my poor self, 
I am combined by a sacred vow, 
And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter : 
Command these fretting waters from your eyes 
With a light heart ; trust not my holy order 
If I pervert your course. Who 's here ? 

.fo^ocji lift 'jxsm II I . .ws^V 

Enter LuciO. 

Lucio. Good even, 

Friar ; where is the provost ? 

Duke. Not within, sir. 

Lucie. O, pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine 
heart to see thine eyes so red : thou must be 
patient : I am fain to dine and sup with water 
and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly; 
one fruitful meal would set me to 't. But they 
say the duke will be here to-morrow. By my 
troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother. If the old 
fantastical duke of dark corners had been at 
home, he had lived. [Exit ISABELLA. 

Duke. Sir, the duke is marvellous little be- 
holding to your reports ; but the best is, he 
lives not in them. 

Lucio. Friar, thou knowest not the duke so 
well as I do : he 's a better woodman than thou 
takest him for. [Fare ye well. 

Duke. Well, you '11 answer this one day. 

Lucio. Nay, tarry ; I '11 go along with thee ; 
I can tell thee pretty tales of the duke. 

Duke. You have told me too many of him 



already, sir, if they be true : if not true, none 
were enough. 

Lucio. I was once before him for getting a 
wench with child. 

Duke. Did you such a thing ? 

L^lcio. Yes, marry, did I : but was fain to 
forswear it ; they would else have married me 
to the rotten medlar. 

Duke. Sir, your company is fairer than hon- 
est. Rest you well. 

Lucio. By my trot , I '11 go with thee to the 
lane's end. If bawdy talk offend you, we'll 
have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind 
of burr ; I shall stick. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. A Room in ANGELO'S House. 
Enter ANGELO and ESCALUS. 

Escal. Every letter he hath writ hath dis- 
vouched other. 

Ang. In most uneven and distracted manner. 
His actions show much like to madness ; pray 
heaven his wisdom be not tainted ! And why 
meet him at the gates, and re-deliver our 
authorities there ? 

Escal. I guess not. 

Ang. And why should we proclaim it in an 
hour before his entering, that if any crave re- 
dress of injustice, they should exhibit their peti- 
tions in the streets ? 

Escal. He shows his reason for that : to have 
a despatch of complaints ; and to deliver us 
from devices hereafter, which shall then have 
no power to stand against us. 

Ang. Well, I beseech you. let it be pro- 
claimed : 

Betimes i' the morn I '11 call you at your house : 
Give notice to such men of sort and suit 
As are to meet him. 

Escal. I shall, sir : fare you well. [Exit. 

Ang. Good night. [nant, 

This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpreg- 
And dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid ! 
And by an eminent body that enforced 
The law against it ! But that her tender shame 
Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, 
How might she tongue me ? Yet reason dares 

her no : 

For my authority bears a credent bulk, 
That no particular scandal once can touch 
But it confounds the breather. He should 
have liv'd, [sense, 

Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous 
Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge, 
By so receiving a dishonour'd life 
With ransom of such shame. Would yet he 
had liv'd J 



SCENE V.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, 
Nothing goes right ; we would, and we would 
noi. {Exit. 

SCENE V. Fields withotit the Town. 

Enter DUKE in his own habit^ and Friar 
PETER. 

Duke. These letters at fit time deliver me. 

{Giving letters. 

The provost knows our purpose and our plot. 
The matter being afoot, keep your instruction 
And hold you ever to our special drift ; 
Though sometimes you do blench from this to 
that [house, 

As cause doth minister. Go, call at Flavins' 
And tell him where I stay : give the like notice 
To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, 
And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate ; 
But send me Flavius first. 

F. Peter. It shall be speeded well. 

{Exit FRIAR. 
r/sttaw % idbi^K arir^a 

Enter VARRIUS. 

Duke. I thank thee, Varrius ; thou hast made 
good haste : [friends 

Come, we will walk. There 's other of our 
Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius. 

{Exeunt, 

SCENE VI. Street near the City Gate. 
Enter ISABELLA and MARIANA. 

Isab. To speak so indirectly I am loath ; 
I would say the truth ; but to accuse him so, 
That is your part : yet I 'm advis'd to do it ; 
He says, to 'vailfull purpose. 

Mart. Be ruled by him. 

Isab. Besides, he tells me that, if peradven- 

ture 

He speak against me on the adverse side, 
I should not think it strange ; for 'tis a physic 
That 's bitter to sweet end. 

Mart. I would friar Peter. 

Isab. O, peace ; the friar is come. 

juk orou >:f --el ii' ' ''' -r>i ' --.I V-.-'~ '"*' 

Enter Friar PETER. 

F. Peter. Come, I have found you out a 

stand most fit^nav-: 

Where you may have such vantage on the duke 
He shall not pass you. Twice have the trum- 
pets sounded ; 

The generous and gravest citizens 
Have hent the gates, and very near upon 
The duke is entering ; therefore, hence, away. 

{Exeunt. 



ACT V. 
SCENE \.A public Place near the City Gate. 

MARIANA (veiled), ISABELLA, and PETER, at 
a distance Enter at opposite doors DUKE, 
VARRIUS, Lords; ANGELO, ESCALUS, Lucio, 
PROVOST, Officers, and Citizens. 
Duke. My very worthy cousin, fairly met ; 
Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see 
you. [royal grace ! 

Ang. and Escal. Happy return be to your 
Duke. Many and hearty thankings to you both. 
We have made inquiry of you ; and we hear 
Such goodness of your justice that our soul 
Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, 
Forerunning more requital. 

Ang. You make my bonds still greater. 

Duke. O, your desert speaks loud ; and I 

should wrong it 

To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, 
When it deserves, with characters of brass, 
A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time 
And rasure of oblivion. Give me your hand, 
And let the subject see, to make them know 
That outward courtesies would fain proclaim 
Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus ; 
You must walk by us on our other hand : 
And good supporters are you. 

PETER and ISABELLA come forward. 

F. Peter. Now is your time ; speak loud, 
and kneel before him. [regard 

Isab. Justice, O royal duke ! Vail your 
Upon a wrong'd, I 'd fain have said, a maid ! 
O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye 
By throwing it on any other object 
Till you have heard me in my true complaint, 
And give me justice, justice, justice, justice ! 

Duke. Relate your wrongs. In what? By 

whom ? Be brief : 

Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice. 
Reveal yourself to him. 

Isab. O, worthy duke. 

You bid me seek redemption of the devil : 
Hear me yourself ; for that which I must speak 
Must either punish me, not being believ'd, 
Or wring redress from you ; hear me, O, hear 
me here. [firm : 

Ang. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not 
She hath been a suitor to me for her brother, 
Cut off by course of justice. 

Isab. By course of justice ! 

Ang. And she will speak most bitterly and 
strange. [I speak : 

Isab. Most strange, but yet most truly, will 
That Angelo 's forsworn, is it not strange ? 



132 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT v. 



That Angelo 's a murderer, is 't not strange ? 
That Angelo is an adulterous thief, 
An hypocrite, a virgin-violator, 
Is it not strange and strange ? 

Duke. Nay, it is ten times strange. 

Isab. It is not truer he is Angelo 
Than this is all as true as it is strange : 
Nay, it is ten times true ; for truth is truth 
To the end of reckoning. 

Duke. Away with her ! Poor soul, 

She speaks this in the infirmity of sense. 

Isab. O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st 
There is another comfort than this world, 
That thou neglect me not with that opinion 
That I am touch'd with madness : make not 
impossible [sible 

That which but seems unlike ; 'tis not impos- 
But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, 
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute 
As Angelo ; even so may Angelo, 
In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, 
Be an arch-villain ; believe it, royal prince, 
If he be less, he 's nothing ; but he 's more, 
Had I more name for badness. 

Duke. By mine honesty, 

If she be mad, as I believe no other, 
Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, 
Such a dependency of thing on thing, 
As e'er I heard in madness. 

Isab. O gracious duke, 

Harp not on that : nor do not banish reason 
For inequality ; but let your reason serve 
To make the truth appear where it seems hid 
And hide the false seems true. 

Duke. Many that are not mad 

Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would 
you say ? 

Isab. I am the sister of one Claudio, 
Condemn'd upon the act of fornication 
To lose his head ; condemn'd by Angelo : 
I, in probation of a sisterhood, 
Was sent to by my brother : one Lucio 
As then the messenger ; 

Lucio. That 's I, an 't like your grace : 

I came to her from Claudio, and desir'd her 
To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo 
For her poor brother's pardon. 

Isab. That 's he, indeed. 

Duke. You were not bid to speak. 

Lucio. No, my good lord : 

Nor wish'd to hold my peace. 

Duke. I wish you now, then ; 

Pray you, take note of it : and when you have 
A business for yourself, pray Heaven you then 
Be perfect. 

Lucio. I warrant your honour, [to it. 

Duke. The warrant 's for yourself; take heed 



Isab. This gentleman told somewhat of my 
tale. 

Lucio. Right. [wrong 

Duke. It may be right ; but you are in the 
To speak before your time. Proceed. 

Isab. I went 

To this pernicious caitiff deputy. 

Duke. That 's somewhat madly spoken. 

Isab. Pardon it ; 

The phrase is to the matter. [ceed. 

Duke. Mended again. The matter ; pro- 

hab. In brief, to set the needless process by, 
How I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd, 
How he refell'd me, and how I replied, 
For this was of much length, the vile conclusion 
I now begin with grief and shame to utter : 
He would not, but by gift of my chaste body 
To his concupiscible intemperate lust, 
Release my brother; and, after muchdebatement, 
My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, 
And I did yield to him. But the next morn 

betimes, 

His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant 
For my poor brother's head. 

Duke. This is most likely 

Isab. O, that it were as like as it is true ! 

Duke. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know' st 

not what thou speak'st, 
Or else thou art suborn'd against his honour 
In hateful practice. First, his integrity 
Stands without blemish: next, it imports no 

reason 

That with such vehemency he should pursue 
Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended, 
He would have weigh'd thy brother by himself, 
And not have cut him off. Some one hath set 

you on ; 

Confess the truth, and say by whose advice 
Thou cam'st here to complain. 

Isab. And is this all ? 

Then, O you blessed ministers above, 
Keep me in patience ; and, with ripen'd time, 
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up 
In countenance ! Heaven shield your grace 

from woe, 
As I, thus wrong'd, hence unbelieved go ! 

Duke. I know you'd fain be gone. An 

officer ! 

To prison with her ! Shall we thus permit 
A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall 
On him so near us? This needs must be a 

practice. 
Who knew of your intent and coming hither ? 

Isab. One that I would were here, friar Lodo- 
wick. 

Duke. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows 
that Lodowick ? 



SCENE I.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



133 



Lucio. My lord, I know him ; 'tis a meddling 

friar. [lord, 

I do not like the man : had he been lay, my 

For certain words he spake against your grace 

In your retirement, I had swing'd him soundly. 

Duke. Words against me? This a good 

friar, belike ! 

And to set on this wretched woman here 
Against our substitute! Let this friar be found. 

Lucio. But yesternight, my lord, she and that 

friar 

I saw them at the prison : a saucy friar, 
A very scurvy fellow. 

F. Peter. Bless'd be your royal grace ! 

I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard 
Your royal ear abus'd. First, hath this woman 
Most wrongfully accus'd your substitute ; 
Who is as free from touch or soil with her 
As she from one ungot. 

Duke. We did believe no less. 

Know you that friar Lodowick that she speaks 

of? [holy; 

F. Peter. I know him for a man divine and 
Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, 
As he 's reported by this gentleman ; 
And, on my trust, a man that never yet 
Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace. 

Lucio. My lord, most villanously ; believe it. 

F. Peter. Well, he in time may come to clear 

himself ; 

But at this instant he is sick, my lord, 
Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, 
Being come to knowledge that there was com- 
plaint 

Intended 'gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither 
To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know 
Is true and false ; and what he, with his oath 
And all probation, will make up full clear, 
Whensoever he 's convented. First, for this 

woman 

To justify this worthy nobleman, 
So vulgarly and personally accus'd, 
Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, 
Till she herself confess it. 

Duke. Good friar, let 's hear it. 

[ISABELLA is carried off", guarded ; and 

MARIANA comes forward. 
Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo ? 
O heaven ! the vanity of wretched fools ! 
Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo ; 
In this I '11 be impartial ; be you judge 
Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar? 
First, let her show her face, and after speak. 

Mart. Pardon, my lord ; I will not show my 

face 
Until my husband bid me. 

Duke. What ! are you married ? 



Mari. No, my lord. 

Duke. Are you a maid ? 

Mari. No, my lord. 

Dttke. A widow, then ? 

Mari. Neither, my lord. 

Duke. Why, you 

Are nothing then : neither maid, widow, nor 
wife? 

Lucio. My lord, she may be a punk; for many 
of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife. 

Duke. Silence that fellow : I would he had 

some cause 
To prattle for himself. 

Lucio. Well, my lord. [married ; 

Mari. My lord, I do confess I ne'er was 
And I confess, besides, I am no maid : 
I have known my husband ; yet my husband 

knows not 
That ever he knew me. 

Lucio. He was drunk, then, my lord; it can 
be no better. 

Duke. For the benefit of silence, would thou 
wert so too. 

Lucio. Well, my lord. 

Duke. This is no witness for Lord Angelo. 

Mari. Now I come to 't, my lord : 
She that accuses him of fornication, 
In self-same manner doth accuse my husband ; 
And charges him, my lord, with such a time 
When I '11 depose I had him in mine arms, 
With all the effect of love. 

Ang. Charges she more than me ? 

Man. Not that I know. 

Duke. No ? you say, your husband. 

Mari. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, 
Who thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my 

body, 
But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel's. 

Ang. This is a strange abuse. Let 's see thy 
face. [mask. 

Mari. My husband bids me ; now I will un- 

\Unveiling. 

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, [on : 

Which once thou swor'st was worth the looking 
This is the hand which, with a vow'd contract, 
Was fast belock'd in thine : this is the body 
That took away the match from Isabel, 
And did supply thee at thy garden-house 
In her imagin'd person. 

Duke. Know you this woman ? 

Lucio. Carnally, she says. 

Duke. Sirrah, no more. 

Lucio. Enough, my lord. [woman ; 

Ang. My lord, I must confess I know this 
And five years since there was some speech of 

marriage 
Betwixt myself and her ; which was broke off, 



134 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT v. 



Partly for that her promis'd proportions 
Came short of composition ; but in chief 
For that her reputation was disvalued 
In levity : since which time of five years [her, 
I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from 
Upon my faith and honour. 

Mart. Noble prince, 

As there comes light from heaven and words 

from breath, 

As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, 
I am affianc'd this man's wife as strongly 
As words could make up vows : and, my good 
lord, [house, 

But Tuesday night last gone, in his garden- 
He knew me as a wife. As this is true, 
Let me in safety raise me from my knees, 
Or else for ever be confixed here, 
A marble monument ! 

Ang. I did but smile till now : 

Now, good my lord, give me the scope of 

justice j 

My patience here is touch'd. I do perceive 
These poor informal women are no more 
But instruments of some more mightier member 
That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, 
To find this practice out. 

Duke. Ay, with my heart ; 

And punish them unto your height of pleasure. 
Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, 
Compact with her that 's gone, thinkst thou thy 
oaths, [saint, 

Though they would swear down each particular 
Were testimonies against his worth and credit, 
That 's seal'd in approbation ? You, Lord 

Escalus, 

Sit with my cousin ; lend him your kind pains 
To find out this abuse, whence 'tis deriv'd. 
There is another friar that set them on ; r> r , iu a 
Let him be sent for. {he indeed 

F. Peter. Would he were here, my lord ; for 
Hath set the women on this complaint : 
Your provost knows the place where he abides, 
And he may fetch him. 

Duke. Go, do it instantly. [Exit PROVOST. 
And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, 
Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, 
Do with your injuries as seems you best 
In any chastisement. I for awhile [well 

Will leave you : but stir not you till you have 
Determined upon these slanderers. 

Escal. My lord, we '11 do it thoroughly. {Exit 
DUKE. ] Signior Lucio, did notyou say you knew 
that friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person ? 

Litcio. Cucullus non facit monachum: honest 
in nothing but in his clothes ; and one that hath 
spoke most villanous speeches of the duke. 

Escal. We shall entreat you to abide here till 



he come, and enforce them against him: we shall 
find this friar a notable fellow. 

Lucio. As any in Vienna, on my word. 

Escal. Call that same Isabel here once again 
\to an Attendant]; I would speak with her. 
Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question ; 
you shall see how I handle her. 

Lucio. Not better than he, by her own report. 

Escal. Say you ? 

Lucio. Marry, sir, I think if you handled her 
privately she would sooner confess : perchance, 
publicly, she '11 be ashamed. 

Re-enter Officers, with ISABELLA. 

Escal. I will go darkly to work with her. 

Lucio. That ! s the way ; for women are light 
at midnight. 

Escal. Come on, mistress [to ISABELLA] : 
here 's a gentlewoman denies all that you have 
said. 

Re-enter the DUKE, in the Friar's habit y 
and PROVOST. 

Lucio. My lord , here comes the rascal I spoke 
of; here with the provost. 

Escal. In very good time : speak not you to 
him till we call upon you. 

Lucio. Mum. 

EscaL Come, sir : did you set these women 
on to slander Lord Angel o ? they have confessed 
you did. .f )T of v 

Duke. 'Tis false. n.xiV 

EscaL How ! know you where you are ? 

Duke. Respect to your great place ! and let 

the devil 

Be sometime honour'd for his burning throne! 
Where is the duke? 'tis he should hear me speak. 

Escal. The duke's in us ; and we will hear 

you speak : 
Look you speak justly. 

Duke. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, 
Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox, 
Good night to your redress ! Is the duke gone? 
Then is your cause gone too. The duke 's unjust 
Thus to retort your manifest appeal, 
And put your trial in the villain's mouth 
Which here you come to accuse. [of. 

Lucio. This is the rascal ; this is he I spoke 

EscaL Why, thou unreverend and unhallow'd 

friar ! 

Is 't not enough thou hast suborn'd these women 
To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth, 
And in the witness of his proper ear, 
To call him villain ? 

And then to glance from him to the duke him- 
self, 
To tax him with injustice ? Take him hence ; 



SCENE I.] 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



135 



To the rack with him. We'll touze you joint 

by joint, 
But we will know this purpose. What! unjust? 

Duke. Be not so hot ; the duke 
Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he 
Dare rack his own ; his subject am I not. 
Nor here provincial. My business in this state 
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna, 
Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble 
Till it o'errun the stew : laws for all faults, 
But faults socountenanc'dthat the strong statutes 
Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop, 
As much in mock as mark. 

Escal. Slander to the state ! Away with him 
to prison ! 

Ang. What can you vouch against him, Signior 

Lucio ? 
Is this the man that you did tell us of ? 

Lucio. 'Tis he, my lord. Come hither, good- 
man bald-pate. Do you know me ? 

Duke. I remember you, sir, by the sound of 
your voice. I met you at the prison, in the ab- 
sence of the duke. 

Lucio. O did you so ? And do you remember 
what you said of the duke ? 

Duke. Most notedly, sir. 

Lucio. Do you so, sir ? And was the duke a 
fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then 
reported him to be ? 

Duke. You must, sir, change persons with me 
ere you make that my report : you, indeed, spoke 
so of him ; and much more, much worse. 

Lucio. O thou damnable fellow ! Did not I 
pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches ? 

Duke. I protest I love the duke as I love 
myself. 

Ang. Hark how the villain would gloze now, 
after his treasonable abuses ! 

Escal. Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. 
Away with him to prison ! Where is the provost ? 
Away with him to prison ! lay bolts enough 
upon him : let him speak no more. Away with 
those giglots too, and with the other confederate 
companion ! 

[The PROVOST lays hands on the DUKE. 

Duke. Stay, sir ; stay awhile. 

Ang. What ! resists he ? Help him, Lucio. 

Lucio. Come, sir ; come, sir ! come, sir ; foh, 
sir. Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal ! you 
must be hooded, must you ? Show your knave's 
visage, with a pox to you ! show your sheep- 
biting face, and be hanged an hour ! Will 't 
not off? 

[Pulls off the Friar's hood, and discovers 
the DUKE. 

Duke. Thou art the first knave that e'er made 
a duke. 



F'rst, Provost, let me bail these gentle three : 

Sneak not away, sir [to Lucio] ; for the friar and 

you 
Musthave a word anon : Lay hold on him. 

Lucio. This may prove worse than hanging. 

Duke. What you have spoke I pardon ; sit 

you down. [To ESCALUS. 

We '11 borrow place of him. Sir, by your leave : 

[To ANGELO. 

Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence 
That yet can do thee office ? If thou hast, 
Rely upon it till my tale be heard, 
And hold no longer out. 

Ang. O my dread lord, 

I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 
To think I can be undiscernible, 
WTien I perceive your grace, like power divine, 
Hath look'dupon my passes. Then, good prince, 
No longer session hold upon my shame, 
But let my trial be mine own confession : 
Immediate sentence then, and sequent death, 
Is all the grace I beg. 

Duke. Come hither, Mariana : 

Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman ? 

Ang. I was, my lord. 

Duke. Go, take her hence and marry her in- 
stantly. 

Do you the office, friar ; which consummate, 
Return him here again. Go with him, Provost. 
[Exeunt ANG., MARL, PET., and PROV. 

Escal. My lord, I am more amazed at his 

dishonour 
Than at the strangeness of it. 

Duke. Come hither, Isabel : 

Your friar is now your prince. As I was then 
Advertising and holy to your business, 
Not changing heart with habit, I am still 
Attorney'd at your service. 

Isab. O give me pardon, 

That I, your vassal, have employ 'd and pain'd 
Your unknown sovereignty. 

Duke. You are pardon'd, Isabel. 

And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. 
Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart ; 
And you may marvel why I obscur'd myself, 
Labouring to save his life, and would not rather 
Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power 
Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, 
It was the swift celerity of his death, 
Which I did think with slower foot came on. 
That brain'd my purpose. But peace be with 

him! 

That life is better life, past fearing death, 
Than that which lives to fear: make it your 

comfort, 
So happy is your brother. 

Isab. I do, my lord. 



136 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



[ACT v. 



Re-enter ANGELO, MARIANA, PETER, and 
PROVOST. 

Duke. For this new-married man approaching 

here, 

Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd 
Your well-defended honour, you must pardon 
For Mariana's sake: but as he adjudg'd your 

brother, 

Being criminal, in double violation 
Of sacred chastity and of promise -breach 
Thereon dependent, for your brother's life, 
The very mercy of the law cries out 
Most audible, even from his proper tongue, 
An Angela for Claudia, death for death. 
Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure ; 
Like doth quit like, and measure still for measure. 
Then, Angelo, thy fault thus manifested, 
Which though thou wouldst deny, denies thee 

vantage, 

We do condemn thee to the very block 
Where Claudio stoop'd to death, and with like 

haste. 
Away with him. 

Mart. O my most gracious lord, 

I hope you will not mock me with a husband ! 
Duke. It is your husband mock'd you with a 

husband, w } 

Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, 
I thought your marriage fit ; else imputation, 
For that he knew you, might reproach your life, 
And choke your good to come : for his posses- 
sions, 

Although by confiscation they are ours, 
We do instate and widow you withal, 
To buy you a better husband. 

Mart. O my dear lord, 

I crave no other, nor no better man. 

Duke. Never crave him ; we are definitive. 
Mari. Gentle, my liege, [Kneeling. 

Duke. You do but lose your labour. 

Away with him to death. Now, sir \to Lucio], 

to you. [my part ; 

Mari. O my good lord ! Sweet Isabel, take 
Lend me your knees, and all my life to come 
I '11 lend you all my life to do you service. 

Duke. Against all sense you do importune her: 
Should she kneel down, in. mercy of this fact, 
Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break, 
And take her hence in horror. 

Mari. Isabel, 

Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me ; 
Holdup your hands, say nothing, I'll speak all. 
They say, best men are moulded out of faults ; 
And, for the most, become much more the better 
For being a little bad : so may my husband, 
O Isabel, will you not lend a knee ? 



Duke. He dies for Claudio's death. 

Isab. Most bounteous sir, [Kneeling, 

Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd, 
As if my brother liv'd : I partly think 
A due sincerity govern'd his deeds 
Till he did look on me ; since it is so, 
Let him not die. My brother had but justice, 
In that he did the thing for which he died : 
For Angelo, 

His act did not o'ertake his bad intent, 
And must be buried but as an intent [jects ; 
That perish'd by the way : thoughts are no sub- 
Intents but merely thoughts. 

Mari. Merely, my lord. 

Duke. Your suit 's unprofitable ; stand up, I 

say. 

I have bethought of another fault. 
Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded 
At an unusual hour ? 

Prov. It was commanded so. 

Duke. Had you a special warrant for the 
deed ? [message. 

Prov. No, my good lord ; it was by private 

Duke. For which I do discharge you of your 

office : 
Give up your keys. 

Prov. Pardon me, noble lord : 

I thought it was a fault, but knew it not ; 
Yet did repent me, after more advice : 
For testimony whereof, one in the prison, 
That should by private order else have died, 
I have reserved alive. 

Duke. What 'she? 

Prov. His name is Barnardine. 

Duke. I would thou hadst done so by 

Claudio. 
Go fetch him hither ; let me look upon him. 

[Exit PROVOST. 

Escal. I am sorry one so learned and so wise 
As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear'd, 
Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood 
And lack of temper'd judgment afterward. 

Ang. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure : 
And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart 
That I crave death more willingly than mercy ; 
'Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it. 

Re-enter PROVOST, with BARNARDINE, 
CLAUDIO (muffled}, aw/ JULIET. 

Duke. Which is that Barnardine ? 

Prov. This, my lord. 

Duke. There was a friar told me of this 

man : 

Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul, 
That apprehends no further than this world, 
And squar'st thy life according. Thou 'rt con- 
demn'd ; 



SCENE I.J 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



137 



But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, 
And pray thee take this mercy to provide 

For better times to come : Friar, advise him ; 

I leave him to your hand. What muffled 
fellow 's that ? 

Prov. This is another prisoner that I sav'd, 
Who should have died when Claudio lost his 

head; 
As like almost to Claudio as himself. 

[ Unmuffles CLAUDIO. 

Duke. If he be like your brother, \to 

ISABELLA], for his sake 
Is he pardon'd ; and, for your lovely sake, 
Give me your hand, and say you will be mine; 
He is my brother too : but fitter time for that. 
By this Lord Angelo perceives he ''s safe ; 
Methinks I see a quick'ning in his eye. 
Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well : 
Look that you love your wife ; her worth worth 

yours. 

I find an apt remission in myself; 
And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon. 
You, sirrah \io Lucio], that knew me for a 

fool, a coward, 

One all of luxury, an ass, a madman ; 
Wherein have I so deserved of you 
That you extol me thus ? 

Lucio. 'Faith, my lord, I spoke it but 
according to the trick. If you will hang me 
for it, you may; but I had rather it would 
please you I might be whipped. 

Duke. Whipp'd first, sir, and hang'd after. 
Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city, 
If any woman 's wrong'd by this lewd fellow, 
As I have heard him swear himself there 's one 



Whom he begot with child, let her appear, 
And he shall marry her : the nuptial finish'd, 
Let him be whipp'd and hang'd. 

Lucio. I beseech your highness, do not 

marry me to a whore ! Your highness said 

even now I made you a duke ; good my lord, 

do not recompense me in making me a cuckold. 

Duke. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry 

her. 

Thy slanders I forgive ; and therewithal 
Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison; 
And see our pleasure herein executed. 

Lucio. Marrying a punk, my lord, is press- 
ing to death, whipping, and hanging. 

Duke. Slandering a prince deserves it. 

[Exeunt Officers with LUCIO. 
She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you re- 
store. 

Joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo ; 
I have confess'd her, and I know her virtue. 
Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much 

goodness 

There 's more behind that is more gratulate. 
Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy ; 
We shall employ thee in a worthier place. 
Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home 
The head of Ragozine for Claudio's : 
The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, 
I have a motion much imports your good ; 
Whereto if you '11 a willing ear incline, 
What's mine is yours, and what is yours is 

mine : 

So, bring us to our palace ; where we '11 show 

What 's yet behind that 's meet you all should 

know. \Exeunt. 









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