part I understand them, are to blame.

GLOUCESTER. Let’s see, let’s see! EDMUND. I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay, or taste of my virtue. GLOUCESTER. [_Reads._] ‘This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother EDGAR.’ Hum! Conspiracy? ‘Sleep till I wake him, you should enjoy half his revenue.’—My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? A heart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who brought it? EDMUND. It was not brought me, my lord, there’s the cunning of it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet. GLOUCESTER. You know the character to be your brother’s? EDMUND. If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not. GLOUCESTER. It is his. EDMUND. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents. GLOUCESTER. Has he never before sounded you in this business? EDMUND. Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declined, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue. GLOUCESTER. O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him; I’ll apprehend him. Abominable villain, Where is he? EDMUND. I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger. GLOUCESTER. Think you so? EDMUND. If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction, and that without any further delay than this very evening. GLOUCESTER. He cannot be such a monster. EDMUND. Nor is not, sure. GLOUCESTER. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution. EDMUND. I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal. GLOUCESTER. These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: though the wisdom of Nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ’twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there’s son against father: the King falls from bias of nature; there’s father against child. We have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully.—And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished! his offence, honesty! ’Tis strange. [_Exit._] EDMUND. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star. My father compounded with my mother under the dragon’s tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. Fut! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. Enter Edgar. Pat! he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’Bedlam.—O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi. EDGAR. How now, brother Edmund, what serious contemplation are you in? EDMUND. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses. EDGAR. Do you busy yourself with that? EDMUND. I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against King and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what. EDGAR. How long have you been a sectary astronomical? EDMUND. Come, come! when saw you my father last? EDGAR. The night gone by. EDMUND. Spake you with him? EDGAR. Ay, two hours together. EDMUND. Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him, by word nor countenance? EDGAR. None at all. EDMUND. Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him: and at my entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay. EDGAR. Some villain hath done me wrong. EDMUND. That’s my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak: pray ye, go; there’s my key. If you do stir abroad, go armed. EDGAR. Armed, brother? EDMUND. Brother, I advise you to the best; I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you: I have told you what I have seen and heard. But faintly; nothing like the image and horror of it: pray you, away! EDGAR. Shall I hear from you anon? EDMUND. I do serve you in this business. [_Exit Edgar._] A credulous father! and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practices ride easy! I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit; All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace Enter Goneril and Oswald. GONERIL. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool? OSWALD. Ay, madam. GONERIL. By day and night, he wrongs me; every hour He flashes into one gross crime or other, That sets us all at odds; I’ll not endure it: His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, I will not speak with him; say I am sick. If you come slack of former services, You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer. [_Horns within._] OSWALD. He’s coming, madam; I hear him. GONERIL. Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question: If he distaste it, let him to our sister, Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, Not to be overruled. Idle old man, That still would manage those authorities That he hath given away! Now, by my life, Old fools are babes again; and must be us’d With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus’d. Remember what I have said. OSWALD. Very well, madam. GONERIL. And let his knights have colder looks among you; What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so; I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall, That I may speak. I’ll write straight to my sister To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace Enter Kent, disguised. KENT. If but as well I other accents borrow, That can my speech defuse, my good intent May carry through itself to that full issue For which I rais’d my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent, If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d, So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st, Shall find thee full of labours. Horns within. Enter King Lear, Knights and Attendants. LEAR. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready. [_Exit an Attendant._] How now! what art thou? KENT. A man, sir. LEAR. What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us? KENT. I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise and says little; to fear judgement; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish. LEAR. What art thou? KENT. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King. LEAR. If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou? KENT. Service. LEAR. Who wouldst thou serve? KENT. You. LEAR. Dost thou know me, fellow? KENT. No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master. LEAR. What’s that? KENT. Authority. LEAR. What services canst thou do? KENT. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me is diligence. LEAR. How old art thou? KENT. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing; nor so old to dote on her for anything: I have years on my back forty-eight. LEAR. Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where’s my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither. [_Exit an Attendant._] Enter Oswald. You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter? OSWALD. So please you,— [_Exit._] LEAR. What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back. [_Exit a Knight._] Where’s my fool? Ho, I think the world’s asleep. Re-enter Knight. How now! where’s that mongrel? KNIGHT. He says, my lord, your daughter is not well. LEAR. Why came not the slave back to me when I called him? KNIGHT. Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not. LEAR. He would not? KNIGHT. My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgement your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the Duke himself also, and your daughter. LEAR. Ha! say’st thou so? KNIGHT. I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged. LEAR. Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into’t. But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this two days. KNIGHT. Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away. LEAR. No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her. [_Exit Attendant._] Go you, call hither my fool. [_Exit another Attendant._] Re-enter Oswald. O, you, sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir? OSWALD. My lady’s father. LEAR. My lady’s father! my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you cur! OSWALD. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon. LEAR. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal? [_Striking him._] OSWALD. I’ll not be struck, my lord. KENT. Nor tripp’d neither, you base football player. [_Tripping up his heels._] LEAR. I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv’st me, and I’ll love thee. KENT. Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences: away, away! If you will measure your lubber’s length again, tarry; but away! go to; have you wisdom? So. [_Pushes Oswald out._] LEAR. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service. [_Giving Kent money._] Enter Fool. FOOL. Let me hire him too; here’s my coxcomb. [_Giving Kent his cap._] LEAR. How now, my pretty knave, how dost thou? FOOL. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb. KENT. Why, fool? FOOL. Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of favour. Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly: there, take my coxcomb: why, this fellow has banish’d two on’s daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will; if thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. How now, nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters! LEAR. Why, my boy? FOOL. If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself. There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters. LEAR. Take heed, sirrah, the whip. FOOL. Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when the Lady Brach may stand by the fire and stink. LEAR. A pestilent gall to me! FOOL. Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech. LEAR. Do. FOOL. Mark it, nuncle: Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score. KENT. This is nothing, fool. FOOL. Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer, you gave me nothing for’t. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle? LEAR. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing. FOOL. [_to Kent._] Prithee tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool. LEAR. A bitter fool. FOOL. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one? LEAR. No, lad; teach me. FOOL. That lord that counsell’d thee To give away thy land, Come place him here by me, Do thou for him stand. The sweet and bitter fool Will presently appear; The one in motley here, The other found out there. LEAR. Dost thou call me fool, boy? FOOL. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with. KENT. This is not altogether fool, my lord. FOOL. No, faith; lords and great men will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part on’t and ladies too, they will not let me have all the fool to myself; they’ll be snatching. Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns. LEAR. What two crowns shall they be? FOOL. Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav’st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. [_Singing._] Fools had ne’er less grace in a year; For wise men are grown foppish, And know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish. LEAR. When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah? FOOL. I have used it, nuncle, e’er since thou mad’st thy daughters thy mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches, [_Singing._] Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep, And go the fools among. Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie; I would fain learn to lie. LEAR. An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped. FOOL. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’thing than a fool: and yet I would not be thee, nuncle: thou hast pared thy wit o’both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings. Enter Goneril. LEAR. How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown. FOOL. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure: I am better than thou art now. I am a fool, thou art nothing. [_To Goneril._] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum, He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some. [_Pointing to Lear_.] That’s a shealed peascod. GONERIL. Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool, But other of your insolent retinue Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought, by making this well known unto you, To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful, By what yourself too late have spoke and done, That you protect this course, and put it on By your allowance; which if you should, the fault Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, Might in their working do you that offence Which else were shame, that then necessity Will call discreet proceeding. FOOL. For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it’s had it head bit off by it young. So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. LEAR. Are you our daughter? GONERIL. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom, Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away These dispositions, which of late transform you From what you rightly are. FOOL. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee! LEAR. Doth any here know me? This is not Lear; Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied. Ha! waking? ’Tis not so! Who is it that can tell me who I am? FOOL. Lear’s shadow. LEAR. I would learn that; for by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters. FOOL. Which they will make an obedient father. LEAR. Your name, fair gentlewoman? GONERIL. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright: As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Makes it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak For instant remedy. Be, then, desir’d By her that else will take the thing she begs A little to disquantity your train; And the remainder that shall still depend, To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and you. LEAR. Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses; call my train together. Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee: Yet have I left a daughter. GONERIL. You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble Make servants of their betters. Enter Albany. LEAR. Woe that too late repents!— [_To Albany._] O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea-monster! ALBANY. Pray, sir, be patient. LEAR. [_to Goneril._] Detested kite, thou liest. My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know; And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name. O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all love, And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! [_Striking his head._] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in And thy dear judgement out! Go, go, my people. ALBANY. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath moved you. LEAR. It may be so, my lord. Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful! Into her womb convey sterility! Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits To laughter and contempt; that she may feel How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away! [_Exit._] ALBANY. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this? GONERIL. Never afflict yourself to know more of it; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it. Re-enter Lear. LEAR. What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight? ALBANY. What’s the matter, sir? LEAR. I’ll tell thee. [_To Goneril._] Life and death! I am asham’d That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th’untented woundings of a father’s curse Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out, And cast you with the waters that you lose To temper clay. Ha! Let it be so. I have another daughter, Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable: When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I’ll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever. [_Exeunt Lear, Kent and Attendants._] GONERIL. Do you mark that? ALBANY. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you,— GONERIL. Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! [_To the Fool._] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master. FOOL. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter; So the fool follows after. [_Exit._] GONERIL. This man hath had good counsel.—A hundred knights! ’Tis politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights: yes, that on every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard his dotage with their powers, And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say! ALBANY. Well, you may fear too far. GONERIL. Safer than trust too far: Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart. What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister: If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show’d th’unfitness,— Re-enter Oswald. How now, Oswald! What, have you writ that letter to my sister? OSWALD. Ay, madam. GONERIL. Take you some company, and away to horse: Inform her full of my particular fear; And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone; And hasten your return. [_Exit Oswald._] No, no, my lord! This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom Than prais’d for harmful mildness. ALBANY. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well. GONERIL. Nay then,— ALBANY. Well, well; the event. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace Enter Lear, Kent and Fool. LEAR. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters: acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you. KENT. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter. [_Exit._] FOOL. If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes? LEAR. Ay, boy. FOOL. Then I prithee be merry; thy wit shall not go slipshod. LEAR. Ha, ha, ha! FOOL. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly, for though she’s as like this as a crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell. LEAR. What canst tell, boy? FOOL. She’ll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’the middle on’s face? LEAR. No. FOOL. Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into. LEAR. I did her wrong. FOOL. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell? LEAR. No. FOOL. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house. LEAR. Why? FOOL. Why, to put’s head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case. LEAR. I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready? FOOL. Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason. LEAR. Because they are not eight? FOOL. Yes indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool. LEAR. To tak’t again perforce!—Monster ingratitude! FOOL. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’d have thee beaten for being old before thy time. LEAR. How’s that? FOOL. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise. LEAR. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad! Enter Gentleman. How now? are the horses ready? GENTLEMAN. Ready, my lord. LEAR. Come, boy. FOOL. She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting. EDMUND. Save thee, Curan. CURAN. And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be here with him this night. EDMUND. How comes that? CURAN. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments? EDMUND. Not I: pray you, what are they? CURAN. Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the two dukes of Cornwall and Albany? EDMUND. Not a word. CURAN. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir. [_Exit._] EDMUND. The Duke be here tonight? The better! best! This weaves itself perforce into my business. My father hath set guard to take my brother; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must act. Briefness and fortune work! Brother, a word, descend, brother, I say! Enter Edgar. My father watches: O sir, fly this place; Intelligence is given where you are hid; You have now the good advantage of the night. Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall? He’s coming hither; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste, And Regan with him: have you nothing said Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself. EDGAR. I am sure on’t, not a word. EDMUND. I hear my father coming:—pardon me; In cunning I must draw my sword upon you: Draw: seem to defend yourself: now quit you well. Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here! Fly, brother. Torches, torches!—So farewell. [_Exit Edgar._] Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavour: [_Wounds his arm._] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. Father, father! Stop, stop! No help? Enter Gloucester and Servants with torches. GLOUCESTER. Now, Edmund, where’s the villain? EDMUND. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand auspicious mistress. GLOUCESTER. But where is he? EDMUND. Look, sir, I bleed. GLOUCESTER. Where is the villain, Edmund? EDMUND. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,— GLOUCESTER. Pursue him, ho! Go after. [_Exeunt Servants._] —By no means what? EDMUND. Persuade me to the murder of your lordship; But that I told him the revenging gods ’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion With his prepared sword, he charges home My unprovided body, latch’d mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits, Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to th’encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled. GLOUCESTER. Let him fly far; Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found—dispatch’d. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes tonight: By his authority I will proclaim it, That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous coward to the stake; He that conceals him, death. EDMUND. When I dissuaded him from his intent, And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten’d to discover him: he replied, ‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think, If I would stand against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce My very character, I’d turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice: And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make thee seek it. GLOUCESTER. O strange and fast’ned villain! Would he deny his letter, said he? I never got him. [_Tucket within._] Hark, the Duke’s trumpets! I know not why he comes. All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not scape; The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May have due note of him; and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means To make thee capable. Enter Cornwall, Regan and Attendants. CORNWALL. How now, my noble friend! since I came hither, Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news. REGAN. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th’offender. How dost, my lord? GLOUCESTER. O madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d! REGAN. What, did my father’s godson seek your life? He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar? GLOUCESTER. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid! REGAN. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father? GLOUCESTER. I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad. EDMUND. Yes, madam, he was of that consort. REGAN. No marvel then though he were ill affected: ’Tis they have put him on the old man’s death, To have the expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform’d of them; and with such cautions That if they come to sojourn at my house, I’ll not be there. CORNWALL. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office. EDMUND. It was my duty, sir. GLOUCESTER. He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. CORNWALL. Is he pursued? GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord. CORNWALL. If he be taken, he shall never more Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose, How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much commend itself, you shall be ours: Natures of such deep trust we shall much need; You we first seize on. EDMUND. I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else. GLOUCESTER. For him I thank your grace. CORNWALL. You know not why we came to visit you? REGAN. Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night: Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, Wherein we must have use of your advice. Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answer from our home; the several messengers From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use. GLOUCESTER. I serve you, madam: Your graces are right welcome. [_Exeunt. Flourish._] SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle Enter Kent and Oswald, severally. OSWALD. Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house? KENT. Ay. OSWALD. Where may we set our horses? KENT. I’ the mire. OSWALD. Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me. KENT. I love thee not. OSWALD. Why then, I care not for thee. KENT. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me. OSWALD. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not. KENT. Fellow, I know thee. OSWALD. What dost thou know me for? KENT. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue; one trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition. OSWALD. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that’s neither known of thee nor knows thee? KENT. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw! [_Drawing his sword._] OSWALD. Away! I have nothing to do with thee. KENT. Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the King; and take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks:—draw, you rascal; come your ways! OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! help! KENT. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike! [_Beating him._] OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! murder! Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants. EDMUND. How now! What’s the matter? Part! KENT. With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master. GLOUCESTER. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here? CORNWALL. Keep peace, upon your lives, he dies that strikes again. What is the matter? REGAN. The messengers from our sister and the King. CORNWALL. What is your difference? Speak. OSWALD. I am scarce in breath, my lord. KENT. No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee. CORNWALL. Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man? KENT. Ay, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two years at the trade. CORNWALL. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel? OSWALD. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his grey beard,— KENT. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you’ll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail? CORNWALL. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence? KENT. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege. CORNWALL. Why art thou angry? KENT. That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain Which are too intrince t’unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel; Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing naught, like dogs, but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot. CORNWALL. What, art thou mad, old fellow? GLOUCESTER. How fell you out? Say that. KENT. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave. CORNWALL. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault? KENT. His countenance likes me not. CORNWALL. No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers. KENT. Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain: I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant. CORNWALL. This is some fellow Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely. KENT. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th’allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus’ front,— CORNWALL. What mean’st by this? KENT. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t. CORNWALL. What was the offence you gave him? OSWALD. I never gave him any: It pleas’d the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d And put upon him such a deal of man, That worthied him, got praises of the King For him attempting who was self-subdu’d; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again. KENT. None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool. CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We’ll teach you. KENT. Sir, I am too old to learn: Call not your stocks for me: I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you: You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger. CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon. REGAN. Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too! KENT. Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, You should not use me so. REGAN. Sir, being his knave, I will. [_Stocks brought out._] CORNWALL. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks! GLOUCESTER. Let me beseech your grace not to do so: His fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches For pilferings and most common trespasses, Are punish’d with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained. CORNWALL. I’ll answer that. REGAN. My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs. [_Kent is put in the stocks._] CORNWALL. Come, my good lord, away. [_Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent._] GLOUCESTER. I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the Duke’s pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee. KENT. Pray do not, sir: I have watch’d, and travell’d hard; Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle. A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: Give you good morrow! GLOUCESTER. The Duke’s to blame in this: ’twill be ill taken. [_Exit._] KENT. Good King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st To the warm sun. Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But misery. I know ’tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform’d Of my obscured course. And shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night: smile once more, turn thy wheel! [_He sleeps._] SCENE III. The open Country Enter Edgar. EDGAR. I heard myself proclaim’d, And by the happy hollow of a tree Escap’d the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual vigilance Does not attend my taking. While I may scape I will preserve myself: and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury in contempt of man, Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth, Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots, And with presented nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom, That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle; Kent in the stocks Enter Lear, Fool and Gentleman. LEAR. ’Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger. GENTLEMAN. As I learn’d, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove. KENT. Hail to thee, noble master! LEAR. Ha! Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime? KENT. No, my lord. FOOL. Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is overlusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks. LEAR. What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here? KENT. It is both he and she, Your son and daughter. LEAR. No. KENT. Yes. LEAR. No, I say. KENT. I say, yea. LEAR. No, no; they would not. KENT. Yes, they have. LEAR. By Jupiter, I swear no. KENT. By Juno, I swear ay. LEAR. They durst not do’t. They could not, would not do’t; ’tis worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage: Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us. KENT. My lord, when at their home I did commend your highness’ letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that show’d My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on those contents, They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse; Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks: And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv’d had poison’d mine, Being the very fellow which of late Display’d so saucily against your highness, Having more man than wit about me, drew; He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass worth The shame which here it suffers. FOOL. Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind, But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year. LEAR. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! _Hysterica passio_, down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element’s below! Where is this daughter? KENT. With the earl, sir, here within. LEAR. Follow me not; stay here. [_Exit._] GENTLEMAN. Made you no more offence but what you speak of? KENT. None. How chance the King comes with so small a number? FOOL. An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it. KENT. Why, fool? FOOL. We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly: The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave perdy. KENT. Where learn’d you this, fool? FOOL. Not i’ the stocks, fool. Enter Lear and Gloucester. LEAR. Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches; The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer. GLOUCESTER. My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke; How unremovable and fix’d he is In his own course. LEAR. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so. LEAR. Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man? GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord. LEAR. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands, tends, service, Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that— No, but not yet: maybe he is not well: Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound: we are not ourselves When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind To suffer with the body: I’ll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indispos’d and sickly fit For the sound man. [_Looking on Kent._] Death on my state! Wherefore Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the Duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the Duke and’s wife I’d speak with them, Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber door I’ll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death. GLOUCESTER. I would have all well betwixt you. [_Exit._] LEAR. O me, my heart, my rising heart! But down! FOOL. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick and cried ‘Down, wantons, down!’ ’Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse buttered his hay. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants. LEAR. Good morrow to you both. CORNWALL. Hail to your grace! [_Kent here set at liberty._] REGAN. I am glad to see your highness. LEAR. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. [_To Kent_] O, are you free? Some other time for that.—Beloved Regan, Thy sister’s naught: O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here. [_Points to his heart._] I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan! REGAN. I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty. LEAR. Say, how is that? REGAN. I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrain’d the riots of your followers, ’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame. LEAR. My curses on her. REGAN. O, sir, you are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led By some discretion, that discerns your state Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you, That to our sister you do make return; Say you have wrong’d her, sir. LEAR. Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house? ‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; [_Kneeling._] Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’ REGAN. Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks: Return you to my sister. LEAR. [_Rising._] Never, Regan: She hath abated me of half my train; Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness! CORNWALL. Fie, sir, fie! LEAR. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride! REGAN. O the blest gods! So will you wish on me when the rash mood is on. LEAR. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse. Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o’er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort, and not burn. ’Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in. Thou better know’st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow’d. REGAN. Good sir, to the purpose. LEAR. Who put my man i’ the stocks? [_Tucket within._] CORNWALL. What trumpet’s that? REGAN. I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her letter, That she would soon be here. Enter Oswald. Is your lady come? LEAR. This is a slave, whose easy borrowed pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight! CORNWALL. What means your grace? LEAR. Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on’t. Who comes here? O heavens! Enter Goneril. If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause; send down, and take my part! [_To Goneril._] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard? O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand? GONERIL. Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended? All’s not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so. LEAR. O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks? CORNWALL. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders Deserv’d much less advancement. LEAR. You? Did you? REGAN. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me: I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment. LEAR. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss’d? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o’ the air; To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom. [_Pointing to Oswald._] GONERIL. At your choice, sir. LEAR. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad: I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell: We’ll no more meet, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague sore, or embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee; Let shame come when it will, I do not call it: I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove: Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights. REGAN. Not altogether so, I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; For those that mingle reason with your passion Must be content to think you old, and so— But she knows what she does. LEAR. Is this well spoken? REGAN. I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak ’gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? ’Tis hard; almost impossible. GONERIL. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine? REGAN. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack ye, We could control them. If you will come to me,— For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you To bring but five-and-twenty: to no more Will I give place or notice. LEAR. I gave you all,— REGAN. And in good time you gave it. LEAR. Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan, said you so? REGAN. And speak’t again my lord; no more with me. LEAR. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [_To Goneril._] I’ll go with thee: Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love. GONERIL. Hear me, my lord: What need you five-and-twenty? Ten? Or five? To follow in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you? REGAN. What need one? LEAR. O, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,— You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women’s weapons, water-drops, Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall,—I will do such things,— What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep; No, I’ll not weep:— [_Storm and tempest._] I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I’ll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad! [_Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent and Fool._] CORNWALL. Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm. REGAN. This house is little: the old man and his people Cannot be well bestow’d. GONERIL. ’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly. REGAN. For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly, But not one follower. GONERIL. So am I purpos’d. Where is my lord of Gloucester? Enter Gloucester. CORNWALL. Followed the old man forth, he is return’d. GLOUCESTER. The King is in high rage. CORNWALL. Whither is he going? GLOUCESTER. He calls to horse; but will I know not whither. CORNWALL. ’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself. GONERIL. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. GLOUCESTER. Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There’s scarce a bush. REGAN. O, sir, to wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear. CORNWALL. Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. A Heath A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, severally. KENT. Who’s there, besides foul weather? GENTLEMAN. One minded like the weather, most unquietly. KENT. I know you. Where’s the King? GENTLEMAN. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all. KENT. But who is with him? GENTLEMAN. None but the fool, who labours to out-jest His heart-struck injuries. KENT. Sir, I do know you; And dare, upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, Although as yet the face of it be cover’d With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have, as who have not, that their great stars Throne’d and set high; servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes; Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King; or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings;— But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports, and are at point To show their open banner.—Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; And from some knowledge and assurance Offer this office to you. GENTLEMAN. I will talk further with you. KENT. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, As fear not but you shall, show her this ring; And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the King. GENTLEMAN. Give me your hand: have you no more to say? KENT. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King, in which your pain That way, I’ll this; he that first lights on him Holla the other. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another part of the heath Storm continues. Enter Lear and Fool. LEAR. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man! FOOL. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools. LEAR. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul! FOOL. He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. LEAR. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing. Enter Kent. KENT. Who’s there? FOOL. Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool. KENT. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry Th’affliction, nor the fear. LEAR. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning. KENT. Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in,—return, and force Their scanted courtesy. LEAR. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That’s sorry yet for thee. FOOL. [_Singing._] He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day. LEAR. True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. [_Exeunt Lear and Kent._] FOOL. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors’ tutors; No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors; When every case in law is right; No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues; Nor cut-purses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i’ the field; And bawds and whores do churches build, Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion: Then comes the time, who lives to see’t, That going shall be us’d with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Gloucester and Edmund. GLOUCESTER. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him. EDMUND. Most savage and unnatural! GLOUCESTER. Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes, and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked the letter in my closet: these injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed: we must incline to the King. I will look him, and privily relieve him: go you and maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceived: if he ask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you be careful. [_Exit._] EDMUND. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know; and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses, no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel Storm continues. Enter Lear, Kent and Fool. KENT. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter: The tyranny of the open night’s too rough For nature to endure. LEAR. Let me alone. KENT. Good my lord, enter here. LEAR. Wilt break my heart? KENT. I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter. LEAR. Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fix’d, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, Thou’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the mind’s free, The body’s delicate: the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to’t? But I will punish home; No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure: In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all, O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that. KENT. Good my lord, enter here. LEAR. Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease: This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in. [_To the Fool._] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty, Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep. [_Fool goes in._] Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just. EDGAR. [_Within._] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! [_The Fool runs out from the hovel._] FOOL. Come not in here, nuncle, here’s a spirit. Help me, help me! KENT. Give me thy hand. Who’s there? FOOL. A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor Tom. KENT. What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the straw? Come forth. Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman. EDGAR. Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. LEAR. Didst thou give all to thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? EDGAR. Who gives anything to poor Tom? Whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. O, do, de, do, de, do, de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there,—and there again, and there. [_Storm continues._] LEAR. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass? Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give ’em all? FOOL. Nay, he reserv’d a blanket, else we had been all shamed. LEAR. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters! KENT. He hath no daughters, sir. LEAR. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu’d nature To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious punishment! ’twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters. EDGAR. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, Alow, alow, loo loo! FOOL. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen. EDGAR. Take heed o’ th’ foul fiend: obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet-heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold. LEAR. What hast thou been? EDGAR. A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of my mistress’ heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven. One that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it. Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour’d the Turk. False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender’s book, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: says suum, mun, nonny. Dolphin my boy, boy, sessa! let him trot by. [_Storm still continues._] LEAR. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here’s three on’s are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here. [_Tears off his clothes._] FOOL. Prithee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher’s heart, a small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire. EDGAR. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. Swithold footed thrice the old; He met the nightmare, and her nine-fold; Bid her alight and her troth plight, And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee! KENT. How fares your grace? Enter Gloucester with a torch. LEAR. What’s he? KENT. Who’s there? What is’t you seek? GLOUCESTER. What are you there? Your names? EDGAR. Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the todpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, Horse to ride, and weapon to wear. But mice and rats and such small deer, Have been Tom’s food for seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou fiend! GLOUCESTER. What, hath your grace no better company? EDGAR. The prince of darkness is a gentleman: Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu. GLOUCESTER. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile That it doth hate what gets it. EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold. GLOUCESTER. Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer T’obey in all your daughters’ hard commands; Though their injunction be to bar my doors, And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out, And bring you where both fire and food is ready. LEAR. First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder? KENT. Good my lord, take his offer; go into the house. LEAR. I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study? EDGAR. How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin. LEAR. Let me ask you one word in private. KENT. Importune him once more to go, my lord; His wits begin t’unsettle. GLOUCESTER. Canst thou blame him? His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man! Thou sayest the King grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life But lately, very late: I lov’d him, friend, No father his son dearer: true to tell thee, [_Storm continues._] The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this! I do beseech your grace. LEAR. O, cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company. EDGAR. Tom’s a-cold. GLOUCESTER. In, fellow, there, into the hovel; keep thee warm. LEAR. Come, let’s in all. KENT. This way, my lord. LEAR. With him; I will keep still with my philosopher. KENT. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow. GLOUCESTER. Take him you on. KENT. Sirrah, come on; go along with us. LEAR. Come, good Athenian. GLOUCESTER. No words, no words, hush. EDGAR. Child Rowland to the dark tower came, His word was still—Fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Cornwall and Edmund. CORNWALL. I will have my revenge ere I depart his house. EDMUND. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of. CORNWALL. I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself. EDMUND. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not; or not I the detector! CORNWALL. Go with me to the Duchess. EDMUND. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand. CORNWALL. True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension. EDMUND. [_Aside._] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood. CORNWALL. I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool and Edgar. GLOUCESTER. Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long from you. KENT. All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience:— the gods reward your kindness! [_Exit Gloucester._] EDGAR. Frateretto calls me; and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend. FOOL. Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman. LEAR. A king, a king! FOOL. No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him. LEAR. To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hissing in upon ’em. EDGAR. The foul fiend bites my back. FOOL. He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath. LEAR. It shall be done; I will arraign them straight. [_To Edgar._] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer; [_To the Fool._] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes!— EDGAR. Look, where he stands and glares! Want’st thou eyes at trial, madam? Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me. FOOL. Her boat hath a leak, And she must not speak Why she dares not come over to thee. EDGAR. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hoppedance cries in Tom’s belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee. KENT. How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d; Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions? LEAR. I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. [_To Edgar._] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place. [_To the Fool._] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his side. [_To Kent._] You are o’ the commission, Sit you too. EDGAR. Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth Thy sheep shall take no harm. Purr! the cat is grey. LEAR. Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father. FOOL. Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril? LEAR. She cannot deny it. FOOL. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool. LEAR. And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape? EDGAR. Bless thy five wits! KENT. O pity! Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft have boasted to retain? EDGAR. [_Aside._] My tears begin to take his part so much They mar my counterfeiting. LEAR. The little dogs and all, Trey, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me. EDGAR. Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs! Be thy mouth or black or white, Tooth that poisons if it bite; Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or him, Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail, Tom will make them weep and wail; For, with throwing thus my head, Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. Do, de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry. LEAR. Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [_To Edgar._] You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You’ll say they are Persian; but let them be changed. KENT. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. LEAR. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains. So, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning. FOOL. And I’ll go to bed at noon. Enter Gloucester. GLOUCESTER. Come hither, friend; Where is the King my master? KENT. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone. GLOUCESTER. Good friend, I prithee, take him in thy arms; I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him; There is a litter ready; lay him in’t And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master; If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up; And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct. KENT. Oppressed nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. Come, help to bear thy master; [_To the Fool._] Thou must not stay behind. GLOUCESTER. Come, come, away! [_Exeunt Kent, Gloucester and the Fool bearing off Lear._] EDGAR. When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind: But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes the King bow; He childed as I fathered! Tom, away! Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray, When false opinion, whose wrong thoughts defile thee, In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King! Lurk, lurk. [_Exit._] SCENE VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund and Servants. CORNWALL. Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester. [_Exeunt some of the Servants._] REGAN. Hang him instantly. GONERIL. Pluck out his eyes. CORNWALL. Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company: the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister, farewell, my lord of Gloucester. Enter Oswald. How now! Where’s the King? OSWALD. My lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence: Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants, Are gone with him toward Dover: where they boast To have well-armed friends. CORNWALL. Get horses for your mistress. GONERIL. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. CORNWALL. Edmund, farewell. [_Exeunt Goneril, Edmund and Oswald._] Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. [_Exeunt other Servants._] Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Who’s there? The traitor? Enter Gloucester and Servants. REGAN. Ingrateful fox! ’tis he. CORNWALL. Bind fast his corky arms. GLOUCESTER. What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider you are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends. CORNWALL. Bind him, I say. [_Servants bind him._] REGAN. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor! GLOUCESTER. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none. CORNWALL. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find— [_Regan plucks his beard._] GLOUCESTER. By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard. REGAN. So white, and such a traitor! GLOUCESTER. Naughty lady, These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host: With robber’s hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do? CORNWALL. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France? REGAN. Be simple answer’d, for we know the truth. CORNWALL. And what confederacy have you with the traitors, Late footed in the kingdom? REGAN. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak. GLOUCESTER. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos’d. CORNWALL. Cunning. REGAN. And false. CORNWALL. Where hast thou sent the King? GLOUCESTER. To Dover. REGAN. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril,— CORNWALL. Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that. GLOUCESTER. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course. REGAN. Wherefore to Dover, sir? GLOUCESTER. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up, And quench’d the stelled fires; Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the key.’ All cruels else subscrib’d: but I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children. CORNWALL. See’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot. [_Gloucester is held down in his chair, while Cornwall plucks out one of his eyes and sets his foot on it._] GLOUCESTER. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help!—O cruel! O you gods! REGAN. One side will mock another; the other too! CORNWALL. If you see vengeance— FIRST SERVANT. Hold your hand, my lord: I have serv’d you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold. REGAN. How now, you dog! FIRST SERVANT. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean? CORNWALL. My villain? [_Draws, and runs at him._] FIRST SERVANT. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger. [_Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded._] REGAN. [_To another servant._] Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus? [_Snatches a sword, comes behind, and stabs him._] FIRST SERVANT. O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O! [_Dies._] CORNWALL. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now? [_Tears out Gloucester’s other eye and throws it on the ground._] GLOUCESTER. All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act. REGAN. Out, treacherous villain! Thou call’st on him that hates thee: it was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee. GLOUCESTER. O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him! REGAN. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. How is’t, my lord? How look you? CORNWALL. I have receiv’d a hurt: follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace: Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm. [_Exit Cornwall, led by Regan; Servants unbind Gloucester and lead him out._] SECOND SERVANT. I’ll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good. THIRD SERVANT. If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters. SECOND SERVANT. Let’s follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would: his roguish madness Allows itself to anything. THIRD SERVANT. Go thou: I’ll fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him! [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. The heath Enter Edgar. EDGAR. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d, Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace; The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts. Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man. But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age. OLD MAN. O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant these fourscore years. GLOUCESTER. Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt. OLD MAN. You cannot see your way. GLOUCESTER. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father’s wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again! OLD MAN. How now! Who’s there? EDGAR. [_Aside._] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’? I am worse than e’er I was. OLD MAN. ’Tis poor mad Tom. EDGAR. [_Aside._] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’ OLD MAN. Fellow, where goest? GLOUCESTER. Is it a beggar-man? OLD MAN. Madman, and beggar too. GLOUCESTER. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw; Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport. EDGAR. [_Aside._] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master! GLOUCESTER. Is that the naked fellow? OLD MAN. Ay, my lord. GLOUCESTER. Then prithee get thee away. If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain, I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked soul, Which I’ll entreat to lead me. OLD MAN. Alack, sir, he is mad. GLOUCESTER. ’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure; Above the rest, be gone. OLD MAN. I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, Come on’t what will. [_Exit._] GLOUCESTER. Sirrah naked fellow. EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold. [_Aside._] I cannot daub it further. GLOUCESTER. Come hither, fellow. EDGAR. [_Aside._] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. GLOUCESTER. Know’st thou the way to Dover? EDGAR. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master! GLOUCESTER. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier. Heavens deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover? EDGAR. Ay, master. GLOUCESTER. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep: Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me: from that place I shall no leading need. EDGAR. Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace Enter Goneril, Edmund; Oswald meeting them. GONERIL. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Now, where’s your master? OSWALD. Madam, within; but never man so chang’d. I told him of the army that was landed; He smil’d at it: I told him you were coming; His answer was, ‘The worse.’ Of Gloucester’s treachery And of the loyal service of his son When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out. What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him; What like, offensive. GONERIL. [_To Edmund._] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake. He’ll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother; Hasten his musters and conduct his powers. I must change names at home, and give the distaff Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress’s command. [_Giving a favour._] Wear this; spare speech; Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well. EDMUND. Yours in the ranks of death. [_Exit Edmund._] GONERIL. My most dear Gloucester. O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman’s services are due; My fool usurps my body. OSWALD. Madam, here comes my lord. [_Exit._] Enter Albany. GONERIL. I have been worth the whistle. ALBANY. O Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition; That nature which contemns its origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use. GONERIL. No more; the text is foolish. ALBANY. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefitted! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep. GONERIL. Milk-liver’d man! That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land; With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest ‘Alack, why does he so?’ ALBANY. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. GONERIL. O vain fool! ALBANY. Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame! Be-monster not thy feature! Were’t my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones. Howe’er thou art a fiend, A woman’s shape doth shield thee. GONERIL. Marry, your manhood, mew! Enter a Messenger. ALBANY. What news? MESSENGER. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead; Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester. ALBANY. Gloucester’s eyes! MESSENGER. A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse, Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d, Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead; But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck’d him after. ALBANY. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester! Lost he his other eye? MESSENGER. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer; ’Tis from your sister. GONERIL. [_Aside._] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life. Another way The news is not so tart. I’ll read, and answer. [_Exit._] ALBANY. Where was his son when they did take his eyes? MESSENGER. Come with my lady hither. ALBANY. He is not here. MESSENGER. No, my good lord; I met him back again. ALBANY. Knows he the wickedness? MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he inform’d against him; And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course. ALBANY. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend, Tell me what more thou know’st. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The French camp near Dover Enter Kent and a Gentleman. KENT. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back, know you no reason? GENTLEMAN. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his personal return was most required and necessary. KENT. Who hath he left behind him general? GENTLEMAN. The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far. KENT. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief? GENTLEMAN. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trill’d down Her delicate cheek. It seem’d she was a queen Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o’er her. KENT. O, then it mov’d her. GENTLEMAN. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better day. Those happy smilets That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d, If all could so become it. KENT. Made she no verbal question? GENTLEMAN. Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’ Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart; Cried ‘Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night? Let pity not be believ’d!’ There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour master’d her: then away she started To deal with grief alone. KENT. It is the stars, The stars above us govern our conditions; Else one self mate and make could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since? GENTLEMAN. No. KENT. Was this before the King return’d? GENTLEMAN. No, since. KENT. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter. GENTLEMAN. Why, good sir? KENT. A sovereign shame so elbows him. His own unkindness, That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia. GENTLEMAN. Alack, poor gentleman! KENT. Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not? GENTLEMAN. ’Tis so; they are afoot. KENT. Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile; When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go along with me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The French camp. A Tent Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Physician and Soldiers. CORDELIA. Alack, ’tis he: why, he was met even now As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud; Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. A century send forth; Search every acre in the high-grown field, And bring him to our eye. [_Exit an Officer._] What can man’s wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense, He that helps him take all my outward worth. PHYSICIAN. There is means, madam: Our foster nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks; that to provoke in him Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish. CORDELIA. All bless’d secrets, All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! Be aidant and remediate In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him; Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life That wants the means to lead it. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. News, madam; The British powers are marching hitherward. CORDELIA. ’Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about; Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right: Soon may I hear and see him! [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Regan and Oswald. REGAN. But are my brother’s powers set forth? OSWALD. Ay, madam. REGAN. Himself in person there? OSWALD. Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier. REGAN. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? OSWALD. No, madam. REGAN. What might import my sister’s letter to him? OSWALD. I know not, lady. REGAN. Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover to descry The strength o’ th’enemy. OSWALD. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter. REGAN. Our troops set forth tomorrow; stay with us; The ways are dangerous. OSWALD. I may not, madam: My lady charg’d my duty in this business. REGAN. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Somethings, I know not what, I’ll love thee much. Let me unseal the letter. OSWALD. Madam, I had rather— REGAN. I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. OSWALD. I, madam? REGAN. I speak in understanding; y’are, I know’t: Therefore I do advise you take this note: My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk’d, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady’s. You may gather more. If you do find him, pray you give him this; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisdom to her. So, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. OSWALD. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow. REGAN. Fare thee well. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The country near Dover Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant. GLOUCESTER. When shall I come to the top of that same hill? EDGAR. You do climb up it now. Look how we labour. GLOUCESTER. Methinks the ground is even. EDGAR. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea? GLOUCESTER. No, truly. EDGAR. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes’ anguish. GLOUCESTER. So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st In better phrase and matter than thou didst. EDGAR. Y’are much deceiv’d: in nothing am I chang’d But in my garments. GLOUCESTER. Methinks you’re better spoken. EDGAR. Come on, sir; here’s the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish’d to her cock; her cock a buoy Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge That on th’unnumber’d idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. GLOUCESTER. Set me where you stand. EDGAR. Give me your hand. You are now within a foot of th’extreme verge. For all beneath the moon would I not leap upright. GLOUCESTER. Let go my hand. Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man’s taking. Fairies and gods Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going. EDGAR. Now fare ye well, good sir. [_Seems to go._] GLOUCESTER. With all my heart. EDGAR. [_Aside._] Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it. GLOUCESTER. O you mighty gods! This world I do renounce, and in your sights, Shake patiently my great affliction off: If I could bear it longer, and not fall To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathed part of nature should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! Now, fellow, fare thee well. EDGAR. Gone, sir, farewell. [_Gloucester leaps, and falls along_] And yet I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past. Alive or dead? Ho you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? speak! Thus might he pass indeed: yet he revives. What are you, sir? GLOUCESTER. Away, and let me die. EDGAR. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fathom down precipitating, Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance; bleed’st not; speak’st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again. GLOUCESTER. But have I fall’n, or no? EDGAR. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height, the shrill-gorg’d lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up. GLOUCESTER. Alack, I have no eyes. Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage And frustrate his proud will. EDGAR. Give me your arm. Up, so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You stand. GLOUCESTER. Too well, too well. EDGAR. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o’ the cliff what thing was that Which parted from you? GLOUCESTER. A poor unfortunate beggar. EDGAR. As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk’d and waved like the enraged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee. GLOUCESTER. I do remember now: henceforth I’ll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself ‘Enough, enough,’ and die. That thing you speak of, I took it for a man; often ’twould say, ‘The fiend, the fiend’; he led me to that place. EDGAR. Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here? Enter Lear, fantastically dressed up with flowers. The safer sense will ne’er accommodate His master thus. LEAR. No, they cannot touch me for coining. I am the King himself. EDGAR. O thou side-piercing sight! LEAR. Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s your press money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace, this piece of toasted cheese will do’t. There’s my gauntlet; I’ll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i’ the clout, i’ the clout. Hewgh! Give the word. EDGAR. Sweet marjoram. LEAR. Pass. GLOUCESTER. I know that voice. LEAR. Ha! Goneril with a white beard! They flattered me like a dog; and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to everything I said ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was everything; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof. GLOUCESTER. The trick of that voice I do well remember: Is’t not the King? LEAR. Ay, every inch a king. When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; For Gloucester’s bastard son was kinder to his father Than my daughters got ’tween the lawful sheets. To’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simp’ring dame, Whose face between her forks presages snow; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure’s name. The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to’t with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are centaurs, though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit, beneath is all the fiend’s; there’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination. There’s money for thee. GLOUCESTER. O, let me kiss that hand! LEAR. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. GLOUCESTER. O ruin’d piece of nature, this great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me? LEAR. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it. GLOUCESTER. Were all the letters suns, I could not see one. EDGAR. I would not take this from report, It is, and my heart breaks at it. LEAR. Read. GLOUCESTER. What, with the case of eyes? LEAR. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world goes. GLOUCESTER. I see it feelingly. LEAR. What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears. See how yon justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar? GLOUCESTER. Ay, sir. LEAR. And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back; Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter’d clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy’s straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say none; I’ll able ’em; Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes, And like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now: Pull off my boots: harder, harder, so. EDGAR. O, matter and impertinency mix’d! Reason in madness! LEAR. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark. GLOUCESTER. Alack, alack the day! LEAR. When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools. This a good block: It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt. I’ll put’t in proof And when I have stol’n upon these son-in-laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! Enter a Gentleman with Attendants. GENTLEMAN. O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir, Your most dear daughter— LEAR. No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons; I am cut to the brains. GENTLEMAN. You shall have anything. LEAR. No seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden water-pots, Ay, and for laying autumn’s dust. GENTLEMAN. Good sir. LEAR. I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What! I will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king, my masters, know you that. GENTLEMAN. You are a royal one, and we obey you. LEAR. Then there’s life in’t. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa! [_Exit running. Attendants follow._] GENTLEMAN. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to. EDGAR. Hail, gentle sir. GENTLEMAN. Sir, speed you. What’s your will? EDGAR. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward? GENTLEMAN. Most sure and vulgar. Everyone hears that, which can distinguish sound. EDGAR. But, by your favour, How near’s the other army? GENTLEMAN. Near and on speedy foot; the main descry Stands on the hourly thought. EDGAR. I thank you sir, that’s all. GENTLEMAN. Though that the queen on special cause is here, Her army is mov’d on. EDGAR. I thank you, sir. [_Exit Gentleman._] GLOUCESTER. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please. EDGAR. Well pray you, father. GLOUCESTER. Now, good sir, what are you? EDGAR. A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows; Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, I’ll lead you to some biding. GLOUCESTER. Hearty thanks: The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot. Enter Oswald. OSWALD. A proclaim’d prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out That must destroy thee. GLOUCESTER. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to’t. [_Edgar interposes._] OSWALD. Wherefore, bold peasant, Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence; Lest that th’infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm. EDGAR. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion. OSWALD. Let go, slave, or thou diest! EDGAR. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volke pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’old man; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder: chill be plain with you. OSWALD. Out, dunghill! EDGAR. Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor your foins. [_They fight, and Edgar knocks him down._] OSWALD. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body; And give the letters which thou find’st about me To Edmund, Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the British party. O, untimely death! [_Dies._] EDGAR. I know thee well. A serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire. GLOUCESTER. What, is he dead? EDGAR. Sit you down, father; rest you. Let’s see these pockets; the letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see: Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not. To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their hearts, Their papers is more lawful. [_Reads._] ‘Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour. ‘Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant, ‘Goneril.’ O indistinguish’d space of woman’s will! A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life, And the exchange my brother! Here in the sands Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time, With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis’d Duke: for him ’tis well That of thy death and business I can tell. [_Exit Edgar, dragging out the body._] GLOUCESTER. The King is mad: how stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract: So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. [_A drum afar off._] EDGAR. Give me your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. A Tent in the French Camp Lear on a bed, asleep, soft music playing; Physician, Gentleman and others attending. Enter Cordelia and Kent. CORDELIA. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me. KENT. To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth; Nor more, nor clipp’d, but so. CORDELIA. Be better suited, These weeds are memories of those worser hours: I prithee put them off. KENT. Pardon, dear madam; Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it that you know me not Till time and I think meet. CORDELIA. Then be’t so, my good lord. [_To the Physician._] How does the King? PHYSICIAN. Madam, sleeps still. CORDELIA. O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father. PHYSICIAN. So please your majesty That we may wake the King: he hath slept long. CORDELIA. Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d? PHYSICIAN. Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him; I doubt not of his temperance. CORDELIA. Very well. PHYSICIAN. Please you draw near. Louder the music there! CORDELIA. O my dear father! Restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made! KENT. Kind and dear princess! CORDELIA. Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face To be oppos’d against the warring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross lightning? to watch, poor perdu! With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! ’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him. PHYSICIAN. Madam, do you; ’tis fittest. CORDELIA. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? LEAR. You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. CORDELIA. Sir, do you know me? LEAR. You are a spirit, I know: when did you die? CORDELIA. Still, still, far wide! PHYSICIAN. He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile. LEAR. Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight? I am mightily abus’d. I should e’en die with pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see; I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d Of my condition! CORDELIA. O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o’er me. No, sir, you must not kneel. LEAR. Pray, do not mock me: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia. CORDELIA. And so I am. I am. LEAR. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not: If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not. CORDELIA. No cause, no cause. LEAR. Am I in France? KENT. In your own kingdom, sir. LEAR. Do not abuse me. PHYSICIAN. Be comforted, good madam, the great rage, You see, is kill’d in him: and yet it is danger To make him even o’er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in; trouble him no more Till further settling. CORDELIA. Will’t please your highness walk? LEAR. You must bear with me: Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish. [_Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Physician and Attendants._] GENTLEMAN. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain? KENT. Most certain, sir. GENTLEMAN. Who is conductor of his people? KENT. As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester. GENTLEMAN. They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany. KENT. Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace. GENTLEMAN. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir. [_Exit._] KENT. My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought. [_Exit._] ACT V SCENE I. The Camp of the British Forces near Dover Enter, with drum and colours Edmund, Regan, Officers, Soldiers and others. EDMUND. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is advis’d by aught To change the course, he’s full of alteration And self-reproving, bring his constant pleasure. [_To an Officer, who goes out._] REGAN. Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried. EDMUND. ’Tis to be doubted, madam. REGAN. Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you: Tell me but truly, but then speak the truth, Do you not love my sister? EDMUND. In honour’d love. REGAN. But have you never found my brother’s way To the forfended place? EDMUND. That thought abuses you. REGAN. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers. EDMUND. No, by mine honour, madam. REGAN. I never shall endure her, dear my lord, Be not familiar with her. EDMUND. Fear not, She and the Duke her husband! Enter with drum and colours Albany, Goneril and Soldiers. GONERIL. [_Aside._] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me. ALBANY. Our very loving sister, well be-met. Sir, this I heard: the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state Forc’d to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For this business, It toucheth us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King, with others whom I fear Most just and heavy causes make oppose. EDMUND. Sir, you speak nobly. REGAN. Why is this reason’d? GONERIL. Combine together ’gainst the enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here. ALBANY. Let’s, then, determine with the ancient of war On our proceeding. EDMUND. I shall attend you presently at your tent. REGAN. Sister, you’ll go with us? GONERIL. No. REGAN. ’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us. GONERIL. [_Aside_.] O, ho, I know the riddle. I will go. [_Exeunt Edmund, Regan, Goneril, Officers, Soldiers and Attendants._] As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised. EDGAR. If e’er your grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word. ALBANY. I’ll overtake you. Speak. EDGAR. Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For him that brought it: wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you! ALBANY. Stay till I have read the letter. EDGAR. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I’ll appear again. ALBANY. Why, fare thee well. I will o’erlook thy paper. [_Exit Edgar._] Enter Edmund. EDMUND. The enemy’s in view; draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urg’d on you. ALBANY. We will greet the time. [_Exit._] EDMUND. To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now, then, we’ll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon: for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A field between the two Camps Alarum within. Enter with drum and colours, Lear, Cordelia and their Forces, and exeunt. Enter Edgar and Gloucester. EDGAR. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host; pray that the right may thrive: If ever I return to you again, I’ll bring you comfort. GLOUCESTER. Grace go with you, sir! [_Exit Edgar._] Alarum and retreat within. Enter Edgar. EDGAR. Away, old man, give me thy hand, away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en: Give me thy hand; come on! GLOUCESTER. No further, sir; a man may rot even here. EDGAR. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. Come on. GLOUCESTER. And that’s true too. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The British Camp near Dover Enter in conquest with drum and colours, Edmund, Lear and Cordelia as prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, &c. EDMUND. Some officers take them away: good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them. CORDELIA. We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst. For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down; Myself could else out-frown false fortune’s frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? LEAR. No, no, no, no. Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing I’ll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. So we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out; And take upon’s the mystery of things, As if we were God’s spies. And we’ll wear out, In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by the moon. EDMUND. Take them away. LEAR. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes; The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We’ll see ’em starve first: come. [_Exeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded._] EDMUND. Come hither, captain, hark. Take thou this note [_giving a paper_]; go follow them to prison. One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men Are as the time is; to be tender-minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question; either say thou’lt do’t, Or thrive by other means. CAPTAIN. I’ll do’t, my lord. EDMUND. About it; and write happy when thou hast done. Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so As I have set it down. CAPTAIN. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; If it be man’s work, I’ll do’t. [_Exit._] Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Officers and Attendants. ALBANY. Sir, you have show’d today your valiant strain, And fortune led you well: you have the captives Who were the opposites of this day’s strife: I do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine. EDMUND. Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable King To some retention and appointed guard; Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side, And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes Which do command them. With him I sent the queen; My reason all the same; and they are ready Tomorrow, or at further space, to appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels in the heat are curs’d By those that feel their sharpness. The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place. ALBANY. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother. REGAN. That’s as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers; Bore the commission of my place and person; The which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother. GONERIL. Not so hot: In his own grace he doth exalt himself, More than in your addition. REGAN. In my rights, By me invested, he compeers the best. ALBANY. That were the most, if he should husband you. REGAN. Jesters do oft prove prophets. GONERIL. Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look’d but asquint. REGAN. Lady, I am not well; else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine: Witness the world that I create thee here My lord and master. GONERIL. Mean you to enjoy him? ALBANY. The let-alone lies not in your good will. EDMUND. Nor in thine, lord. ALBANY. Half-blooded fellow, yes. REGAN. [_To Edmund._] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine. ALBANY. Stay yet; hear reason: Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine arrest, This gilded serpent. [_pointing to Goneril._] For your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife; ’Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord, And I her husband contradict your bans. If you will marry, make your loves to me, My lady is bespoke. GONERIL. An interlude! ALBANY. Thou art arm’d, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound: If none appear to prove upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge. [_Throwing down a glove._] I’ll make it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim’d thee. REGAN. Sick, O, sick! GONERIL. [_Aside._] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine. EDMUND. There’s my exchange. [_Throwing down a glove._] What in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach, On him, on you, who not? I will maintain My truth and honour firmly. ALBANY. A herald, ho! Enter a Herald. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge. REGAN. My sickness grows upon me. ALBANY. She is not well. Convey her to my tent. [_Exit Regan, led._] Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound And read out this. OFFICER. Sound, trumpet! [_A trumpet sounds._] HERALD. [_Reads._] ‘If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.’ EDMUND. Sound! [_First trumpet._] HERALD. Again! [_Second trumpet._] HERALD. Again! Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, armed, preceded by a trumpet. ALBANY. Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o’ the trumpet. HERALD. What are you? Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons? EDGAR. Know my name is lost; By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope. ALBANY. Which is that adversary? EDGAR. What’s he that speaks for Edmund, Earl of Gloucester? EDMUND. Himself, what say’st thou to him? EDGAR. Draw thy sword, That if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My oath, and my profession: I protest, Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor; False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince; And, from the extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust beneath thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ‘No,’ This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest. EDMUND. In wisdom I should ask thy name; But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss those treasons to thy head, With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart; Which for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise, This sword of mine shall give them instant way, Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak! [_Alarums. They fight. Edmund falls._] ALBANY. Save him, save him! GONERIL. This is mere practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d, But cozen’d and beguil’d. ALBANY. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir; Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it. [_Gives the letter to Edmund._] GONERIL. Say if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: Who can arraign me for’t? [_Exit._] ALBANY. Most monstrous! O! Know’st thou this paper? EDMUND. Ask me not what I know. ALBANY. [_To an Officer, who goes out._] Go after her; she’s desperate; govern her. EDMUND. What you have charg’d me with, that have I done; And more, much more; the time will bring it out. ’Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou’rt noble, I do forgive thee. EDGAR. Let’s exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me. My name is Edgar and thy father’s son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes. EDMUND. Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true; The wheel is come full circle; I am here. ALBANY. Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow split my heart if ever I Did hate thee or thy father. EDGAR. Worthy prince, I know’t. ALBANY. Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father? EDGAR. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale; And when ’tis told, O that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That follow’d me so near,—O, our lives’ sweetness! That with the pain of death we’d hourly die Rather than die at once!—taught me to shift Into a madman’s rags; t’assume a semblance That very dogs disdain’d; and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from despair; Never,—O fault!—reveal’d myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was arm’d; Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last Told him my pilgrimage. But his flaw’d heart, Alack, too weak the conflict to support! ’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly. EDMUND. This speech of yours hath mov’d me, And shall perchance do good, but speak you on; You look as you had something more to say. ALBANY. If there be more, more woeful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this. EDGAR. This would have seem’d a period To such as love not sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more, And top extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then finding Who ’twas that so endur’d, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck, and bellow’d out As he’d burst heaven; threw him on my father; Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear receiv’d, which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranc’d. ALBANY. But who was this? EDGAR. Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise Follow’d his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave. Enter a Gentleman hastily, with a bloody knife. GENTLEMAN. Help, help! O, help! EDGAR. What kind of help? ALBANY. Speak, man. EDGAR. What means this bloody knife? GENTLEMAN. ’Tis hot, it smokes; It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead! ALBANY. Who dead? Speak, man. GENTLEMAN. Your lady, sir, your lady; and her sister By her is poisoned; she hath confesses it. EDMUND. I was contracted to them both, all three Now marry in an instant. EDGAR. Here comes Kent. Enter Kent. ALBANY. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. This judgement of the heavens that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity. O, is this he? The time will not allow the compliment Which very manners urges. KENT. I am come To bid my King and master aye good night: Is he not here? ALBANY. Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where’s the King? and where’s Cordelia? The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in. Seest thou this object, Kent? KENT. Alack, why thus? EDMUND. Yet Edmund was belov’d. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself. ALBANY. Even so. Cover their faces. EDMUND. I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia; Nay, send in time. ALBANY. Run, run, O, run! EDGAR. To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve. EDMUND. Well thought on: take my sword, Give it the captain. EDGAR. Haste thee for thy life. [_Exit Edgar._] EDMUND. He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame upon her own despair, That she fordid herself. ALBANY. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile. [_Edmund is borne off._] Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Officer and others following. LEAR. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone. Had I your tongues and eyes, I’ld use them so That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives; She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass; If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives. KENT. Is this the promis’d end? EDGAR. Or image of that horror? ALBANY. Fall, and cease! LEAR. This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. KENT. O, my good master! [_Kneeling._] LEAR. Prithee, away! EDGAR. ’Tis noble Kent, your friend. LEAR. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav’d her; now she’s gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee. OFFICER. ’Tis true, my lords, he did. LEAR. Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o’ the best, I’ll tell you straight. KENT. If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated, One of them we behold. LEAR. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent? KENT. The same, Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius? LEAR. He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that; He’ll strike, and quickly too:. He’s dead and rotten. KENT. No, my good lord; I am the very man. LEAR. I’ll see that straight. KENT. That from your first of difference and decay Have follow’d your sad steps. LEAR. You are welcome hither. KENT. Nor no man else. All’s cheerless, dark and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead. LEAR. Ay, so I think. ALBANY. He knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him. EDGAR. Very bootless. Enter an Officer. OFFICER. Edmund is dead, my lord. ALBANY. That’s but a trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied. For us, we will resign, During the life of this old majesty, To him our absolute power; [_to Edgar and Kent_] you to your rights; With boot and such addition as your honours Have more than merited. All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue and all foes The cup of their deservings. O, see, see! LEAR. And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her: look, her lips, Look there, look there! [_He dies._] EDGAR. He faints! My lord, my lord! KENT. Break, heart; I prithee break! EDGAR. Look up, my lord. KENT. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this rough world Stretch him out longer. EDGAR. He is gone indeed. KENT. The wonder is, he hath endur’d so long: He but usurp’d his life. ALBANY. Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [_To Edgar and Kent._] Friends of my soul, you twain, Rule in this realm and the gor’d state sustain. KENT. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; My master calls me, I must not say no. EDGAR. The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long. [_Exeunt with a dead march._] LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST Contents ACT I Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park Scene II. The park ACT II Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park. A pavilion and tents at a distance ACT III Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park ACT IV Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park Scene II. The same Scene III. The same ACT V Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park Scene II. The same. Before the Princess’s pavilion Dramatis Personæ KING of Navarre, also known as Ferdinand BEROWNE, Lord attending on the King LONGAVILLE, Lord attending on the King DUMAINE, Lord attending on the King The PRINCESS of France ROSALINE, Lady attending on the Princess MARIA, Lady attending on the Princess KATHARINE, Lady attending on the Princess BOYET, Lord attending on the Princess Don Adriano de ARMADO, a fantastical Spaniard MOTH, Page to Armado JAQUENETTA, a country wench COSTARD, a Clown DULL, a Constable HOLOFERNES, a Schoolmaster Sir NATHANIEL, a Curate A FORESTER MARCADÉ, a messenger from France Lords, Blackamoors, Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess. SCENE: Navarre ACT I SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park Enter Ferdinand, King of Navarre, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine. KING. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live registered upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring time, Th’ endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors, for so you are That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world’s desires, Our late edict shall strongly stand in force. Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Berowne, Dumaine and Longaville, Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me, My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here. Your oaths are passed, and now subscribe your names, That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are armed to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. LONGAVILLE. I am resolved. ’Tis but a three years’ fast. The mind shall banquet, though the body pine. Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. [_He signs._] DUMAINE. My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified. The grosser manner of these world’s delights He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves. To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, With all these living in philosophy. [_He signs._] BEROWNE. I can but say their protestation over. So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances: As not to see a woman in that term, Which I hope well is not enrolled there; And one day in a week to touch no food, And but one meal on every day beside, The which I hope is not enrolled there; And then to sleep but three hours in the night, And not be seen to wink of all the day, When I was wont to think no harm all night, And make a dark night too of half the day, Which I hope well is not enrolled there. O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep. KING. Your oath is passed to pass away from these. BEROWNE. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please. I only swore to study with your Grace And stay here in your court for three years’ space. LONGAVILLE. You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest. BEROWNE. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. What is the end of study, let me know? KING. Why, that to know which else we should not know. BEROWNE. Things hid and barred, you mean, from common sense? KING. Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense. BEROWNE. Come on, then, I will swear to study so, To know the thing I am forbid to know: As thus, to study where I well may dine, When I to feast expressly am forbid; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid; Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, Study to break it, and not break my troth. If study’s gain be thus, and this be so, Study knows that which yet it doth not know. Swear me to this, and I will ne’er say no. KING. These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight. BEROWNE. Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: As painfully to pore upon a book To seek the light of truth, while truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light seeking light doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed By fixing it upon a fairer eye, Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun, That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks; Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others’ books. These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights, That give a name to every fixed star, Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know naught but fame, And every godfather can give a name. KING. How well he’s read, to reason against reading. DUMAINE. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding. LONGAVILLE. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. BEROWNE. The spring is near when green geese are a-breeding. DUMAINE. How follows that? BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time. DUMAINE. In reason nothing. BEROWNE. Something then in rhyme. LONGAVILLE. Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost That bites the first-born infants of the spring. BEROWNE. Well, say I am. Why should proud summer boast Before the birds have any cause to sing? Why should I joy in any abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows, But like of each thing that in season grows. So you, to study now it is too late, Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate. KING. Well, sit you out. Go home, Berowne. Adieu. BEROWNE. No, my good lord, I have sworn to stay with you, And though I have for barbarism spoke more Than for that angel knowledge you can say, Yet confident I’ll keep what I have sworn And bide the penance of each three years’ day. Give me the paper, let me read the same, And to the strictest decrees I’ll write my name. KING. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame. BEROWNE. [_Reads_.] _Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court._ Hath this been proclaimed? LONGAVILLE. Four days ago. BEROWNE. Let’s see the penalty. [_Reads_.] _On pain of losing her tongue._ Who devised this penalty? LONGAVILLE. Marry, that did I. BEROWNE. Sweet lord, and why? LONGAVILLE. To fright them hence with that dread penalty. BEROWNE. A dangerous law against gentility. [_Reads_.] _Item, If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise._ This article, my liege, yourself must break, For well you know here comes in embassy The French King’s daughter, with yourself to speak— A mild of grace and complete majesty— About surrender up of Aquitaine To her decrepit, sick, and bedrid father. Therefore this article is made in vain, Or vainly comes th’ admired Princess hither. KING. What say you, lords? Why, this was quite forgot. BEROWNE. So study evermore is overshot. While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, ’Tis won as towns with fire: so won, so lost. KING. We must of force dispense with this decree. She must lie here on mere necessity. BEROWNE. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years’ space; For every man with his affects is born, Not by might mastered, but by special grace. If I break faith, this word shall speak for me: I am forsworn on mere necessity. So to the laws at large I write my name, And he that breaks them in the least degree Stands in attainder of eternal shame. Suggestions are to other as to me; But I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath. [_He signs._] But is there no quick recreation granted? KING. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain, A man in all the world’s new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony, A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny. This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate In high-born words the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world’s debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I, But I protest I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy. BEROWNE. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight. LONGAVILLE. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport, And so to study three years is but short. Enter Dull, a Constable, with a letter, and Costard. DULL. Which is the Duke’s own person? BEROWNE. This, fellow. What wouldst? DULL. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace’s farborough. But I would see his own person in flesh and blood. BEROWNE. This is he. DULL. Signior Arm… Arm… commends you. There’s villainy abroad. This letter will tell you more. COSTARD. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. KING. A letter from the magnificent Armado. BEROWNE. How long soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. LONGAVILLE. A high hope for a low heaven. God grant us patience! BEROWNE. To hear, or forbear laughing? LONGAVILLE. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately, or to forbear both. BEROWNE. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. COSTARD. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. BEROWNE. In what manner? COSTARD. In manner and form following, sir, all those three. I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park, which, put together, is “in manner and form following”. Now, sir, for the manner. It is the manner of a man to speak to a woman. For the form—in some form. BEROWNE. For the “following”, sir? COSTARD. As it shall follow in my correction, and God defend the right! KING. Will you hear this letter with attention? BEROWNE. As we would hear an oracle. COSTARD. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. KING. [_Reads_.] _Great deputy, the welkin’s vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul’s earth’s god and body’s fostering patron—_ COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet. KING. [_Reads_.] _So it is—_ COSTARD. It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so. KING. Peace! COSTARD. Be to me, and every man that dares not fight. KING. No words! COSTARD. Of other men’s secrets, I beseech you. KING. [_Reads_.] _So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when? About the sixth hour, when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. So much for the time when. Now for the ground which? Which, I mean, I walked upon. It is ycleped thy park. Then for the place, where? Where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where? It standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden. There did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth—_ COSTARD. Me? KING. [_Reads_.] _That unlettered small-knowing soul—_ COSTARD. Me? KING. [_Reads_.] _That shallow vassal—_ COSTARD. Still me? KING. [_Reads_.] _Which, as I remember, hight Costard—_ COSTARD. O me! KING. [_Reads_.] _Sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, which with, O, with—but with this I passion to say wherewith—_ COSTARD. With a wench. KING. [_Reads_.] _With a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him, I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace’s officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation._ DULL. Me, an’t shall please you; I am Antony Dull. KING. [_Reads_.] _For Jaquenetta, so is the weaker vessel called which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain, I keep her as a vessel of thy law’s fury, and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heartburning heat of duty, Don Adriano de Armado._ BEROWNE. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard. KING. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this? COSTARD. Sir, I confess the wench. KING. Did you hear the proclamation? COSTARD. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. KING. It was proclaimed a year’s imprisonment to be taken with a wench. COSTARD. I was taken with none, sir. I was taken with a damsel. KING. Well, it was proclaimed “damsel”. COSTARD. This was no damsel neither, sir; she was a virgin. KING. It is so varied too, for it was proclaimed “virgin”. COSTARD. If it were, I deny her virginity. I was taken with a maid. KING. This maid will not serve your turn, sir. COSTARD. This maid will serve my turn, sir. KING. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water. COSTARD. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. KING. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o’er; And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. [_Exeunt King, Longaville and Dumaine._] BEROWNE. I’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. COSTARD. I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl. And therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again, and till then, sit thee down, sorrow. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The park Enter Armado and Moth, his Page. ARMADO. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy? MOTH. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. ARMADO. Why, sadness is one and the selfsame thing, dear imp. MOTH. No, no, O Lord, sir, no. ARMADO. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal? MOTH. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough signior. ARMADO. Why tough signior? Why tough signior? MOTH. Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal? ARMADO. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. MOTH. And I, tough signior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough. ARMADO. Pretty and apt. MOTH. How mean you, sir? I pretty and my saying apt, or I apt, and my saying pretty? ARMADO. Thou pretty, because little. MOTH. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt? ARMADO. And therefore apt, because quick. MOTH. Speak you this in my praise, master? ARMADO. In thy condign praise. MOTH. I will praise an eel with the same praise. ARMADO. What, that an eel is ingenious? MOTH. That an eel is quick. ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers. Thou heat’st my blood. MOTH. I am answered, sir. ARMADO. I love not to be crossed. MOTH. [_Aside_.] He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him. ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the Duke. MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir. ARMADO. Impossible. MOTH. How many is one thrice told? ARMADO. I am ill at reckoning. It fitteth the spirit of a tapster. MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. ARMADO. I confess both. They are both the varnish of a complete man. MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two. MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three. ARMADO. True. MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here’s three studied ere ye’ll thrice wink. And how easy it is to put “years” to the word “three”, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. ARMADO. A most fine figure! MOTH. [_Aside_.] To prove you a cipher. ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh; methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy. What great men have been in love? MOTH. Hercules, master. ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. MOTH. Samson, master. He was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love. ARMADO. O well-knit Samson, strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth? MOTH. A woman, master. ARMADO. Of what complexion? MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion. MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir. ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions? MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too. ARMADO. Green indeed is the colour of lovers. But to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. MOTH. It was so, sir, for she had a green wit. ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red. MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours. ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant. MOTH. My father’s wit and my mother’s tongue assist me! ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child, most pretty, and pathetical! MOTH. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne’er be known; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown. Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know, For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. ARMADO. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? MOTH. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since, but I think now ’tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. ARMADO. I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard. She deserves well. MOTH. [_Aside_.] To be whipped: and yet a better love than my master. ARMADO. Sing, boy. My spirit grows heavy in love. MOTH. And that’s great marvel, loving a light wench. ARMADO. I say, sing. MOTH. Forbear till this company be past. Enter Costard the Clown, Dull the Constable and Jaquenetta a Wench. DULL. Sir, the Duke’s pleasure is that you keep Costard safe; and you must suffer him to take no delight, nor no penance, but he must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park. She is allowed for the dey-woman. Fare you well. ARMADO. I do betray myself with blushing.—Maid. JAQUENETTA. Man. ARMADO. I will visit thee at the lodge. JAQUENETTA. That’s hereby. ARMADO. I know where it is situate. JAQUENETTA. Lord, how wise you are! ARMADO. I will tell thee wonders. JAQUENETTA. With that face? ARMADO. I love thee. JAQUENETTA. So I heard you say. ARMADO. And so, farewell. JAQUENETTA. Fair weather after you! DULL. Come, Jaquenetta, away. [_Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta._] ARMADO. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned. COSTARD. Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full stomach. ARMADO. Thou shalt be heavily punished. COSTARD. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. ARMADO. Take away this villain. Shut him up. MOTH. Come, you transgressing slave, away! COSTARD. Let me not be pent up, sir. I will fast being loose. MOTH. No, sir, that were fast and loose. Thou shalt to prison. COSTARD. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see. MOTH. What shall some see? COSTARD. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore I will say nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet. [_Exeunt Moth and Costard._] ARMADO. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, which is a great argument of falsehood, if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the _passado_ he respects not, the _duello_ he regards not. His disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour; rust, rapier; be still, drum, for your manager is in love. Yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio. [_Exit._] ACT II SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park. A pavilion and tents at a distance Enter the Princess of France, with three attending Ladies: Rosaline, Maria, Katharine and three Lords: Boyet, and two others. BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits. Consider who the King your father sends, To whom he sends, and what’s his embassy. Yourself, held precious in the world’s esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear When she did starve the general world beside And prodigally gave them all to you. PRINCESS. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise. Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, Not uttered by base sale of chapmen’s tongues. I am less proud to hear you tell my worth Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, You are not ignorant, all-telling fame Doth noise abroad Navarre hath made a vow, Till painful study shall outwear three years, No woman may approach his silent court. Therefore to’s seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure; and in that behalf, Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him the daughter of the King of France, On serious business craving quick dispatch, Importunes personal conference with his Grace. Haste, signify so much, while we attend, Like humble-visaged suitors, his high will. BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go. PRINCESS. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. [_Exit Boyet._] Who are the votaries, my loving lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous Duke? LORD. Lord Longaville is one. PRINCESS. Know you the man? MARIA. I know him, madam. At a marriage feast Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. A man of sovereign parts, he is esteemed, Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms. Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss, If virtue’s gloss will stain with any soil, Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will, Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. PRINCESS. Some merry mocking lord, belike. Is’t so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know. PRINCESS. Such short-lived wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumaine, a well-accomplished youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue loved; Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill, For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Alençon’s once; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth. Berowne they call him, but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour’s talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished, So sweet and voluble is his discourse. PRINCESS. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise? LORD. Here comes Boyet. Enter Boyet. PRINCESS. Now, what admittance, lord? BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, And he and his competitors in oath Were all addressed to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learned: He rather means to lodge you in the field, Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath, To let you enter his unpeopled house. Enter King of Navarre, Longaville, Dumaine, Berowne and Attendants. Here comes Navarre. KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. PRINCESS. “Fair” I give you back again, and “welcome” I have not yet. The roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. PRINCESS. I will be welcome then. Conduct me thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady. I have sworn an oath. PRINCESS. Our Lady help my lord! He’ll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. PRINCESS. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your Grace hath sworn out housekeeping. ’Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden bold. To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [_She gives him a paper._] KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS. You will the sooner that I were away, For you’ll prove perjured if you make me stay. [_The King reads the paper._] BEROWNE. [_To Rosaline_.] Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? ROSALINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? BEROWNE. I know you did. ROSALINE. How needless was it then To ask the question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. ROSALINE. ’Tis long of you that spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ’twill tire. ROSALINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What time o’ day? ROSALINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask. ROSALINE. Fair fall the face it covers. BEROWNE. And send you many lovers! ROSALINE. Amen, so you be none. BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone. KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns, Being but the one half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we, as neither have, Received that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, Although not valued to the money’s worth. If then the King your father will restore But that one half which is unsatisfied, We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth; For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns, and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitaine, Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitaine, so gelded as it is. Dear Princess, were not his requests so far From reason’s yielding, your fair self should make A yielding ’gainst some reason in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. PRINCESS. You do the King my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. KING. I do protest I never heard of it; And, if you prove it, I’ll repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. PRINCESS. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. KING. Satisfy me so. BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come Where that and other specialties are bound. Tomorrow you shall have a sight of them. KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates, But here without you shall be so received As you shall deem yourself lodged in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell. Tomorrow shall we visit you again. PRINCESS. Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace. KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. [_Exeunt the King, Longaville and Dumaine._] BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan. ROSALINE. Is the fool sick? BEROWNE. Sick at the heart. ROSALINE. Alack, let it blood. BEROWNE. Would that do it good? ROSALINE. My physic says “ay”. BEROWNE. Will you prick’t with your eye? ROSALINE. _Non point_, with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life. ROSALINE. And yours from long living. BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [_He exits._] Enter Dumaine. DUMAINE. Sir, I pray you, a word. What lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alençon, Katharine her name. DUMAINE. A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well. [_He exits._] Enter Longaville. LONGAVILLE. I beseech you a word. What is she in the white? BOYET. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. LONGAVILLE. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. BOYET. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame. LONGAVILLE. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? BOYET. Her mother’s, I have heard. LONGAVILLE. God’s blessing on your beard! BOYET. Good sir, be not offended. She is an heir of Falconbridge. LONGAVILLE. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. BOYET. Not unlike, sir; that may be. [_Exit Longaville._] Enter Berowne. BEROWNE. What’s her name in the cap? BOYET. Rosaline, by good hap. BEROWNE. Is she wedded or no? BOYET. To her will, sir, or so. BEROWNE. You are welcome, sir. Adieu. BOYET. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. [_Exit Berowne._] MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry madcap lord. Not a word with him but a jest. BOYET. And every jest but a word. PRINCESS. It was well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. KATHARINE. Two hot sheeps, marry! BOYET. And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. KATHARINE. You sheep and I pasture. Shall that finish the jest? BOYET. So you grant pasture for me. [_He tries to kiss her._] KATHARINE. Not so, gentle beast. My lips are no common, though several they be. BOYET. Belonging to whom? KATHARINE. To my fortunes and me. PRINCESS. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree. This civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his bookmen, for here ’tis abused. BOYET. If my observation, which very seldom lies, By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. PRINCESS. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle “affected”. PRINCESS. Your reason. BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire. His heart, like an agate, with your print impressed, Proud with his form, in his eye pride expressed. His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair. Methought all his senses were locked in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend’ring their own worth from where they were glassed, Did point you to buy them, along as you passed. His face’s own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I’ll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. PRINCESS. Come, to our pavilion. Boyet is disposed. BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclosed. I only have made a mouth of his eye By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. ROSALINE. Thou art an old love-monger, and speakest skilfully. MARIA. He is Cupid’s grandfather, and learns news of him. ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches? MARIA. No. BOYET. What, then, do you see? ROSALINE. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard for me. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park Enter Armado the Braggart and Moth his Boy. ARMADO. Warble, child, make passionate my sense of hearing. MOTH. [_Singing_.] Concolinel. ARMADO. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years, take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither. I must employ him in a letter to my love. MOTH. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? ARMADO. How meanest thou? Brawling in French? MOTH. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o’er the shop of your eyes, with your arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are compliments, these are humours; these betray nice wenches that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note—do you note me?—that most are affected to these. ARMADO. How hast thou purchased this experience? MOTH. By my penny of observation. ARMADO. But O—but O— MOTH. “The hobby-horse is forgot.” ARMADO. Call’st thou my love “hobby-horse”? MOTH. No, master. The hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love? ARMADO. Almost I had. MOTH. Negligent student! Learn her by heart. ARMADO. By heart and in heart, boy. MOTH. And out of heart, master. All those three I will prove. ARMADO. What wilt thou prove? MOTH. A man, if I live; and this, “by, in, and without,” upon the instant: “by” heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; “in” heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and “out” of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. ARMADO. I am all these three. MOTH. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. ARMADO. Fetch hither the swain. He must carry me a letter. MOTH. A message well sympathized: a horse to be ambassador for an ass. ARMADO. Ha, ha, what sayest thou? MOTH. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. ARMADO. The way is but short. Away! MOTH. As swift as lead, sir. ARMADO. The meaning, pretty ingenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow? MOTH. _Minime_, honest master; or rather, master, no. ARMADO. I say lead is slow. MOTH. You are too swift, sir, to say so. Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun? ARMADO. Sweet smoke of rhetoric! He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he. I shoot thee at the swain. MOTH. Thump then, and I flee. [_Exit._] ARMADO. A most acute juvenal, voluble and free of grace! By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face. Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is returned. Enter Moth and Costard. MOTH. A wonder, master! Here’s a costard broken in a shin. ARMADO. Some enigma, some riddle. Come, thy _l’envoi_ begin. COSTARD. No egma, no riddle, no _l’envoi_, no salve in the mail, sir. O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! No _l’envoi_, no _l’envoi_, no salve, sir, but a plantain. ARMADO. By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take _salve_ for _l’envoi_, and the word _l’envoi_ for a _salve?_ MOTH. Do the wise think them other? Is not _l’envoi_ a _salve?_ ARMADO. No, page; it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it: The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee Were still at odds, being but three. There’s the moral. Now the _l’envoi_. MOTH. I will add the _l’envoi_. Say the moral again. ARMADO. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee Were still at odds, being but three. MOTH. Until the goose came out of door, And stayed the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my _l’envoi_. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee Were still at odds, being but three. ARMADO. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four. MOTH. A good _l’envoi_, ending in the goose. Would you desire more? COSTARD. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that’s flat. Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat. To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose. Let me see: a fat _l’envoi_—ay, that’s a fat goose. ARMADO. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin? MOTH. By saying that a costard was broken in a shin. Then called you for the _l’envoi_. COSTARD. True, and I for a plantain. Thus came your argument in. Then the boy’s fat _l’envoi_, the goose that you bought; and he ended the market. ARMADO. But tell me, how was there a costard broken in a shin? MOTH. I will tell you sensibly. COSTARD. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth. I will speak that _l’envoi_. I, Costard, running out, that was safely within, Fell over the threshold and broke my shin. ARMADO. We will talk no more of this matter. COSTARD. Till there be more matter in the shin. ARMADO. Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee. COSTARD. O, marry me to one Frances! I smell some _l’envoi_, some goose, in this. ARMADO. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person. Thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound. COSTARD. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. ARMADO. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance, and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this: [_Giving him a letter_.] bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta. [_Giving money_.] There is remuneration for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. [_Exit._] MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. [_Exit Moth._] COSTARD. My sweet ounce of man’s flesh, my incony Jew! Now will I look to his remuneration. “Remuneration”! O, that’s the Latin word for three farthings. Three farthings—_remuneration_. “What’s the price of this inkle?” “One penny.” “No, I’ll give you a remuneration.” Why, it carries it! _Remuneration_. Why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. Enter Berowne. BEROWNE. My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met. COSTARD. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration? BEROWNE. What is a remuneration? COSTARD. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. BEROWNE. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. COSTARD. I thank your worship. God be wi’ you. BEROWNE. Stay, slave. I must employ thee. As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. COSTARD. When would you have it done, sir? BEROWNE. This afternoon. COSTARD. Well, I will do it, sir. Fare you well. BEROWNE. Thou knowest not what it is. COSTARD. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. BEROWNE. Why, villain, thou must know first. COSTARD. I will come to your worship tomorrow morning. BEROWNE. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this: The Princess comes to hunt here in the park, And in her train there is a gentle lady; When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, And Rosaline they call her. Ask for her And to her white hand see thou do commend This sealed-up counsel. [_Gives him money._] There’s thy guerdon. Go. COSTARD. Gardon, O sweet gardon! Better than remuneration, a ’levenpence farthing better. Most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon! Remuneration! [_Exit._] BEROWNE. And I, forsooth, in love! I, that have been love’s whip, A very beadle to a humorous sigh, A critic, nay, a night-watch constable, A domineering pedant o’er the boy, Than whom no mortal so magnificent! This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, This Signior Junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid, Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, Th’ anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, Sole imperator, and great general Of trotting paritors—O my little heart! And I to be a corporal of his field And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop! What? I love, I sue, I seek a wife? A woman, that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watched that it may still go right! Nay, to be perjured, which is worst of all; And, among three, to love the worst of all, A whitely wanton with a velvet brow, With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard. And I to sigh for her, to watch for her, To pray for her! Go to, it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan. Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. [_Exit._] ACT IV SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park Enter the Princess, a Forester, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet and other Lords. PRINCESS. Was that the King that spurred his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill? BOYET. I know not, but I think it was not he. PRINCESS. Whoe’er he was, he showed a mounting mind. Well, lords, today we shall have our dispatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in? FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice, A stand where you may make “the fairest shoot”. PRINCESS. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot. FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. PRINCESS. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-lived pride! Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS. Nay, never paint me now. Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true: [_She gives him money._] Fair payment for foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. PRINCESS. See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow. Now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And out of question so it is sometimes, Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill. BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise’ sake, when they strive to be Lords o’er their lords? PRINCESS. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. Enter Costard. BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? PRINCESS. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest? PRINCESS. The thickest and the tallest. COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest. It is so, truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here. PRINCESS. What’s your will, sir? What’s your will? COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS. O, thy letter, thy letter! He’s a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve. Break up this capon. BOYET. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook; it importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta. PRINCESS. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and everyone give ear. BOYET. [_Reads_.] _By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true that thou art beauteous; truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most illustrate King Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say,_ “Veni, vidi, vici,” _which to annothanize in the vulgar—O base and obscure vulgar!_—videlicet, _He came, see, and overcame. He came, one; see, two; overcame, three. Who came? The King. Why did he come? To see. Why did he see? To overcome. To whom came he? To the beggar. What saw he? The beggar. Who overcame he? The beggar. The conclusion is victory. On whose side? The King’s. The captive is enriched. On whose side? The beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial. On whose side? The King’s? No, on both in one, or one in both. I am the King, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? Robes. For tittles? Titles. For thyself? Me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the dearest design of industry, Don Adriano de Armado. Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar ’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey. Submissive fall his princely feet before, And he from forage will incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den._ PRINCESS. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am much deceived but I remember the style. PRINCESS. Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile. BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court, A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his book-mates. PRINCESS. Thou, fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you: my lord. PRINCESS. To whom shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS. From which lord to which lady? COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he called Rosaline. PRINCESS. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day. [_Exeunt all but Boyet, Rosaline, Maria and Costard._] BOYET. Who is the shooter? Who is the shooter? ROSALINE. Shall I teach you to know? BOYET. Ay, my continent of beauty. ROSALINE. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off! BOYET. My lady goes to kill horns, but if thou marry, Hang me by the neck if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on! ROSALINE. Well, then, I am the shooter. BOYET. And who is your deer? ROSALINE. If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near. Finely put on indeed! MARIA. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. BOYET. But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now? ROSALINE. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? BOYET. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinevere of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. ROSALINE. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. [_Exeunt Rosaline._] COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant. How both did fit it! MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it. BOYET. A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA. Wide o’ the bow hand! I’ faith, your hand is out. COSTARD. Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout. BOYET. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily, your lips grow foul. COSTARD. She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir. Challenge her to bowl. BOYET. I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl. [_Exeunt Boyet and Maria._] COSTARD. By my soul, a swain, a most simple clown! Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down! O’ my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit, When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado, o’ the one side, O, a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand and how most sweetly he will swear! And his page o’ t’other side, that handful of wit! Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit. [_Shout within._] Sola, sola! [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same Enter Dull, Holofernes, the Pedant and Nathaniel. NATHANIEL. Very reverend sport, truly, and done in the testimony of a good conscience. HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, _sanguis_, in blood, ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of _caelo_, the sky, the welkin, the heaven, and anon falleth like a crab on the face of _terra_, the soil, the land, the earth. NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least. But, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, _haud credo_. DULL. ’Twas not a “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! Yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, _in via_, in way, of explication; _facere_, as it were, replication, or rather, _ostentare_, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my _haud credo_ for a deer. DULL. I said the deer was not a “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice-sod simplicity, _bis coctus!_ O, thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book. He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink. His intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be— Which we of taste and feeling are—for those parts that do fructify in us more than he. For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, _omne bene_, say I, being of an old father’s mind; Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are bookmen. Can you tell me by your wit What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five weeks old as yet? HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull. Dictynna, goodman Dull. DULL. What is Dictynna? NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. Th’ allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. ’Tis true, indeed. The collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say, th’ allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the pollution holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that ’twas a pricket that the Princess killed. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call I the deer the Princess killed a pricket. NATHANIEL. _Perge_, good Master Holofernes, _perge_, so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierced and pricked a pretty pleasing pricket; Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell, put “l” to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket; Or pricket sore, or else sorel, the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then “L” to “sore” makes fifty sores o’ sorel. Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more “L”. NATHANIEL. A rare talent! DULL. [_Aside_.] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions. These are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of _pia mater_, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners, for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you. You are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. _Mehercle!_ If their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. But, _vir sapit qui pauca loquitur_. A soul feminine saluteth us. Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master Person. HOLOFERNES. Master Person, _quasi_ pierce one. And if one should be pierced, which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Of piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine. ’Tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master Parson, be so good as read me this letter. It was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado. I beseech you read it. [_Giving a letter to Nathaniel._] HOLOFERNES. _Fauste precor, gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat_— and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan, I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: _Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia._ Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. [_He sings_.] Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? Or rather as Horace says in his—What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse, _Lege, domine_. NATHANIEL. [_Reads_.] _If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed. Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll faithful prove. Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice. Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend, All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove’s lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O, pardon love this wrong, That sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue._ HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophus, and so miss the accent. Let me supervise the canzonet. [_He takes the letter_.] Here are only numbers ratified, but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, _caret_. Ovidius Naso was the man. And why indeed “Naso,” but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? _Imitari_ is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen’s lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: _To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline._ I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: _Your Ladyship’s in all desired employment, Berowne._ Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the King, and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s, which accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet, deliver this paper into the royal hand of the King. It may concern much. Stay not thy compliment. I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life. COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. [_Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta._] NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith— HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the Father, I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine today at the father’s of a certain pupil of mine, where if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your _ben venuto;_ where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [_To Dull_.] Sir, I do invite you too. You shall not say me nay. _Pauca verba_. Away! The gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same Enter Berowne with a paper in his hand, alone. BEROWNE. The King, he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself. They have pitched a toil; I am toiling in a pitch, pitch that defiles. Defile! A foul word! Well, set thee down, sorrow, for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool. Well proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax. It kills sheep, it kills me, I a sheep. Well proved again, o’ my side! I will not love; if I do, hang me! I’ faith, I will not. O, but her eye! By this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be melancholy. And here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o’ my sonnets already. The clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it. Sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper. God give him grace to groan! [_He stands aside._] Enter the King with a paper. KING. Ay me! BEROWNE. [_Aside_.] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid, thou hast thumped him with thy birdbolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets! KING. [_Reads_.] [_So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows. Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep As doth thy face, through tears of mine give light. Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep. No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show. But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens, how far dost thou excel No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell._ How shall she know my griefs? I’ll drop the paper. Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here? [_Steps aside._] What, Longaville, and reading! Listen, ear. Enter Longaville with a paper. BEROWNE. [_Aside_.] Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear! LONGAVILLE. Ay me! I am forsworn. BEROWNE. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. KING. In love, I hope. Sweet fellowship in shame. BEROWNE. One drunkard loves another of the name. LONGAVILLE. Am I the first that have been perjured so? BEROWNE. I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know. Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society, The shape of love’s Tyburn, that hangs up simplicity. LONGAVILLE. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move. O sweet Maria, empress of my love, These numbers will I tear, and write in prose. BEROWNE. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose. Disfigure not his shop. LONGAVILLE. This same shall go. [_He reads the sonnet._] _Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, ’Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore, but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee. My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gained, cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is. Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhal’st this vapour-vow; in thee it is. If broken then, it is no fault of mine; If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To lose an oath to win a paradise?_ BEROWNE. This is the liver vein, which makes flesh a deity, A green goose a goddess. Pure, pure idolatry. God amend us, God amend! We are much out o’ th’ way. LONGAVILLE. By whom shall I send this?—Company! Stay. [_He steps aside._] Enter Dumaine with a paper. BEROWNE. All hid, all hid, an old infant play. Like a demigod here sit I in the sky, And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’er-eye. More sacks to the mill. O heavens, I have my wish. Dumaine transformed! Four woodcocks in a dish! DUMAINE. O most divine Kate! BEROWNE. O most profane coxcomb! DUMAINE. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye! BEROWNE. By earth, she is but corporal. There you lie. DUMAINE. Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted. BEROWNE. An amber-coloured raven was well noted. DUMAINE. As upright as the cedar. BEROWNE. Stoop, I say. Her shoulder is with child. DUMAINE. As fair as day. BEROWNE. Ay, as some days, but then no sun must shine. DUMAINE. O, that I had my wish! LONGAVILLE. And I had mine! KING. And I mine too, good Lord! BEROWNE. Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word? DUMAINE. I would forget her; but a fever she Reigns in my blood, and will remembered be. BEROWNE. A fever in your blood? Why, then incision Would let her out in saucers. Sweet misprision! DUMAINE. Once more I’ll read the ode that I have writ. BEROWNE. Once more I’ll mark how love can vary wit. DUMAINE. [_Dumaine reads his sonnet_.] _On a day—alack the day!— Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wished himself the heaven’s breath. “Air,” quoth he, “thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so!” But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn. Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me, That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love._ This will I send, and something else more plain, That shall express my true love’s fasting pain. O, would the King, Berowne and Longaville Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill, Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note, For none offend where all alike do dote. LONGAVILLE. [_Comes forward_.] Dumaine, thy love is far from charity, That in love’s grief desir’st society. You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, To be o’erheard and taken napping so. KING. [_Comes forward_.] Come, sir, you blush. As his, your case is such. You chide at him, offending twice as much. You do not love Maria? Longaville Did never sonnet for her sake compile, Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom to keep down his heart. I have been closely shrouded in this bush, And marked you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhymes, observed your fashion, Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion. “Ay, me!” says one. “O Jove!” the other cries. One, her hairs were gold; crystal the other’s eyes. [_To Longaville_.] You would for paradise break faith and troth; [_To Dumaine_.] And Jove, for your love would infringe an oath. What will Berowne say when that he shall hear Faith infringed which such zeal did swear? How will he scorn, how will he spend his wit! How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it! For all the wealth that ever I did see, I would not have him know so much by me. BEROWNE. [_Comes forward_.] Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy. Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me. Good heart, what grace hast thou thus to reprove These worms for loving, that art most in love? Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears There is no certain princess that appears. You’ll not be perjured, ’tis a hateful thing: Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting! But are you not ashamed? Nay, are you not, All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot? You found his mote, the King your mote did see; But I a beam do find in each of three. O, what a scene of foolery have I seen, Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen! O me, with what strict patience have I sat, To see a king transformed to a gnat! To see great Hercules whipping a gig, And profound Solomon to tune a jig, And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys, And critic Timon laugh at idle toys. Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumaine? And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain? And where my liege’s? All about the breast? A caudle, ho! KING. Too bitter is thy jest. Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view? BEROWNE. Not you to me, but I betrayed by you. I that am honest, I that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in. I am betrayed by keeping company With men like you, men of inconstancy. When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme? Or groan for Joan? Or spend a minute’s time In pruning me? When shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb— KING. Soft! Whither away so fast? A true man, or a thief, that gallops so? BEROWNE. I post from love. Good lover, let me go. Enter Jaquenetta, with a letter, and Costard. JAQUENETTA. God bless the King! KING. What present hast thou there? COSTARD. Some certain treason. KING. What makes treason here? COSTARD. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. KING. If it mar nothing neither, The treason and you go in peace away together. JAQUENETTA. I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read. Our person misdoubts it; ’twas treason, he said. KING. Berowne, read it over. [_Berowne reads the letter._] Where hadst thou it? JAQUENETTA. Of Costard. KING. Where hadst thou it? COSTARD. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. [_Berowne tears the letter._] KING. How now, what is in you? Why dost thou tear it? BEROWNE. A toy, my liege, a toy. Your Grace needs not fear it. LONGAVILLE. It did move him to passion, and therefore let’s hear it. DUMAINE. [_Picking up the pieces_.] It is Berowne’s writing, and here is his name. BEROWNE. [_To Costard_.] Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame. Guilty, my lord, guilty. I confess, I confess. KING. What? BEROWNE. That you three fools lacked me fool to make up the mess. He, he, and you—and you, my liege—and I Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. DUMAINE. Now the number is even. BEROWNE. True, true, we are four. Will these turtles be gone? KING. Hence, sirs, away! COSTARD. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. [_Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta._] BEROWNE. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace! As true we are as flesh and blood can be. The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we were born; Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. KING. What, did these rent lines show some love of thine? BEROWNE. “Did they?” quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline That, like a rude and savage man of Ind, At the first op’ning of the gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head and, strucken blind, Kisses the base ground with obedient breast? What peremptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow That is not blinded by her majesty? KING. What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee now? My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; She, an attending star, scarce seen a light. BEROWNE. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne. O, but for my love, day would turn to night! Of all complexions the culled sovereignty Do meet as at a fair in her fair cheek, Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues— Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not. To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs. She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot. A withered hermit, five-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye. Beauty doth varnish age, as if new born, And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy. O, ’tis the sun that maketh all things shine! KING. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. BEROWNE. Is ebony like her? O word divine! A wife of such wood were felicity. O, who can give an oath? Where is a book? That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack If that she learn not of her eye to look. No face is fair that is not full so black. KING. O paradox! Black is the badge of hell, The hue of dungeons and the school of night; And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well. BEROWNE. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. O, if in black my lady’s brows be decked, It mourns that painting and usurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect; And therefore is she born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days, For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise, Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. DUMAINE. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black. LONGAVILLE. And since her time are colliers counted bright. KING. And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack. DUMAINE. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. BEROWNE. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, For fear their colours should be washed away. KING. ’Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain, I’ll find a fairer face not washed today. BEROWNE. I’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here. KING. No devil will fright thee then so much as she. DUMAINE. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. LONGAVILLE. [_Showing his shoe_.] Look, here’s thy love, my foot and her face see. BEROWNE. O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes, Her feet were much too dainty for such tread. DUMAINE. O vile! Then, as she goes, what upward lies The street should see as she walked over head. KING. But what of this? Are we not all in love? BEROWNE. Nothing so sure, and thereby all forsworn. KING. Then leave this chat, and, good Berowne, now prove Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. DUMAINE. Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil. LONGAVILLE. O, some authority how to proceed. Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil. DUMAINE. Some salve for perjury. BEROWNE. O, ’tis more than need. Have at you, then, affection’s men-at-arms. Consider what you first did swear unto: To fast, to study, and to see no woman— Flat treason ’gainst the kingly state of youth. Say, can you fast? Your stomachs are too young, And abstinence engenders maladies. O, we have made a vow to study, lords, And in that vow we have forsworn our books; For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, In leaden contemplation have found out Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes Of beauty’s tutors have enriched you with? Other slow arts entirely keep the brain, And therefore, finding barren practisers, Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil; But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain, But with the motion of all elements Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices. It adds a precious seeing to the eye. A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind. A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound, When the suspicious head of theft is stopped. Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible Than are the tender horns of cockled snails. Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste. For valour, is not Love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides? Subtle as Sphinx, as sweet and musical As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair. And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were tempered with Love’s sighs. O, then his lines would ravish savage ears And plant in tyrants mild humility. From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive. They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish, all the world; Else none at all in aught proves excellent. Then fools you were these women to forswear, Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. For wisdom’s sake, a word that all men love, Or for love’s sake, a word that loves all men, Or for men’s sake, the authors of these women, Or women’s sake, by whom we men are men, Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. It is religion to be thus forsworn, For charity itself fulfils the law, And who can sever love from charity? KING. Saint Cupid, then, and, soldiers, to the field! BEROWNE. Advance your standards, and upon them, lords! Pell-mell, down with them! But be first advised In conflict that you get the sun of them. LONGAVILLE. Now to plain dealing. Lay these glozes by. Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France? KING. And win them too. Therefore let us devise Some entertainment for them in their tents. BEROWNE. First, from the park let us conduct them thither. Then homeward every man attach the hand Of his fair mistress. In the afternoon We will with some strange pastime solace them, Such as the shortness of the time can shape; For revels, dances, masques, and merry hours Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers. KING. Away, away! No time shall be omitted That will betime and may by us be fitted. BEROWNE. _Allons! allons!_ Sowed cockle reaped no corn, And justice always whirls in equal measure. Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn; If so, our copper buys no better treasure. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel and Dull. HOLOFERNES. _Satis quod sufficit._ NATHANIEL. I praise God for you, sir. Your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious, pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this _quondam_ day with a companion of the King’s, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. HOLOFERNES. _Novi hominem tanquam te._ His humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. NATHANIEL. A most singular and choice epithet. [_Draws out his table-book._] HOLOFERNES. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions, such rackers of orthography, as to speak “dout” _sine_ “b”, when he should say “doubt”, “det” when he should pronounce “debt”—_d, e, b, t_, not _d, e, t_. He clepeth a calf “cauf”, half “hauf”; neighbour _vocatur_ “nebour”, neigh abbreviated “ne”. This is abhominable, which he would call “abominable”. It insinuateth me of insanie. _Ne intelligis, domine?_ To make frantic, lunatic. NATHANIEL. _Laus Deo, bone intelligo._ HOLOFERNES. _Bone? Bone_ for _bene?_ Priscian a little scratched; ’twill serve. Enter Armado, Moth and Costard. NATHANIEL. _Videsne quis venit?_ HOLOFERNES. _Video, et gaudeo._ ARMADO. _Chirrah!_ HOLOFERNES. _Quare_ “chirrah”, not “sirrah”? ARMADO. Men of peace, well encountered. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [_Aside to Costard_.] They have been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps. COSTARD. O, they have lived long on the almsbasket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou art not so long by the head as _honorificabilitudinitatibus_. Thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. MOTH. Peace! The peal begins. ARMADO. [_To Holofernes_.] Monsieur, are you not lettered? MOTH. Yes, yes, he teaches boys the hornbook. What is _a, b_, spelt backward with the horn on his head? HOLOFERNES. _Ba, pueritia_, with a horn added. MOTH. _Ba_, most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. HOLOFERNES. _Quis, quis_, thou consonant? MOTH. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I. HOLOFERNES. I will repeat them: _a, e, i_— MOTH. The sheep. The other two concludes it: _o, u_. ARMADO. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! Snip, snap, quick and home! It rejoiceth my intellect. True wit! MOTH. Offered by a child to an old man—which is wit-old. HOLOFERNES. What is the figure? What is the figure? MOTH. Horns. HOLOFERNES. Thou disputes like an infant. Go whip thy gig. MOTH. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy _unum cita_. A gig of a cuckold’s horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O, an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me! Go to, thou hast it _ad dunghill_, at the fingers’ ends, as they say. HOLOFERNES. O, I smell false Latin! _Dunghill_ for _unguem_. ARMADO. Arts-man, preambulate. We will be singuled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain? HOLOFERNES. Or _mons_, the hill. ARMADO. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. HOLOFERNES. I do, _sans question_. ARMADO. Sir, it is the King’s most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the Princess at her pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. HOLOFERNES. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for the afternoon. The word is well culled, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure. ARMADO. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee, remember thy courtesy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head. And among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too—but let that pass. For I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder and with his royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio. But, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable! Some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world. But let that pass. The very all of all is—but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy—that the King would have me present the Princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. HOLOFERNES. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, the King’s command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the Princess, I say, none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. NATHANIEL. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? HOLOFERNES. Joshua, yourself; myself; and this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus. This swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules. ARMADO. Pardon, sir; error. He is not quantity enough for that Worthy’s thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club. HOLOFERNES. Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority. His enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose. MOTH. An excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry “Well done, Hercules, now thou crushest the snake!” That is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. ARMADO. For the rest of the Worthies? HOLOFERNES. I will play three myself. MOTH. Thrice-worthy gentleman! ARMADO. Shall I tell you a thing? HOLOFERNES. We attend. ARMADO. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow. HOLOFERNES. _Via_, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while. DULL. Nor understood none neither, sir. HOLOFERNES. _Allons!_ we will employ thee. DULL. I’ll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play on the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. HOLOFERNES. Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. Before the Princess’s pavilion Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Katharine and Maria. PRINCESS. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in. A lady walled about with diamonds! Look you what I have from the loving King. ROSALINE. Madam, came nothing else along with that? PRINCESS. Nothing but this? Yes, as much love in rhyme As would be crammed up in a sheet of paper Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name. ROSALINE. That was the way to make his godhead wax, For he hath been five thousand years a boy. KATHARINE. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. ROSALINE. You’ll ne’er be friends with him. He killed your sister. KATHARINE. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died. Had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died. And so may you, for a light heart lives long. ROSALINE. What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word? KATHARINE. A light condition in a beauty dark. ROSALINE. We need more light to find your meaning out. KATHARINE. You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff; Therefore I’ll darkly end the argument. ROSALINE. Look what you do, you do it still i’ th’ dark. KATHARINE. So do not you, for you are a light wench. ROSALINE. Indeed, I weigh not you, and therefore light. KATHARINE. You weigh me not? O, that’s you care not for me. ROSALINE. Great reason, for past cure is still past care. PRINCESS. Well bandied both; a set of wit well played. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too. Who sent it? And what is it? ROSALINE. I would you knew. An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great. Be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne; The numbers true, and, were the numbering too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground. I am compared to twenty thousand fairs. O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter. PRINCESS. Anything like? ROSALINE. Much in the letters, nothing in the praise. PRINCESS. Beauteous as ink: a good conclusion. KATHARINE. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. ROSALINE. ’Ware pencils, how! Let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter. O, that your face were not so full of O’s! PRINCESS. A pox of that jest! And beshrew all shrews. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine? KATHARINE. Madam, this glove. PRINCESS. Did he not send you twain? KATHARINE. Yes, madam, and moreover, Some thousand verses of a faithful lover. A huge translation of hypocrisy, Vilely compiled, profound simplicity. MARIA. This, and these pearls, to me sent Longaville. The letter is too long by half a mile. PRINCESS. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart The chain were longer and the letter short? MARIA. Ay, or I would these hands might never part. PRINCESS. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. ROSALINE. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. That same Berowne I’ll torture ere I go. O that I knew he were but in by th’ week! How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek, And wait the season, and observe the times, And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes, And shape his service wholly to my hests, And make him proud to make me proud that jests! So pair-taunt-like would I o’ersway his state, That he should be my fool, and I his fate. PRINCESS. None are so surely caught, when they are catched, As wit turned fool. Folly, in wisdom hatched, Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool. ROSALINE. The blood of youth burns not with such excess As gravity’s revolt to wantonness. MARIA. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As fool’ry in the wise when wit doth dote, Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. Enter Boyet. PRINCESS. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. BOYET. O, I am stabbed with laughter! Where’s her Grace? PRINCESS. Thy news, Boyet? BOYET. Prepare, madam, prepare! Arm, wenches, arm! Encounters mounted are Against your peace. Love doth approach disguised, Armed in arguments. You’ll be surprised. Muster your wits, stand in your own defence, Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. PRINCESS. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say. BOYET. Under the cool shade of a sycamore I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour, When, lo, to interrupt my purposed rest, Toward that shade I might behold addressed The King and his companions. Warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear: That, by and by, disguised they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page That well by heart hath conned his embassage. Action and accent did they teach him there: “Thus must thou speak,” and “thus thy body bear.” And ever and anon they made a doubt Presence majestical would put him out; “For,” quoth the King, “an angel shalt thou see; Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.” The boy replied “An angel is not evil; I should have feared her had she been a devil.” With that all laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. One rubbed his elbow thus, and fleered, and swore A better speech was never spoke before. Another with his finger and his thumb Cried “_Via_, we will do ’t, come what will come.” The third he capered, and cried “All goes well!” The fourth turned on the toe, and down he fell. With that they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous appears, To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears. PRINCESS. But what, but what, come they to visit us? BOYET. They do, they do, and are apparelled thus, Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I guess. Their purpose is to parley, court, and dance, And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress, which they’ll know By favours several which they did bestow. PRINCESS. And will they so? The gallants shall be tasked; For, ladies, we will every one be masked, And not a man of them shall have the grace, Despite of suit, to see a lady’s face. Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, And then the King will court thee for his dear. Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine, So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline. And change you favours too; so shall your loves Woo contrary, deceived by these removes. ROSALINE. Come on, then, wear the favours most in sight. KATHARINE. But in this changing, what is your intent? PRINCESS. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs. They do it but in mocking merriment, And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook, and so be mocked withal Upon the next occasion that we meet, With visages displayed to talk and greet. ROSALINE. But shall we dance, if they desire us to’t? PRINCESS. No, to the death we will not move a foot, Nor to their penned speech render we no grace, But while ’tis spoke each turn away her face. BOYET. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part. PRINCESS. Therefore I do it, and I make no doubt The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out. There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown, To make theirs ours and ours none but our own. So shall we stay, mocking intended game, And they, well mocked, depart away with shame. [_Sound trumpet, within._] BOYET. The trumpet sounds. Be masked; the maskers come. [_The Ladies mask._] Enter Blackamoors with music, Moth, with a speech, the King, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine disguised. MOTH. _All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!_ BOYET. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. MOTH. _A holy parcel of the fairest dames_ [_The Ladies turn their backs to him._] _That ever turned their_—backs—_to mortal views!_ BEROWNE. _Their eyes_, villain, _their eyes._ MOTH. _That ever turned their eyes to mortal views. Out_— BOYET. True; out indeed. MOTH. _Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe Not to behold_— BEROWNE. _Once to behold_, rogue! MOTH. _Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes— With your sun-beamed eyes_— BOYET. They will not answer to that epithet. You were best call it “daughter-beamed eyes”. MOTH. They do not mark me, and that brings me out. BEROWNE. Is this your perfectness? Be gone, you rogue! [_Exit Moth._] ROSALINE. What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet. If they do speak our language, ’tis our will That some plain man recount their purposes. Know what they would. BOYET. What would you with the Princess? BEROWNE. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. What would they, say they? BOYET. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. Why, that they have, and bid them so be gone. BOYET. She says you have it, and you may be gone. KING. Say to her we have measured many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass. BOYET. They say that they have measured many a mile To tread a measure with you on this grass. ROSALINE. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile? If they have measured many, The measure then of one is easily told. BOYET. If to come hither you have measured miles, And many miles, the Princess bids you tell How many inches doth fill up one mile. BEROWNE. Tell her we measure them by weary steps. BOYET. She hears herself. ROSALINE. How many weary steps Of many weary miles you have o’ergone Are numbered in the travel of one mile? BEROWNE. We number nothing that we spend for you. Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without account. Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, That we, like savages, may worship it. ROSALINE. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. KING. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do! Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine, Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne. ROSALINE. O vain petitioner! Beg a greater matter! Thou now requests but moonshine in the water. KING. Then in our measure do but vouchsafe one change. Thou bidd’st me beg; this begging is not strange. ROSALINE. Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon. [_Music plays._] Not yet? No dance! Thus change I like the moon. KING. Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged? ROSALINE. You took the moon at full, but now she’s changed. KING. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. The music plays, vouchsafe some motion to it. ROSALINE. Our ears vouchsafe it. KING. But your legs should do it. ROSALINE. Since you are strangers and come here by chance, We’ll not be nice. Take hands. We will not dance. KING. Why take we hands then? ROSALINE. Only to part friends. Curtsy, sweet hearts, and so the measure ends. KING. More measure of this measure! Be not nice. ROSALINE. We can afford no more at such a price. KING. Price you yourselves? What buys your company? ROSALINE. Your absence only. KING. That can never be. ROSALINE. Then cannot we be bought. And so adieu— Twice to your visor, and half once to you! KING. If you deny to dance, let’s hold more chat. ROSALINE. In private then. KING. I am best pleased with that. [_They converse apart._] BEROWNE. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. PRINCESS. Honey, and milk, and sugar: there is three. BEROWNE. Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice, Metheglin, wort, and malmsey. Well run, dice! There’s half a dozen sweets. PRINCESS. Seventh sweet, adieu. Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you. BEROWNE. One word in secret. PRINCESS. Let it not be sweet. BEROWNE. Thou griev’st my gall. PRINCESS. Gall! Bitter. BEROWNE. Therefore meet. [_They converse apart._] DUMAINE. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word? MARIA. Name it. DUMAINE. Fair lady— MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord! Take that for your “fair lady”. DUMAINE. Please it you, As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu. [_They converse apart._] KATHARINE. What, was your visor made without a tongue? LONGAVILLE. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. KATHARINE. O, for your reason! Quickly, sir, I long. LONGAVILLE. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless visor half. KATHARINE. “Veal”, quoth the Dutchman. Is not veal a calf? LONGAVILLE. A calf, fair lady? KATHARINE. No, a fair lord calf. LONGAVILLE. Let’s part the word. KATHARINE. No, I’ll not be your half. Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox. LONGAVILLE. Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks. Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so. KATHARINE. Then die a calf before your horns do grow. LONGAVILLE. One word in private with you ere I die. KATHARINE. Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry. [_They converse apart._] BOYET. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor’s edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen; Above the sense of sense, so sensible Seemeth their conference. Their conceits have wings Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. ROSALINE. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off. BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! KING. Farewell, mad wenches. You have simple wits. [_Exeunt King, Lords and Blackamoors._] PRINCESS. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. Are these the breed of wits so wondered at? BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out. ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. PRINCESS. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight? Or ever but in vizors show their faces? This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite. ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases. The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. PRINCESS. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. MARIA. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword. “_Non point_,” quoth I; my servant straight was mute. KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said I came o’er his heart; And trow you what he called me? PRINCESS. Qualm, perhaps. KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith. PRINCESS. Go, sickness as thou art! ROSALINE. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? The King is my love sworn. PRINCESS. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born. MARIA. Dumaine is mine as sure as bark on tree. BOYET. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear. Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes, for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity. PRINCESS. Will they return? BOYET. They will, they will, God knows, And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows. Therefore, change favours and, when they repair, Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. PRINCESS. How “blow”? How “blow”? Speak to be understood. BOYET. Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud. Dismasked, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. PRINCESS. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo? ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you’ll be advised, Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguised. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguised like Muscovites in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penned, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. BOYET. Ladies, withdraw. The gallants are at hand. PRINCESS. Whip to our tents, as roes run o’er the land. [_Exeunt Princess, Rosaline, Katharine and Maria._] Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine as themselves. KING. Fair sir, God save you. Where’s the Princess? BOYET. Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty Command me any service to her thither? KING. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word. BOYET. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord. [_Exit._] BEROWNE. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please. He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve. Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. He can carve too, and lisp. Why, this is he That kissed his hand away in courtesy. This is the ape of form, Monsieur the Nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms. Nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet. The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flower that smiles on everyone, To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone; And consciences that will not die in debt Pay him the due of “honey-tongued Boyet”. KING. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, That put Armado’s page out of his part! Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine with Boyet. BEROWNE. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou Till this man showed thee, and what art thou now? KING. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day. PRINCESS. “Fair” in “all hail” is foul, as I conceive. KING. Construe my speeches better, if you may. PRINCESS. Then wish me better. I will give you leave. KING. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court. Vouchsafe it then. PRINCESS. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow. Nor God nor I delights in perjured men. KING. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke. The virtue of your eye must break my oath. PRINCESS. You nickname virtue: “vice” you should have spoke; For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house’s guest, So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity. KING. O, you have lived in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. PRINCESS. Not so, my lord. It is not so, I swear. We have had pastimes here and pleasant game. A mess of Russians left us but of late. KING. How, madam? Russians? PRINCESS. Ay, in truth, my lord. Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. ROSALINE. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord. My lady, to the manner of the days, In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit. Here they stayed an hour And talked apace; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. BEROWNE. This jest is dry to me. My gentle sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish. When we greet, With eyes’ best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye, By light we lose light. Your capacity Is of that nature that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor. ROSALINE. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye— BEROWNE. I am a fool, and full of poverty. ROSALINE. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. BEROWNE. O, I am yours, and all that I possess. ROSALINE. All the fool mine? BEROWNE. I cannot give you less. ROSALINE. Which of the visors was it that you wore? BEROWNE. Where, when, what visor? Why demand you this? ROSALINE. There, then, that visor; that superfluous case That hid the worse and showed the better face. KING. We are descried. They’ll mock us now downright. DUMAINE. Let us confess and turn it to a jest. PRINCESS. Amazed, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad? ROSALINE. Help! Hold his brows! He’ll swoon. Why look you pale? Seasick, I think, coming from Muscovy. BEROWNE. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury. Can any face of brass hold longer out? Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me. Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout, Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance, Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit, And I will wish thee never more to dance, Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O, never will I trust to speeches penned, Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue, Nor never come in visor to my friend, Nor woo in rhyme like a blind harper’s song. Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation, Figures pedantical: these summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation. I do forswear them, and I here protest, By this white glove—how white the hand, God knows!— Henceforth my wooing mind shall be expressed In russet yeas and honest kersey noes. And, to begin: wench, so God help me, law, My love to thee is sound, _sans_ crack or flaw. ROSALINE. _Sans_ “_sans_,” I pray you. BEROWNE. Yet I have a trick Of the old rage. Bear with me, I am sick; I’ll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see: Write “Lord have mercy on us” on those three. They are infected; in their hearts it lies; They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes. These lords are visited. You are not free, For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see. PRINCESS. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us. BEROWNE. Our states are forfeit. Seek not to undo us. ROSALINE. It is not so. For how can this be true, That you stand forfeit, being those that sue? BEROWNE. Peace! for I will not have to do with you. ROSALINE. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. BEROWNE. Speak for yourselves. My wit is at an end. KING. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression Some fair excuse. PRINCESS. The fairest is confession. Were not you here but even now, disguised? KING. Madam, I was. PRINCESS. And were you well advised? KING. I was, fair madam. PRINCESS. When you then were here, What did you whisper in your lady’s ear? KING. That more than all the world I did respect her. PRINCESS. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her. KING. Upon mine honour, no. PRINCESS. Peace, peace, forbear! Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. KING. Despise me when I break this oath of mine. PRINCESS. I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear? ROSALINE. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world; adding thereto, moreover, That he would wed me, or else die my lover. PRINCESS. God give thee joy of him! The noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word. KING. What mean you, madam? By my life, my troth, I never swore this lady such an oath. ROSALINE. By heaven, you did! And to confirm it plain, You gave me this. But take it, sir, again. KING. My faith and this the Princess I did give. I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. PRINCESS. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear, And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear. What, will you have me, or your pearl again? BEROWNE. Neither of either; I remit both twain. I see the trick on’t. Here was a consent, Knowing aforehand of our merriment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy. Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick, That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she’s disposed, Told our intents before; which once disclosed, The ladies did change favours, and then we, Following the signs, wooed but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror, We are again forsworn in will and error. Much upon this ’tis. [_To Boyet_.] And might not you Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue? Do not you know my lady’s foot by th’ squier, And laugh upon the apple of her eye? And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, Holding a trencher, jesting merrily? You put our page out. Go, you are allowed; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you? There’s an eye Wounds like a leaden sword. BOYET. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. BEROWNE. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done. Enter Costard. Welcome, pure wit! Thou part’st a fair fray. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, they would know Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no. BEROWNE. What, are there but three? COSTARD. No, sir; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three. BEROWNE. And three times thrice is nine. COSTARD. Not so, sir, under correction, sir, I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know. I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir— BEROWNE. Is not nine? COSTARD. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount. BEROWNE. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir. BEROWNE. How much is it? COSTARD. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount. For mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man—Pompion the Great, sir. BEROWNE. Art thou one of the Worthies? COSTARD. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompey the Great. For mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him. BEROWNE. Go bid them prepare. COSTARD. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care. [_Exit Costard._] KING. Berowne, they will shame us. Let them not approach. BEROWNE. We are shame-proof, my lord, and ’tis some policy To have one show worse than the King’s and his company. KING. I say they shall not come. PRINCESS. Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now. That sport best pleases that doth least know how, Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Die in the zeal of that which it presents; Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perish in their birth. BEROWNE. A right description of our sport, my lord. Enter Armado, the Braggart. ARMADO. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. [_Armado and King talk apart._] PRINCESS. Doth this man serve God? BEROWNE. Why ask you? PRINCESS. He speaks not like a man of God his making. ARMADO. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too, too vain, too, too vain. But we will put it, as they say, to _fortuna de la guerra_. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement! [_Exit._] KING. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus. _And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive, These four will change habits and present the other five._ BEROWNE. There is five in the first show. KING. You are deceived. ’Tis not so. BEROWNE. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy. Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. KING. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain. Enter Costard as Pompey. COSTARD. _I Pompey am_— BEROWNE. You lie, you are not he. COSTARD. _I Pompey am_— BOYET. With leopard’s head on knee. BEROWNE. Well said, old mocker. I must needs be friends with thee. COSTARD. _I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big._ DUMAINE. The “Great”. COSTARD. It is “Great”, sir; _Pompey surnamed the Great, That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat. And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France._ If your ladyship would say, “Thanks, Pompey”, I had done. PRINCESS. Great thanks, great Pompey. COSTARD. ’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in “Great”. BEROWNE. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy. Enter Nathaniel, the Curate, for Alexander. NATHANIEL. _When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might. My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander._ BOYET. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right. BEROWNE. Your nose smells “no” in this, most tender-smelling knight. PRINCESS. The conqueror is dismayed. Proceed, good Alexander. NATHANIEL. _When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander_— BOYET. Most true; ’tis right. You were so, Alisander. BEROWNE. Pompey the Great— COSTARD. Your servant, and Costard. BEROWNE. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander. COSTARD. [_To Sir Nathaniel_.] O sir, you have overthrown Alisander the Conqueror. You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this. Your lion, that holds his pole-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax. He will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak? Run away for shame, Alisander. [_Nathaniel retires_.] There, an’t shall please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander, alas you see how ’tis—a little o’erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort. PRINCESS. Stand aside, good Pompey. Enter Holofernes, the Pedant, as Judas, and Moth, the Boy, as Hercules. HOLOFERNES. _Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club killed Cerberus, that three-headed_ canus, _And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp, Thus did he strangle serpents in his_ manus. Quoniam _he seemeth in minority_, Ergo _I come with this apology._ Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. [_Moth retires._] _Judas I am._— DUMAINE. A Judas! HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. _Judas I am, ycleped Maccabaeus._ DUMAINE. Judas Maccabaeus clipped is plain Judas. BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas? HOLOFERNES. _Judas I am_— DUMAINE. The more shame for you, Judas. HOLOFERNES. What mean you, sir? BOYET. To make Judas hang himself. HOLOFERNES. Begin, sir; you are my elder. BEROWNE. Well followed. Judas was hanged on an elder. HOLOFERNES. I will not be put out of countenance. BEROWNE. Because thou hast no face. HOLOFERNES. What is this? BOYET. A cittern-head. DUMAINE. The head of a bodkin. BEROWNE. A death’s face in a ring. LONGAVILLE. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. BOYET. The pommel of Caesar’s falchion. DUMAINE. The carved-bone face on a flask. BEROWNE. Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch. DUMAINE. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. BEROWNE. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now forward, for we have put thee in countenance. HOLOFERNES. You have put me out of countenance. BEROWNE. False. We have given thee faces. HOLOFERNES. But you have outfaced them all. BEROWNE. An thou wert a lion, we would do so. BOYET. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude. Nay, why dost thou stay? DUMAINE. For the latter end of his name. BEROWNE. For the ass to the Jude? Give it him. Jud-as, away! HOLOFERNES. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. BOYET. A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark; he may stumble. [_Exit Holofernes._] PRINCESS. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited! Enter Armado, the Braggart, as Hector. BEROWNE. Hide thy head, Achilles. Here comes Hector in arms. DUMAINE. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry. KING. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this. BOYET. But is this Hector? DUMAINE. I think Hector was not so clean-timbered. LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector’s. DUMAINE. More calf, certain. BOYET. No, he is best endued in the small. BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector. DUMAINE. He’s a god or a painter, for he makes faces. ARMADO. _The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift_— DUMAINE. A gilt nutmeg. BEROWNE. A lemon. LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves. DUMAINE. No, cloven. ARMADO. Peace! _The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; A man so breathed that certain he would fight, yea, From morn till night, out of his pavilion. I am that flower_— DUMAINE. That mint. LONGAVILLE. That columbine. ARMADO. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. LONGAVILLE. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. DUMAINE. Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound. ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten. Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried. When he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [_To the Princess_.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. PRINCESS. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. ARMADO. I do adore thy sweet Grace’s slipper. BOYET. Loves her by the foot. DUMAINE. He may not by the yard. ARMADO. _This Hector far surmounted Hannibal. The party is gone_— COSTARD. Fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way. ARMADO. What meanest thou? COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the poor wench is cast away. She’s quick; the child brags in her belly already. ’Tis yours. ARMADO. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die. COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him. DUMAINE. Most rare Pompey! BOYET. Renowned Pompey! BEROWNE. Greater than “Great”! Great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! DUMAINE. Hector trembles. BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on, stir them on! DUMAINE. Hector will challenge him. BEROWNE. Ay, if he have no more man’s blood in his belly than will sup a flea. ARMADO. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man. I’ll slash, I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. DUMAINE. Room for the incensed Worthies! COSTARD. I’ll do it in my shirt. DUMAINE. Most resolute Pompey! MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation. ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me. I will not combat in my shirt. DUMAINE. You may not deny it. Pompey hath made the challenge. ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. BEROWNE. What reason have you for ’t? ARMADO. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance. BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that he wears next his heart for a favour. Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcadé. MARCADÉ. God save you, madam. PRINCESS. Welcome, Marcadé, But that thou interruptest our merriment. MARCADÉ. I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father— PRINCESS. Dead, for my life! MARCADÉ. Even so. My tale is told. BEROWNE. Worthies away! The scene begins to cloud. ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. [_Exeunt Worthies._] KING. How fares your Majesty? PRINCESS. Boyet, prepare. I will away tonight. KING. Madam, not so. I do beseech you stay. PRINCESS. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours, and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath; your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtained. KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed, And often at his very loose decides That which long process could not arbitrate. And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince, Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow jostle it From what it purposed; since to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found. PRINCESS. I understand you not. My griefs are double. BEROWNE. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the King. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Played foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies, Hath much deformed us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents; And what in us hath seemed ridiculous— As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, Formed by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms, Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance; Which parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both—fair ladies, you. And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. PRINCESS. We have received your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And in our maiden council rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time. But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment. DUMAINE. Our letters, madam, showed much more than jest. LONGAVILLE. So did our looks. ROSALINE. We did not quote them so. KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. PRINCESS. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjured much, Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this: If for my love—as there is no such cause— You will do aught, this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust, but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world, There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood; If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, But that it bear this trial, and last love; Then, at the expiration of the year, Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine. And, till that instance, shut My woeful self up in a mournful house, Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father’s death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither entitled in the other’s heart. KING. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! Hence hermit, then. My heart is in thy breast. [_They converse apart_] DUMAINE. And what to me, my love? But what to me? A wife? KATHARINE. A beard, fair health, and honesty; With threefold love I wish you all these three. DUMAINE. O, shall I say, “I thank you, gentle wife”? KATHARINE. No so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day I’ll mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some. DUMAINE. I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then. KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. [_They converse apart_] LONGAVILLE. What says Maria? MARIA. At the twelvemonth’s end I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend. LONGAVILLE. I’ll stay with patience, but the time is long. MARIA. The liker you; few taller are so young. [_They converse apart_] BEROWNE. Studies my lady? Mistress, look on me. Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble suit attends thy answer there. Impose some service on me for thy love. ROSALINE. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you; and the world’s large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, Which you on all estates will execute That lie within the mercy of your wit. To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won, You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit To enforce the pained impotent to smile. BEROWNE. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be, it is impossible. Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. ROSALINE. Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it. Then, if sickly ears, Deafed with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal; But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation. BEROWNE. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall, I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. PRINCESS. [_To the King_.] Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave. KING. No, madam, we will bring you on your way. BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play. Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then ’twill end. BEROWNE. That’s too long for a play. Enter Armado, the Braggart. ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me— PRINCESS. Was not that Hector? DUMAINE. The worthy knight of Troy. ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three year. But, most esteemed Greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show. KING. Call them forth quickly; we will do so. ARMADO. Holla! Approach. Enter all. This side is _Hiems_, Winter; this _Ver_, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, th’ other by the cuckoo. _Ver_, begin. The Song SPRING. When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men; for thus sings he: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear. When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he: “Cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear. WINTER. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl: “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!” A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl: “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!” A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. ARMADO. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You that way, we this way. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH Contents ACT I Scene I. An open Place. Scene II. A Camp near Forres. Scene III. A heath. Scene IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle. Scene VI. The same. Before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. ACT II Scene I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. Scene II. The same. Scene III. The same. Scene IV. The same. Without the Castle. ACT III Scene I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. Scene III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. Scene IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. Scene V. The heath. Scene VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. ACT IV Scene I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling. Scene II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle. Scene III. England. Before the King’s Palace. ACT V Scene I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene II. The Country near Dunsinane. Scene III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view. Scene V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. Scene VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. Scene VIII. The same. Another part of the field. Dramatis Personæ DUNCAN, King of Scotland. MALCOLM, his Son. DONALBAIN, his Son. MACBETH, General in the King’s Army. BANQUO, General in the King’s Army. MACDUFF, Nobleman of Scotland. LENNOX, Nobleman of Scotland. ROSS, Nobleman of Scotland. MENTEITH, Nobleman of Scotland. ANGUS, Nobleman of Scotland. CAITHNESS, Nobleman of Scotland. FLEANCE, Son to Banquo. SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, General of the English Forces. YOUNG SIWARD, his Son. SEYTON, an Officer attending on Macbeth. BOY, Son to Macduff. An English Doctor. A Scottish Doctor. A Soldier. A Porter. An Old Man. LADY MACBETH. LADY MACDUFF. Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. HECATE, and three Witches. Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants and Messengers. The Ghost of Banquo and several other Apparitions. SCENE: In the end of the Fourth Act, in England; through the rest of the Play, in Scotland; and chiefly at Macbeth’s Castle. ACT I SCENE I. An open Place. Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches. FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin! SECOND WITCH. Paddock calls. THIRD WITCH. Anon. ALL. Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Captain. DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought ’Gainst my captivity.—Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SOLDIER. Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald (Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him) from the Western Isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show’d like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too weak; For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name), Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish’d steel, Which smok’d with bloody execution, Like Valour’s minion, carv’d out his passage, Till he fac’d the slave; Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chops, And fix’d his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun ’gins his reflection Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break, So from that spring, whence comfort seem’d to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valour arm’d, Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay’d not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg’d with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell— But I am faint, my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds: They smack of honour both.—Go, get him surgeons. [_Exit Captain, attended._] Enter Ross and Angus. Who comes here? MALCOLM. The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence cam’st thou, worthy thane? ROSS. From Fife, great King, Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor, The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s Inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I’ll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch’d, and mounch’d, and mounch’d. “Give me,” quoth I. “Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ _Tiger:_ But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do. SECOND WITCH. I’ll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Th’art kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other, And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I’ the shipman’s card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid. Weary sev’n-nights nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot’s thumb, Wrack’d as homeward he did come. [_Drum within._] THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The Weird Sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace!—the charm’s wound up. Enter Macbeth and Banquo. MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is’t call’d to Forres?—What are these, So wither’d, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o’ th’ earth, And yet are on’t?—Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can;—what are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?—I’ th’ name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?—Speak, I charge you. [_Witches vanish._] BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d? MACBETH. Into the air; and what seem’d corporal, Melted as breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be king. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here? Enter Ross and Angus. ROSS. The King hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth, The news of thy success, and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc’d with that, In viewing o’er the rest o’ th’ selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as tale Came post with post; and everyone did bear Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, And pour’d them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee from our royal master thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And, for an earnest of a greater honour, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow’d robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet, But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin’d With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not; But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [_Aside._] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind. [_To Ross and Angus._] Thanks for your pains. [_To Banquo._] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis’d no less to them? BANQUO. That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s In deepest consequence.— Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [_Aside._] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.— [_Aside._] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smother’d in surmise, And nothing is but what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner’s rapt. MACBETH. [_Aside._] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honours come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [_Aside._] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register’d where every day I turn The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the King.— Think upon what hath chanc’d; and at more time, The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough.—Come, friends. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox and Attendants. DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return’d? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die, who did report, That very frankly he confess’d his treasons, Implor’d your Highness’ pardon, and set forth A deep repentance. Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d As ’twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There’s no art To find the mind’s construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust. Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus. O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv’d; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honour. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labour To make thee full of growing.—Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv’d, nor must be known No less to have done so, let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.—Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honour must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.—From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labour, which is not us’d for you: I’ll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [_Aside._] The Prince of Cumberland!—That is a step On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [_Exit._] DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed. It is a banquet to me. Let’s after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle. Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter. LADY MACBETH. “They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfect’st report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hailed me, ‘Thane of Cawdor’; by which title, before, these Weird Sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with ‘Hail, king that shalt be!’ This have I thought good to deliver thee (my dearest partner of greatness) that thou might’st not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.” Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou’dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, “Thus thou must do,” if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown’d withal. Enter a Messenger. What is your tidings? MESSENGER. The King comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou’rt mad to say it. Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so, Would have inform’d for preparation. MESSENGER. So please you, it is true. Our thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending. He brings great news. [_Exit Messenger._] The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, “Hold, hold!” Enter Macbeth. Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. Tomorrow, as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night’s great business into my dispatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus and Attendants. DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d The air is delicate. Enter Lady Macbeth. DUNCAN. See, see, our honour’d hostess!— The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ’ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service, In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your Majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap’d up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where’s the Thane of Cawdor? We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your Highness’ pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth. MACBETH. If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well It were done quickly. If th’ assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch With his surcease success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all—here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We’d jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice Commends th’ ingredience of our poison’d chalice To our own lips. He’s here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other— Enter Lady Macbeth. How now! what news? LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp’d. Why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he ask’d for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour’d me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress’d yourself? Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” Like the poor cat i’ th’ adage? MACBETH. Pr’ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast was’t, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep (Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey Soundly invite him), his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon Th’ unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv’d, When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us’d their very daggers, That they have done’t? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch before him. BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take’t, ’tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.—There’s husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose! Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch. Give me my sword.—Who’s there? MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King’s abed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your offices. This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepar’d, Our will became the servant to defect, Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All’s well. I dreamt last night of the three Weird Sisters: To you they have show’d some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind’st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent, when ’tis, It shall make honour for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell’d. MACBETH. Good repose the while! BANQUO. Thanks, sir: the like to you. [_Exeunt Banquo and Fleance._] MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [_Exit Servant._] Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:— I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before.—There’s no such thing. It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain’d sleep. Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s off’rings; and wither’d murder, Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [_A bell rings._] I go, and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. Enter Lady Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench’d them hath given me fire.—Hark!—Peace! It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern’st good night. He is about it. The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [_Within._] Who’s there?—what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d, And ’tis not done. Th’ attempt and not the deed Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss ’em.—Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done’t.—My husband! Enter Macbeth. MACBETH. I have done the deed.—Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark!—Who lies i’ th’ second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [_Looking on his hands._] LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cried, “Murder!” That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them. But they did say their prayers, and address’d them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodg’d together. MACBETH. One cried, “God bless us!” and, “Amen,” the other, As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands. List’ning their fear, I could not say “Amen,” When they did say, “God bless us.” LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce “Amen”? I had most need of blessing, and “Amen” Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the house: “Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more!” LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.— Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I’ll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on’t again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures. ’Tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. [_Exit. Knocking within._] MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is’t with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. Enter Lady Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [_Knocking within._] I hear knocking At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.—[_Knocking within._] Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers. Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself. [_Knocking within._] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. Enter a Porter. Knocking within. PORTER. Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock, knock. Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Belzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you’ll sweat for’t. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ th’ other devil’s name? Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? Faith, here’s an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock. Never at quiet! What are you?—But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to th’ everlasting bonfire. [_Knocking._] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. [_Opens the gate._] Enter Macduff and Lennox. MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i’ the very throat on me; but I requited him for his lie; and (I think) being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring? Enter Macbeth. Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes. LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good morrow, both! MACDUFF. Is the King stirring, worthy thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him. I have almost slipp’d the hour. MACBETH. I’ll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet ’tis one. MACBETH. The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I’ll make so bold to call. For ’tis my limited service. [_Exit Macduff._] LENNOX. Goes the King hence today? MACBETH. He does. He did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down and, as they say, Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus’d events, New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. ’Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. Enter Macduff. MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee! MACBETH, LENNOX. What’s the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence The life o’ th’ building. MACBETH. What is’t you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak. See, and then speak yourselves. [_Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox._] Awake, awake!— Ring the alarum bell.—Murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, And look on death itself! Up, up, and see The great doom’s image. Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! [_Alarum-bell rings._] Enter Lady Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, ’Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman’s ear, Would murder as it fell. Enter Banquo. O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master’s murder’d! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel anywhere.— Dear Duff, I pr’ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. Enter Macbeth and Lennox with Ross. MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. Enter Malcolm and Donalbain. DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know’t: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d. MACDUFF. Your royal father’s murder’d. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t: Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip’d, we found Upon their pillows. They star’d, and were distracted; No man’s life was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: Th’ expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood; And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech’d with gore. Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make’s love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let’s away. Our tears are not yet brew’d. MALCOLM. Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady:— [_Lady Macbeth is carried out._] And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i’ th’ hall together. ALL. Well contented. [_Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain._] MALCOLM. What will you do? Let’s not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murderous shaft that’s shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away. There’s warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same. Without the Castle. Enter Ross and an Old Man. OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well, Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ha, good father, Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, Threatens his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp. Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it? OLD MAN. ’Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d. ROSS. And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain) Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. ’Tis said they eat each other. ROSS. They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look’d upon’t. Here comes the good Macduff. Enter Macduff. How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see you not? ROSS. Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? MACDUFF. They were suborn’d. Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons, Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS. ’Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up Thine own life’s means!—Then ’tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already nam’d; and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan’s body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin, I’ll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there. Adieu! Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS. Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God’s benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes! [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Enter Banquo. BANQUO. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the Weird Women promis’d; and, I fear, Thou play’dst most foully for’t; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine) Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush; no more. Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, and Attendants. MACBETH. Here’s our chief guest. LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming. MACBETH. Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I’ll request your presence. BANQUO. Let your Highness Command upon me, to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit. MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desir’d your good advice (Which still hath been both grave and prosperous) In this day’s council; but we’ll take tomorrow. Is’t far you ride? BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time ’Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain. MACBETH. Fail not our feast. BANQUO. My lord, I will not. MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow’d In England and in Ireland; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention. But of that tomorrow, When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon’s. MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.— [_Exit Banquo._] Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone: while then, God be with you. [_Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, &c._] Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men Our pleasure? SERVANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us. [_Exit Servant._] To be thus is nothing, But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him My genius is rebuk’d; as, it is said, Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail’d him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac’d a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench’d with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If’t be so, For Banquo’s issue have I fil’d my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d; Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to th’ utterance!—Who’s there?— Enter Servant with two Murderers. Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. [_Exit Servant._] Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURDERER. It was, so please your Highness. MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider’d of my speeches? Know That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune, which you thought had been Our innocent self? This I made good to you In our last conference, pass’d in probation with you How you were borne in hand, how cross’d, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion craz’d Say, “Thus did Banquo.” FIRST MURDERER. You made it known to us. MACBETH. I did so; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospell’d, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave, And beggar’d yours forever? FIRST MURDERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu’d file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos’d; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i’ th’ worst rank of manhood, say’t; And I will put that business in your bosoms, Whose execution takes your enemy off, Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect. SECOND MURDERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Hath so incens’d that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. FIRST MURDERER. And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on’t. MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy. BOTH MURDERERS. True, my lord. MACBETH. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near’st of life; and though I could With barefac’d power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down: and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love, Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons. SECOND MURDERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. FIRST MURDERER. Though our lives— MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves, Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ th’ time, The moment on’t; for’t must be done tonight And something from the palace; always thought That I require a clearness. And with him (To leave no rubs nor botches in the work) Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart. I’ll come to you anon. BOTH MURDERERS. We are resolv’d, my lord. MACBETH. I’ll call upon you straight: abide within. [_Exeunt Murderers._] It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out tonight. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant. LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again tonight. LADY MACBETH. Say to the King, I would attend his leisure For a few words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. [_Exit._] LADY MACBETH. Naught’s had, all’s spent, Where our desire is got without content: ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Enter Macbeth. How now, my lord, why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making, Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what’s done is done. MACBETH. We have scorch’d the snake, not kill’d it. She’ll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing Can touch him further. LADY MACBETH. Come on, Gently my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight. MACBETH. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you. Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honours in these flattering streams, And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. LADY MACBETH. But in them nature’s copy’s not eterne. MACBETH. There’s comfort yet; they are assailable. Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown His cloister’d flight, ere to black Hecate’s summons The shard-born beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What’s to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!—Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to th’ rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. So, pr’ythee, go with me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. Enter three Murderers. FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [_Within._] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURDERER. Then ’tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i’ th’ court. FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch. SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light! THIRD MURDERER. ’Tis he. FIRST MURDERER. Stand to’t. BANQUO. It will be rain tonight. FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down. [_Assaults Banquo._] BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge—O slave! [_Dies. Fleance escapes._] THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURDERER. Was’t not the way? THIRD MURDERER. There’s but one down: the son is fled. SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair. FIRST MURDERER. Well, let’s away, and say how much is done. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords and Attendants. MACBETH. You know your own degrees, sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your Majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome. Enter first Murderer to the door. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts’ thanks. Both sides are even: here I’ll sit i’ th’ midst. Be large in mirth; anon we’ll drink a measure The table round. There’s blood upon thy face. MURDERER. ’Tis Banquo’s then. MACBETH. ’Tis better thee without than he within. Is he dispatch’d? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut. That I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o’ th’ cut-throats; Yet he’s good that did the like for Fleance: If thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scap’d. MACBETH. Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe? MURDERER. Ay, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that. There the grown serpent lies; the worm that’s fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for th’ present.—Get thee gone; tomorrow We’ll hear, ourselves, again. [_Exit Murderer._] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch’d, while ’tis a-making, ’Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth’s place. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!— Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May’t please your Highness sit. MACBETH. Here had we now our country’s honour roof’d, Were the grac’d person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please’t your Highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table’s full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserv’d, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is’t that moves your Highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is not well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends. My lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well. If much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion. Feed, and regard him not.—Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts (Impostors to true fear), would well become A woman’s story at a winter’s fire, Authoris’d by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all’s done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr’ythee, see there! Behold! look! lo! how say you? Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.— If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. [_Ghost disappears._] LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann’d in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ th’ olden time, Ere humane statute purg’d the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is more strange Than such a murder is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget.— Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends. I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I’ll sit down.—Give me some wine, fill full.— I drink to the general joy o’ th’ whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here. Ghost rises again. To all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. MACBETH. Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with! LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: ’tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm’d rhinoceros, or th’ Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mock’ry, hence! [_Ghost disappears._] Why, so;—being gone, I am a man again.—Pray you, sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting With most admir’d disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch’d with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him. At once, good night:— Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good night; and better health Attend his Majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good night to all! [_Exeunt all Lords and Attendants._] MACBETH. It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret’st man of blood.—What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say’st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way; but I will send. There’s not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee’d. I will tomorrow (And betimes I will) to the Weird Sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er. Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we’ll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. We are yet but young in deed. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches meeting Hecate. FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call’d to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i’ th’ morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for th’ air; this night I’ll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon. Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vap’rous drop profound; I’ll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill’d by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear. And you all know, security Is mortals’ chiefest enemy. [_Music and song within, “Come away, come away” &c._] Hark! I am call’d; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. [_Exit._] FIRST WITCH. Come, let’s make haste; she’ll soon be back again. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Enter Lennox and another Lord. LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret farther: only, I say, Thing’s have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:—marry, he was dead:— And the right valiant Banquo walk’d too late; Whom, you may say, if’t please you, Fleance kill’d, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For ’twould have anger’d any heart alive, To hear the men deny’t. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan’s sons under his key (As, and’t please heaven, he shall not) they should find What ’twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!—for from broad words, and ’cause he fail’d His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv’d Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward That, by the help of these (with Him above To ratify the work), we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free honours, All which we pine for now. And this report Hath so exasperate the King that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did: and with an absolute “Sir, not I,” The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, “You’ll rue the time That clogs me with this answer.” LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, t’ hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come, that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs’d! LORD. I’ll send my prayers with him. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d. SECOND WITCH. Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin’d. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries:—’Tis time, ’tis time. FIRST WITCH. Round about the cauldron go; In the poison’d entrails throw.— Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ th’ charmed pot! ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg’d i’ th’ dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver’d by a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, For th’ ingredients of our cauldron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon’s blood. Then the charm is firm and good. Enter Hecate. HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains, And everyone shall share i’ th’ gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. [_Music and a song: “Black Spirits,” &c._] [_Exit Hecate._] SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, Whoever knocks! Enter Macbeth. MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is’t you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess, (Howe’er you come to know it) answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg’d, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders’ heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature’s germens tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken, answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We’ll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou’dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters? MACBETH. Call ’em, let me see ’em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow’s blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that’s sweaten From the murderer’s gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [_Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises._] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,— FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.—Dismiss me.—Enough. [_Descends._] MACBETH. Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp’d my fear aright.—But one word more. FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded. Here’s another, More potent than the first. [_Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises._] APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I’d hear thee. APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. [_Descends._] MACBETH. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I’ll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate. Thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder. [_Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises._] What is this, That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to’t. APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him. [_Descends._] MACBETH. That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellious head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac’d Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.—Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art Can tell so much, shall Banquo’s issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know. Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this? [_Hautboys._] FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! [_A show of eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following._] MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo. Down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:—and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. A third is like the former.—Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?—A fourth!—Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to th’ crack of doom? Another yet!—A seventh!—I’ll see no more:— And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry. Horrible sight!—Now I see ’tis true; For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.—What! is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so:—but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?— Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights. I’ll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay. [_Music. The Witches dance, and vanish._] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?—Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!— Come in, without there! Enter Lennox. LENNOX. What’s your Grace’s will? MACBETH. Saw you the Weird Sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No, indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn’d all those that trust them!—I did hear The galloping of horse: who was’t came by? LENNOX. ’Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England! LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o’ertook Unless the deed go with it. From this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to th’ edge o’ th’ sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!—Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle. Enter Lady Macduff her Son and Ross. LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The fits o’ th’ season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move—I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I’ll be here again. Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.—My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once. [_Exit._] LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father’s dead. And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! thou’dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for a father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you’ll buy ’em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak’st with all thy wit; And yet, i’ faith, with wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY MACDUFF. Why, one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so? LADY MACDUFF. Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Every one. SON. Who must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you’ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk’st! Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man’s advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. [_Exit._] LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm? What are these faces? Enter Murderers. FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURDERER. He’s a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear’d villain! FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg! [_Stabbing him._] Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill’d me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [_Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying “Murder!” and pursued by the Murderers._] SCENE III. England. Before the King’s Palace. Enter Malcolm and Macduff. MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom. Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell’d out Like syllable of dolour. MALCOLM. What I believe, I’ll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. MACDUFF. I am not treacherous. MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon. That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so. MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes. MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking?—I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs; The title is affeer’d.—Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think’st For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp And the rich East to boot. MALCOLM. Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed. MACDUFF. What should he be? MALCOLM. It is myself I mean; in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open’d, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d With my confineless harms. MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d In evils to top Macbeth. MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there’s no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o’erbear, That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign. MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th’ untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold—the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin’d. MALCOLM. With this there grows In my most ill-compos’d affection such A staunchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other’s house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth. MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, Of your mere own. All these are portable, With other graces weigh’d. MALCOLM. But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland! MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken. MACDUFF. Fit to govern? No, not to live.—O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter’d, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accus’d, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee, Oft’ner upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself Have banish’d me from Scotland.—O my breast, Thy hope ends here! MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil’d my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself. What I am truly, Is thine and my poor country’s to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, Already at a point, was setting forth. Now we’ll together, and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent? MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once ’Tis hard to reconcile. Enter a Doctor. MALCOLM. Well; more anon.—Comes the King forth, I pray you? DOCTOR. Ay, sir. There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. MALCOLM. I thank you, doctor. [_Exit Doctor._] MACDUFF. What’s the disease he means? MALCOLM. ’Tis call’d the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows, but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and ’tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace. Enter Ross. MACDUFF. See, who comes here? MALCOLM. My countryman; but yet I know him not. MACDUFF. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! ROSS. Sir, amen. MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did? ROSS. Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call’d our mother, but our grave, where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy. The dead man’s knell Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken. MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true! MALCOLM. What’s the newest grief? ROSS. That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MACDUFF. How does my wife? ROSS. Why, well. MACDUFF. And all my children? ROSS. Well too. MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace? ROSS. No; they were well at peace when I did leave ’em. MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes’t? ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness’d the rather, For that I saw the tyrant’s power afoot. Now is the time of help. Your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. MALCOLM. Be’t their comfort We are coming thither. Gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out. ROSS. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl’d out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. MACDUFF. What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? ROSS. No mind that’s honest But in it shares some woe, though the main part Pertains to you alone. MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it. ROSS. Your castle is surpris’d; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter’d. To relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer, To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!— What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows. Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break. MACDUFF. My children too? ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. MACDUFF. And I must be from thence! My wife kill’d too? ROSS. I have said. MALCOLM. Be comforted: Let’s make us med’cines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. MACDUFF. He has no children.—All my pretty ones? Did you say all?—O hell-kite!—All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man. MACDUFF. I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.—Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now! MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue!—But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front, Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword’s length set him; if he ’scape, Heaven forgive him too! MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman. DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his Majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me; and ’tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor anyone; having no witness to confirm my speech. Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; ’tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense are shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here’s a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! out, I say! One; two. Why, then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now?—What, will these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to. You have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well. GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on’s grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed. [_Exit._] DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisp’rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.— God, God, forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night: My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight. I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good night, good doctor. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. Enter, with drum and colours Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox and Soldiers. MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them. That way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not. I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward’s son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. Some say he’s mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who, then, shall blame His pester’d senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on, To give obedience where ’tis truly ow’d: Meet we the med’cine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country’s purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. [_Exeunt, marching._] SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Enter Macbeth, Doctor and Attendants. MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc’d me thus: “Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman Shall e’er have power upon thee.”—Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. Enter a Servant. The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon! Where gott’st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand— MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver’d boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. [_Exit Servant._] Seyton!—I am sick at heart, When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push Will cheer me ever or disseat me now. I have liv’d long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!— Enter Seyton. SEYTON. What’s your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. Give me my armour. SEYTON. ’Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I’ll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.— How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs, I’ll none of it. Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff: Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.— Come, sir, despatch.—If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.—Pull’t off, I say.— What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear’st thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord. Your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me.— I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. [_Exeunt all except Doctor._] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view. Enter, with drum and colours Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross and Soldiers, marching. MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before’t. MALCOLM. ’Tis his main hope; For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt, And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate; Towards which advance the war. [_Exeunt, marching._] SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton and Soldiers. MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, “They come!” Our castle’s strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up. Were they not forc’d with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. [_A cry of women within._] What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. [_Exit._] MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cool’d To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me. Enter Seyton. Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Enter a Messenger. Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do’t. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar, and slave! MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak’st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.— I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend, That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;” and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out!— If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I ’gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.— Ring the alarum bell!—Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff and their Army, with boughs. MALCOLM. Now near enough. Your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.—You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon’s what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well.— Do we but find the tyrant’s power tonight, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. Alarums. Enter Macbeth. MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.—What’s he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. Enter young Siward. YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou’lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name’s Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant. With my sword I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st. [_They fight, and young Siward is slain._] MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman. But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born. [_Exit._] Alarums. Enter Macduff. MACDUFF. That way the noise is.—Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter’d edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune! And more I beg not. [_Exit. Alarums._] Enter Malcolm and old Siward. SIWARD. This way, my lord;—the castle’s gently render’d: The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war, The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. [_Exeunt. Alarums._] SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field. Enter Macbeth. MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. Enter Macduff. MACDUFF. Turn, hell-hound, turn! MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg’d With blood of thine already. MACDUFF. I have no words; My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! [_They fight._] MACBETH. Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born. MACDUFF. Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripp’d. MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow’d my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!—I’ll not fight with thee. MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o’ th’ time. We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, “Here may you see the tyrant.” MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, And to be baited with the rabble’s curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!” [_Exeunt fighting. Alarums._] Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Thanes and Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d. SIWARD. Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt: He only liv’d but till he was a man; The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died. SIWARD. Then he is dead? ROSS. Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow Must not be measur’d by his worth, for then It hath no end. SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? ROSS. Ay, on the front. SIWARD. Why then, God’s soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And so his knell is knoll’d. MALCOLM. He’s worth more sorrow, And that I’ll spend for him. SIWARD. He’s worth no more. They say he parted well and paid his score: And so, God be with him!—Here comes newer comfort. Enter Macduff with Macbeth’s head. MACDUFF. Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands Th’ usurper’s cursed head: the time is free. I see thee compass’d with thy kingdom’s pearl, That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,— Hail, King of Scotland! ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! [_Flourish._] MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour nam’d. What’s more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,— As calling home our exil’d friends abroad, That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen, Who, as ’tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life;—this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place. So thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] MEASURE FOR MEASURE Contents ACT I Scene I. An apartment in the Duke’s palace Scene II. A street Scene III. A monastery Scene IV. A nunnery ACT II Scene I. A hall in Angelo’s house Scene II. Another room in the same Scene III. A room in a prison Scene IV. A room in Angelo’s house ACT III Scene I. A room in the prison Scene II. The street before the prisons ACT IV Scene I. A room in Mariana’s house Scene II. A room in the prison Scene III. Another room in the same Scene IV. A room in Angelo’s house Scene V. Fields without the town Scene VI. Street near the city gate ACT V Scene I. A public place near the city gate Dramatis Personæ Vincentio, DUKE of Vienna ESCALUS, an ancient Lord PROVOST ELBOW, a simple constable ABHORSON, an executioner A JUSTICE VARRIUS, a Gentleman, Servant to the Duke ANGELO, Deputy to the Duke MARIANA, betrothed to Angelo BOY, singer SERVANT, to Angelo MESSENGER, from Angelo ISABELLA, Sister to Claudio FRANCISCA, a nun CLAUDIO, a young Gentleman JULIET, betrothed to Claudio LUCIO, a fantastic Two GENTLEMEN FRIAR THOMAS FRIAR PETER Mistress Overdone, a BAWD POMPEY, Servant to Mistress Overdone FROTH, a foolish gentleman BARNARDINE, a dissolute prisoner Lords, Officers, Servants, Citizens and Attendants SCENE: Vienna ACT I SCENE I. An apartment in the Duke’s palace. Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants. DUKE. Escalus. ESCALUS. My lord. DUKE. Of government the properties to unfold Would seem in me t’ affect speech and discourse, Since I am put to know that your own science Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice My strength can give you. Then no more remains But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able, And let them work. The nature of our people, Our city’s institutions, and the terms For common justice, you’re as pregnant in As art and practice hath enriched any That we remember. There is our commission, From which we would not have you warp.—Call hither, I say, bid come before us, Angelo. [_Exit an Attendant._] What figure of us think you he will bear? For you must know we have with special soul Elected him our absence to supply; Lent him our terror, drest him with our love, And given his deputation all the organs Of our own power. What think you of it? ESCALUS. If any in Vienna be of worth To undergo such ample grace and honour, It is Lord Angelo. Enter Angelo. DUKE. Look where he comes. ANGELO. Always obedient to your Grace’s will, I come to know your pleasure. DUKE. Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life That to th’ observer doth thy history Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues; nor nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech To one that can my part in him advertise. Hold, therefore, Angelo. In our remove be thou at full ourself. Mortality and mercy in Vienna Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy secondary. Take thy commission. ANGELO. Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my metal, Before so noble and so great a figure Be stamped upon it. DUKE. No more evasion. We have with a leavened and prepared choice Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours. Our haste from hence is of so quick condition That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestioned Matters of needful value. We shall write to you, As time and our concernings shall importune, How it goes with us; and do look to know What doth befall you here. So, fare you well. To th’ hopeful execution do I leave you Of your commissions. ANGELO. Yet give leave, my lord, That we may bring you something on the way. DUKE. My haste may not admit it; Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do With any scruple. Your scope is as mine own, So to enforce or qualify the laws As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand; I’ll privily away. I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes. Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and _Aves_ vehement; Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. ANGELO. The heavens give safety to your purposes! ESCALUS. Lead forth and bring you back in happiness. DUKE. I thank you. Fare you well. [_Exit._] ESCALUS. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave To have free speech with you; and it concerns me To look into the bottom of my place. A power I have, but of what strength and nature I am not yet instructed. ANGELO. ’Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together, And we may soon our satisfaction have Touching that point. ESCALUS. I’ll wait upon your honour. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A street. Enter Lucio and two other Gentlemen. LUCIO. If the Duke, with the other dukes, come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the King. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary’s! SECOND GENTLEMAN. Amen. LUCIO. Thou conclud’st like the sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the ten commandments, but scraped one out of the table. SECOND GENTLEMAN. “Thou shalt not steal”? LUCIO. Ay, that he razed. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Why, ’twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions! They put forth to steal. There’s not a soldier of us all that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I never heard any soldier dislike it. LUCIO. I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said. SECOND GENTLEMAN. No? A dozen times at least. FIRST GENTLEMAN. What? In metre? LUCIO. In any proportion or in any language. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think, or in any religion. LUCIO. Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy; as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Well, there went but a pair of shears between us. LUCIO. I grant, as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. FIRST GENTLEMAN. And thou the velvet. Thou art good velvet; thou’rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now? LUCIO. I think thou dost, and indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech. I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think I have done myself wrong, have I not? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free. Enter Mistress Overdone, a Bawd. LUCIO. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to— SECOND GENTLEMAN. To what, I pray? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Judge. SECOND GENTLEMAN. To three thousand dolours a year. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, and more. LUCIO. A French crown more. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Thou art always figuring diseases in me, but thou art full of error; I am sound. LUCIO. Nay, not, as one would say, healthy, but so sound as things that are hollow. Thy bones are hollow. Impiety has made a feast of thee. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How now, which of your hips has the most profound sciatica? BAWD. Well, well! There’s one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who’s that, I pray thee? BAWD. Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior Claudio. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Claudio to prison? ’Tis not so. BAWD. Nay, but I know ’tis so. I saw him arrested, saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off. LUCIO. But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this? BAWD. I am too sure of it. And it is for getting Madam Julietta with child. LUCIO. Believe me, this may be. He promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But most of all agreeing with the proclamation. LUCIO. Away! Let’s go learn the truth of it. [_Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen._] BAWD. Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows, and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. Enter Pompey. How now? What’s the news with you? POMPEY. Yonder man is carried to prison. BAWD. Well, what has he done? POMPEY. A woman. BAWD. But what’s his offence? POMPEY. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. BAWD. What? Is there a maid with child by him? POMPEY. No, but there’s a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you? BAWD. What proclamation, man? POMPEY. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down. BAWD. And what shall become of those in the city? POMPEY. They shall stand for seed. They had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them. BAWD. But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down? POMPEY. To the ground, mistress. BAWD. Why, here’s a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me? POMPEY. Come, fear not you. Good counsellors lack no clients. Though you change your place, you need not change your trade. I’ll be your tapster still. Courage, there will be pity taken on you. You that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered. Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet and Officers. BAWD. What’s to do here, Thomas Tapster? Let’s withdraw. POMPEY. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the Provost to prison. And there’s Madam Juliet. [_Exeunt Bawd and Pompey._] CLAUDIO. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world? Bear me to prison, where I am committed. PROVOST. I do it not in evil disposition, But from Lord Angelo by special charge. CLAUDIO. Thus can the demi-god Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight. The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still ’tis just. Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. LUCIO. Why, how now, Claudio? Whence comes this restraint? CLAUDIO. From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty. As surfeit is the father of much fast, So every scope by the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die. LUCIO. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors; and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What’s thy offence, Claudio? CLAUDIO. What but to speak of would offend again. LUCIO. What, is’t murder? CLAUDIO. No. LUCIO. Lechery? CLAUDIO. Call it so. PROVOST. Away, sir; you must go. CLAUDIO. One word, good friend.—Lucio, a word with you. LUCIO. A hundred, if they’ll do you any good. Is lechery so looked after? CLAUDIO. Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract I got possession of Julietta’s bed. You know the lady; she is fast my wife, Save that we do the denunciation lack Of outward order. This we came not to Only for propagation of a dower Remaining in the coffer of her friends, From whom we thought it meet to hide our love Till time had made them for us. But it chances The stealth of our most mutual entertainment With character too gross is writ on Juliet. LUCIO. With child, perhaps? CLAUDIO. Unhappily, even so. And the new deputy now for the Duke— Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his eminence that fills it up, I stagger in—but this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties Which have, like unscoured armour, hung by th’ wall So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round, And none of them been worn; and for a name Now puts the drowsy and neglected act Freshly on me. ’Tis surely for a name. LUCIO. I warrant it is. And thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the Duke, and appeal to him. CLAUDIO. I have done so, but he’s not to be found. I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service: This day my sister should the cloister enter, And there receive her approbation. Acquaint her with the danger of my state; Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him. I have great hope in that. For in her youth There is a prone and speechless dialect Such as moves men; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. LUCIO. I pray she may, as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I’ll to her. CLAUDIO. I thank you, good friend Lucio. LUCIO. Within two hours. CLAUDIO. Come, officer, away. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A monastery. Enter Duke and Friar Thomas. DUKE. No, holy father, throw away that thought; Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee To give me secret harbour hath a purpose More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends Of burning youth. FRIAR THOMAS. May your Grace speak of it? DUKE. My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever loved the life removed, And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Where youth, and cost, a witless bravery keeps. I have delivered to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence, My absolute power and place here in Vienna, And he supposes me travelled to Poland; For so I have strewed it in the common ear, And so it is received. Now, pious sir, You will demand of me why I do this? FRIAR THOMAS. Gladly, my lord. DUKE. We have strict statutes and most biting laws, The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds, Which for this fourteen years we have let slip, Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers, Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch, Only to stick it in their children’s sight For terror, not to use, in time the rod Becomes more mocked than feared: so our decrees, Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead, And liberty plucks justice by the nose, The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum. FRIAR THOMAS. It rested in your Grace To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased; And it in you more dreadful would have seemed Than in Lord Angelo. DUKE. I do fear, too dreadful. Sith ’twas my fault to give the people scope, ’Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them For what I bid them do; for we bid this be done When evil deeds have their permissive pass And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father, I have on Angelo imposed the office; Who may in th’ ambush of my name strike home, And yet my nature never in the fight To do in slander. And to behold his sway, I will, as ’twere a brother of your order, Visit both prince and people. Therefore, I prithee, Supply me with the habit, and instruct me How I may formally in person bear Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action At our more leisure shall I render you; Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise; Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses That his blood flows or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone. Hence shall we see, If power change purpose, what our seemers be. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A nunnery. Enter Isabella and Francisca, a Nun. ISABELLA. And have you nuns no farther privileges? FRANCISCA. Are not these large enough? ISABELLA. Yes, truly; I speak not as desiring more, But rather wishing a more strict restraint Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare. LUCIO. [_Within_.] Ho! Peace be in this place! ISABELLA. Who’s that which calls? FRANCISCA. It is a man’s voice. Gentle Isabella, Turn you the key, and know his business of him; You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn. When you have vowed, you must not speak with men But in the presence of the prioress; Then, if you speak, you must not show your face; Or if you show your face, you must not speak. He calls again. I pray you answer him. [_Exit Francisca._] ISABELLA. Peace and prosperity! Who is’t that calls? Enter Lucio. LUCIO. Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses Proclaim you are no less. Can you so stead me As bring me to the sight of Isabella, A novice of this place, and the fair sister To her unhappy brother Claudio? ISABELLA. Why “her unhappy brother”? let me ask, The rather for I now must make you know I am that Isabella, and his sister. LUCIO. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you. Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison. ISABELLA. Woe me! For what? LUCIO. For that which, if myself might be his judge, He should receive his punishment in thanks: He hath got his friend with child. ISABELLA. Sir, make me not your story. LUCIO. ’Tis true. I would not, though ’tis my familiar sin With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest, Tongue far from heart, play with all virgins so. I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted By your renouncement an immortal spirit, And to be talked with in sincerity, As with a saint. ISABELLA. You do blaspheme the good in mocking me. LUCIO. Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, ’tis thus: Your brother and his lover have embraced; As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. ISABELLA. Someone with child by him? My cousin Juliet? LUCIO. Is she your cousin? ISABELLA. Adoptedly, as school-maids change their names By vain though apt affection. LUCIO. She it is. ISABELLA. O, let him marry her! LUCIO. This is the point. The Duke is very strangely gone from hence; Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, In hand, and hope of action; but we do learn, By those that know the very nerves of state, His givings-out were of an infinite distance From his true-meant design. Upon his place, And with full line of his authority, Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood Is very snow-broth; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense; But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge With profits of the mind, study and fast. He, to give fear to use and liberty, Which have for long run by the hideous law As mice by lions, hath picked out an act, Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life Falls into forfeit. He arrests him on it, And follows close the rigour of the statute To make him an example. All hope is gone, Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer To soften Angelo. And that’s my pith of business ’Twixt you and your poor brother. ISABELLA. Doth he so Seek his life? LUCIO. Has censured him already; And, as I hear, the Provost hath a warrant For’s execution. ISABELLA. Alas, what poor ability’s in me To do him good? LUCIO. Assay the power you have. ISABELLA. My power? Alas, I doubt. LUCIO. Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs As they themselves would owe them. ISABELLA. I’ll see what I can do. LUCIO. But speedily. ISABELLA. I will about it straight; No longer staying but to give the Mother Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you. Commend me to my brother. Soon at night I’ll send him certain word of my success. LUCIO. I take my leave of you. ISABELLA. Good sir, adieu. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. A hall in Angelo’s house. Enter Angelo, Escalus, Servants, and a Justice. ANGELO. We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape till custom make it Their perch, and not their terror. ESCALUS. Ay, but yet Let us be keen, and rather cut a little Than fall and bruise to death. Alas, this gentleman, Whom I would save, had a most noble father. Let but your honour know, Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue, That, in the working of your own affections, Had time cohered with place, or place with wishing, Or that the resolute acting of your blood Could have attained th’ effect of your own purpose, Whether you had not sometime in your life Erred in this point which now you censure him, And pulled the law upon you. ANGELO. ’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall. I not deny The jury passing on the prisoner’s life May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two Guiltier than him they try. What’s open made to justice, That justice seizes. What knows the laws That thieves do pass on thieves? ’Tis very pregnant, The jewel that we find, we stoop and take ’t, Because we see it; but what we do not see, We tread upon, and never think of it. You may not so extenuate his offence For I have had such faults; but rather tell me, When I that censure him do so offend, Let mine own judgement pattern out my death, And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. Enter Provost. ESCALUS. Be it as your wisdom will. ANGELO. Where is the Provost? PROVOST. Here, if it like your honour. ANGELO. See that Claudio Be executed by nine tomorrow morning. Bring him his confessor, let him be prepared, For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage. [_Exit Provost._] ESCALUS. Well, heaven forgive him; and forgive us all. Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none, And some condemned for a fault alone. Enter Elbow and Officers with Froth and Pompey. ELBOW. Come, bring them away. If these be good people in a commonweal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law. Bring them away. ANGELO. How now, sir, what’s your name? And what’s the matter? ELBOW. If it please your honour, I am the poor Duke’s constable, and my name is Elbow. I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors. ANGELO. Benefactors? Well, what benefactors are they? Are they not malefactors? ELBOW. If it please your honour, I know not well what they are, but precise villains they are, that I am sure of, and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have. ESCALUS. This comes off well. Here’s a wise officer. ANGELO. Go to. What quality are they of? Elbow is your name? Why dost thou not speak, Elbow? POMPEY. He cannot, sir. He’s out at elbow. ANGELO. What are you, sir? ELBOW. He, sir? A tapster, sir; parcel bawd; one that serves a bad woman; whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think is a very ill house too. ESCALUS. How know you that? ELBOW. My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour— ESCALUS. How? Thy wife? ELBOW. Ay, sir, whom I thank heaven is an honest woman— ESCALUS. Dost thou detest her therefore? ELBOW. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd’s house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house. ESCALUS. How dost thou know that, constable? ELBOW. Marry, sir, by my wife, who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there. ESCALUS. By the woman’s means? ELBOW. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means; but as she spit in his face, so she defied him. POMPEY. Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. ELBOW. Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man, prove it. ESCALUS. [_To Angelo_.] Do you hear how he misplaces? POMPEY. Sir, she came in great with child; and longing, saving your honour’s reverence, for stewed prunes; sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit dish, a dish of some threepence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not china dishes, but very good dishes— ESCALUS. Go to, go to. No matter for the dish, sir. POMPEY. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right. But to the point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes; and having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you threepence again— FROTH. No, indeed. POMPEY. Very well. You being then, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes— FROTH. Ay, so I did indeed. POMPEY. Why, very well. I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you— FROTH. All this is true. POMPEY. Why, very well then— ESCALUS. Come, you are a tedious fool. To the purpose. What was done to Elbow’s wife that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her. POMPEY. Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet. ESCALUS. No, sir, nor I mean it not. POMPEY. Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour’s leave. And I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir, a man of fourscore pound a year; whose father died at Hallowmas—was’t not at Hallowmas, Master Froth? FROTH. All-hallond Eve. POMPEY. Why, very well. I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir—’twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not? FROTH. I have so, because it is an open room, and good for winter. POMPEY. Why, very well then. I hope here be truths. ANGELO. This will last out a night in Russia When nights are longest there. I’ll take my leave, And leave you to the hearing of the cause; Hoping you’ll find good cause to whip them all. ESCALUS. I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship. [_Exit Angelo._] Now, sir, come on. What was done to Elbow’s wife, once more? POMPEY. Once, sir? There was nothing done to her once. ELBOW. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife. POMPEY. I beseech your honour, ask me. ESCALUS. Well, sir, what did this gentleman to her? POMPEY. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman’s face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; ’tis for a good purpose.—Doth your honour mark his face? ESCALUS. Ay, sir, very well. POMPEY. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. ESCALUS. Well, I do so. POMPEY. Doth your honour see any harm in his face? ESCALUS. Why, no. POMPEY. I’ll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him. Good, then, if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable’s wife any harm? I would know that of your honour. ESCALUS. He’s in the right. Constable. What say you to it? ELBOW. First, an it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow; and his mistress is a respected woman. POMPEY. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all. ELBOW. Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked varlet! The time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child. POMPEY. Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her. ESCALUS. Which is the wiser here, Justice or Iniquity? Is this true? ELBOW. O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I was married to her? If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor Duke’s officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I’ll have mine action of battery on thee. ESCALUS. If he took you a box o’ th’ ear, you might have your action of slander too. ELBOW. Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is’t your worship’s pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff? ESCALUS. Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou know’st what they are. ELBOW. Marry, I thank your worship for it.—Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what’s come upon thee. Thou art to continue now, thou varlet, thou art to continue. ESCALUS. [_To Froth_.] Where were you born, friend? FROTH. Here in Vienna, sir. ESCALUS. Are you of fourscore pounds a year? FROTH. Yes, an’t please you, sir. ESCALUS. So. [_To Pompey_.] What trade are you of, sir? POMPEY. A tapster, a poor widow’s tapster. ESCALUS. Your mistress’ name? POMPEY. Mistress Overdone. ESCALUS. Hath she had any more than one husband? POMPEY. Nine, sir; Overdone by the last. ESCALUS. Nine?—Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters; they will draw you, Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you. FROTH. I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a taphouse but I am drawn in. ESCALUS. Well, no more of it, Master Froth. Farewell. [_Exit Froth._] Come you hither to me, Master tapster. What’s your name, Master tapster? POMPEY. Pompey. ESCALUS. What else? POMPEY. Bum, sir. ESCALUS. Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you; so that, in the beastliest sense, you are Pompey the great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster, are you not? Come, tell me true, it shall be the better for you. POMPEY. Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live. ESCALUS. How would you live, Pompey? By being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? Is it a lawful trade? POMPEY. If the law would allow it, sir. ESCALUS. But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. POMPEY. Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city? ESCALUS. No, Pompey. POMPEY. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to’t then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds. ESCALUS. There is pretty orders beginning, I can tell you. It is but heading and hanging. POMPEY. If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you’ll be glad to give out a commission for more heads. If this law hold in Vienna ten year, I’ll rent the fairest house in it after threepence a bay. If you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey told you so. ESCALUS. Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you: I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do. If I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Caesar to you. In plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipped. So for this time, Pompey, fare you well. POMPEY. I thank your worship for your good counsel. [_Aside_.] But I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine. Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade; The valiant heart’s not whipped out of his trade. [_Exit._] ESCALUS. Come hither to me, Master Elbow. Come hither, Master Constable. How long have you been in this place of constable? ELBOW. Seven year and a half, sir. ESCALUS. I thought, by the readiness in the office, you had continued in it sometime. You say seven years together? ELBOW. And a half, sir. ESCALUS. Alas, it hath been great pains to you. They do you wrong to put you so oft upon’t. Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it? ELBOW. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters. As they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all. ESCALUS. Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. ELBOW. To your worship’s house, sir? ESCALUS. To my house. Fare you well. [_Exit Elbow._] What’s o’clock, think you? JUSTICE. Eleven, sir. ESCALUS. I pray you home to dinner with me. JUSTICE. I humbly thank you. ESCALUS. It grieves me for the death of Claudio, But there’s no remedy. JUSTICE. Lord Angelo is severe. ESCALUS. It is but needful. Mercy is not itself that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe. But yet, Poor Claudio! There’s no remedy. Come, sir. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another room in the same. Enter Provost and a Servant. SERVANT. He’s hearing of a cause. He will come straight. I’ll tell him of you. PROVOST. Pray you do. [_Exit Servant._] I’ll know His pleasure, may be he will relent. Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream; All sects, all ages, smack of this vice, and he To die for ’t! Enter Angelo. ANGELO. Now, what’s the matter, Provost? PROVOST. Is it your will Claudio shall die tomorrow? ANGELO. Did not I tell thee yea? Hadst thou not order? Why dost thou ask again? PROVOST. Lest I might be too rash. Under your good correction, I have seen When, after execution, judgement hath Repented o’er his doom. ANGELO. Go to; let that be mine. Do you your office, or give up your place, And you shall well be spared. PROVOST. I crave your honour’s pardon. What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet? She’s very near her hour. ANGELO. Dispose of her To some more fitter place; and that with speed. Enter Servant. SERVANT. Here is the sister of the man condemned Desires access to you. ANGELO. Hath he a sister? PROVOST. Ay, my good lord, a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already. ANGELO. Well, let her be admitted. [_Exit Servant._] See you the fornicatress be removed; Let her have needful but not lavish means; There shall be order for it. Enter Lucio and Isabella. PROVOST. [_Offering to retire_.] Save your honour! ANGELO. Stay a little while. [_To Isabella_.] You are welcome. What’s your will? ISABELLA. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. ANGELO. Well, what’s your suit? ISABELLA. There is a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; For which I would not plead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war ’twixt will and will not. ANGELO. Well, the matter? ISABELLA. I have a brother is condemned to die; I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. PROVOST. Heaven give thee moving graces. ANGELO. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it? Why, every fault’s condemned ere it be done. Mine were the very cipher of a function To find the faults whose fine stands in record, And let go by the actor. ISABELLA. O just but severe law! I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour! [_Going._] LUCIO. [_To Isabella_.] Give’t not o’er so. To him again, entreat him, Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown; You are too cold. If you should need a pin, You could not with more tame a tongue desire it. To him, I say. ISABELLA. Must he needs die? ANGELO. Maiden, no remedy. ISABELLA. Yes, I do think that you might pardon him, And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. ANGELO. I will not do’t. ISABELLA. But can you if you would? ANGELO. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. ISABELLA. But might you do’t, and do the world no wrong, If so your heart were touched with that remorse As mine is to him? ANGELO. He’s sentenced, ’tis too late. LUCIO. [_To Isabella_.] You are too cold. ISABELLA. Too late? Why, no. I that do speak a word May call it back again. Well, believe this: No ceremony that to great ones longs, Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does. If he had been as you, and you as he, You would have slipped like him, but he like you Would not have been so stern. ANGELO. Pray you be gone. ISABELLA. I would to heaven I had your potency, And you were Isabel! Should it then be thus? No; I would tell what ’twere to be a judge And what a prisoner. LUCIO. [_Aside_.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein. ANGELO. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. ISABELLA. Alas, alas! Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once, And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. How would you be If He, which is the top of judgement, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that, And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made. ANGELO. Be you content, fair maid. It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him. He must die tomorrow. ISABELLA. Tomorrow? O, that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him! He’s not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season. Shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you. Who is it that hath died for this offence? There’s many have committed it. LUCIO. Ay, well said. ANGELO. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept. Those many had not dared to do that evil If the first that did th’ edict infringe Had answered for his deed. Now ’tis awake, Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass that shows what future evils, Either now, or by remissness new conceived, And so in progress to be hatched and born, Are now to have no successive degrees, But, where they live, to end. ISABELLA. Yet show some pity. ANGELO. I show it most of all when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismissed offence would after gall, And do him right that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies tomorrow; be content. ISABELLA. So you must be the first that gives this sentence, And he that suffers. O, it is excellent To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. LUCIO. That’s well said. ISABELLA. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet, For every pelting petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder. Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven, Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle. But man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal. LUCIO. O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent; He’s coming. I perceive ’t. PROVOST. Pray heaven she win him. ISABELLA. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself. Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them, But in the less, foul profanation. LUCIO. Thou’rt i’ th’ right, girl; more o’ that. ISABELLA. That in the captain’s but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. LUCIO. Art advised o’ that? More on’t. ANGELO. Why do you put these sayings upon me? ISABELLA. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself That skins the vice o’ th’ top. Go to your bosom, Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That’s like my brother’s fault. If it confess A natural guiltiness such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother’s life. ANGELO. She speaks, and ’tis such sense That my sense breeds with it. [_Going_.] Fare you well. ISABELLA. Gentle my lord, turn back. ANGELO. I will bethink me. Come again tomorrow. ISABELLA. Hark how I’ll bribe you. Good my lord, turn back. ANGELO. How? Bribe me? ISABELLA. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you. LUCIO. You had marred all else. ISABELLA. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor As fancy values them, but with true prayers, That shall be up at heaven and enter there Ere sunrise, prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. ANGELO. Well; come to me tomorrow. LUCIO. [_Aside to Isabella_.] Go to, ’tis well; away. ISABELLA. Heaven keep your honour safe. ANGELO. [_Aside_.] Amen. For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross. ISABELLA. At what hour tomorrow Shall I attend your lordship? ANGELO. At any time ’fore noon. ISABELLA. Save your honour. [_Exeunt Isabella, Lucio and Provost._] ANGELO. From thee, even from thy virtue! What’s this? What’s this? Is this her fault or mine? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most, ha? Not she; nor doth she tempt; but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense Than woman’s lightness? Having waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo? Dost thou desire her foully for those things That make her good? O, let her brother live. Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her, That I desire to hear her speak again And feast upon her eyes? What is’t I dream on? O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue. Never could the strumpet With all her double vigour, art, and nature, Once stir my temper, but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite. Ever till now When men were fond, I smiled and wondered how. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A room in a prison. Enter Duke disguised as a Friar, and Provost. DUKE. Hail to you, Provost, so I think you are. PROVOST. I am the Provost. What’s your will, good friar? DUKE. Bound by my charity and my blessed order, I come to visit the afflicted spirits Here in the prison. Do me the common right To let me see them, and to make me know The nature of their crimes, that I may minister To them accordingly. PROVOST. I would do more than that, if more were needful. Enter Juliet. Look, here comes one, a gentlewoman of mine, Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth, Hath blistered her report. She is with child, And he that got it, sentenced: a young man More fit to do another such offence Than die for this. DUKE. When must he die? PROVOST. As I do think, tomorrow. [_To Juliet_.] I have provided for you; stay a while And you shall be conducted. DUKE. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry? JULIET. I do; and bear the shame most patiently. DUKE. I’ll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience, And try your penitence, if it be sound Or hollowly put on. JULIET. I’ll gladly learn. DUKE. Love you the man that wronged you? JULIET. Yes, as I love the woman that wronged him. DUKE. So then it seems your most offenceful act Was mutually committed? JULIET. Mutually. DUKE. Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. JULIET. I do confess it, and repent it, father. DUKE. ’Tis meet so, daughter; but lest you do repent As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven, Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it, But as we stand in fear— JULIET. I do repent me as it is an evil, And take the shame with joy. DUKE. There rest. Your partner, as I hear, must die tomorrow, And I am going with instruction to him. Grace go with you! _Benedicite!_ [_Exit._] JULIET. Must die tomorrow? O, injurious love That respites me a life, whose very comfort Is still a dying horror! PROVOST. ’Tis pity of him. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Angelo’s house. Enter Angelo. ANGELO. When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words, Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue, Anchors on Isabel. Heaven in my mouth, As if I did but only chew his name, And in my heart the strong and swelling evil Of my conception. The state whereon I studied Is, like a good thing being often read, Grown sere and tedious; yea, my gravity, Wherein—let no man hear me—I take pride, Could I with boot change for an idle plume Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form, How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood. Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn. ’Tis not the devil’s crest. [_Knock within._] How now, who’s there? Enter Servant. SERVANT. One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you. ANGELO. Teach her the way. [_Exit Servant._] O heavens, Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, Making both it unable for itself And dispossessing all my other parts Of necessary fitness? So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons, Come all to help him, and so stop the air By which he should revive. And even so The general subject to a well-wished king Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love Must needs appear offence. Enter Isabella. How now, fair maid? ISABELLA. I am come to know your pleasure. ANGELO. That you might know it, would much better please me Than to demand what ’tis. Your brother cannot live. ISABELLA. Even so. Heaven keep your honour. ANGELO. Yet may he live a while. And, it may be, As long as you or I. Yet he must die. ISABELLA. Under your sentence? ANGELO. Yea. ISABELLA. When, I beseech you? That in his reprieve, Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted That his soul sicken not. ANGELO. Ha! Fie, these filthy vices! It were as good To pardon him that hath from nature stolen A man already made, as to remit Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image In stamps that are forbid. ’Tis all as easy Falsely to take away a life true made As to put metal in restrained means To make a false one. ISABELLA. ’Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth. ANGELO. Say you so? Then I shall pose you quickly. Which had you rather, that the most just law Now took your brother’s life; or, to redeem him, Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness As she that he hath stained? ISABELLA. Sir, believe this: I had rather give my body than my soul. ANGELO. I talk not of your soul. Our compelled sins Stand more for number than for accompt. ISABELLA. How say you? ANGELO. Nay, I’ll not warrant that, for I can speak Against the thing I say. Answer to this: I, now the voice of the recorded law, Pronounce a sentence on your brother’s life. Might there not be a charity in sin To save this brother’s life? ISABELLA. Please you to do’t, I’ll take it as a peril to my soul; It is no sin at all, but charity. ANGELO. Pleased you to do’t at peril of your soul, Were equal poise of sin and charity. ISABELLA. That I do beg his life, if it be sin, Heaven let me bear it. You granting of my suit, If that be sin, I’ll make it my morn prayer To have it added to the faults of mine, And nothing of your answer. ANGELO. Nay, but hear me. Your sense pursues not mine. Either you are ignorant, Or seem so, crafty; and that’s not good. ISABELLA. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, But graciously to know I am no better. ANGELO. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright When it doth tax itself, as these black masks Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder Than beauty could, displayed. But mark me; To be received plain, I’ll speak more gross. Your brother is to die. ISABELLA. So. ANGELO. And his offence is so, as it appears, Accountant to the law upon that pain. ISABELLA. True. ANGELO. Admit no other way to save his life— As I subscribe not that, nor any other, But, in the loss of question, that you, his sister, Finding yourself desired of such a person Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, Could fetch your brother from the manacles Of the all-binding law; and that there were No earthly mean to save him but that either You must lay down the treasures of your body To this supposed, or else to let him suffer, What would you do? ISABELLA. As much for my poor brother as myself. That is, were I under the terms of death, Th’ impression of keen whips I’d wear as rubies, And strip myself to death as to a bed That longing have been sick for, ere I’d yield My body up to shame. ANGELO. Then must your brother die. ISABELLA. And ’twere the cheaper way. Better it were a brother died at once Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever. ANGELO. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence That you have slandered so? ISABELLA. Ignominy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses. Lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption. ANGELO. You seemed of late to make the law a tyrant, And rather proved the sliding of your brother A merriment than a vice. ISABELLA. O, pardon me, my lord. It oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean. I something do excuse the thing I hate For his advantage that I dearly love. ANGELO. We are all frail. ISABELLA. Else let my brother die, If not a feodary but only he Owe and succeed by weakness. ANGELO. Nay, women are frail too. ISABELLA. Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves, Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women?—Help, heaven! Men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints. ANGELO. I think it well. And from this testimony of your own sex, Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger Than faults may shake our frames, let me be bold. I do arrest your words. Be that you are, That is, a woman. If you be more, you’re none. If you be one, as you are well expressed By all external warrants, show it now By putting on the destined livery. ISABELLA. I have no tongue but one. Gentle my lord, Let me intreat you speak the former language. ANGELO. Plainly conceive, I love you. ISABELLA. My brother did love Juliet, And you tell me that he shall die for ’t. ANGELO. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. ISABELLA. I know your virtue hath a license in’t, Which seems a little fouler than it is, To pluck on others. ANGELO. Believe me, on mine honour, My words express my purpose. ISABELLA. Ha! Little honour to be much believed, And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming! I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for’t. Sign me a present pardon for my brother Or with an outstretched throat I’ll tell the world aloud What man thou art. ANGELO. Who will believe thee, Isabel? My unsoiled name, th’ austereness of my life, My vouch against you, and my place i’ th’ state Will so your accusation overweigh That you shall stifle in your own report, And smell of calumny. I have begun, And now I give my sensual race the rein. Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite; Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes That banish what they sue for. Redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will; Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindness shall his death draw out To ling’ring sufferance. Answer me tomorrow, Or, by the affection that now guides me most, I’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true. [_Exit._] ISABELLA. To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, Who would believe me? O perilous mouths, That bear in them one and the self-same tongue Either of condemnation or approof, Bidding the law make curtsy to their will, Hooking both right and wrong to th’ appetite, To follow as it draws! I’ll to my brother. Though he hath fall’n by prompture of the blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour That, had he twenty heads to tender down On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up Before his sister should her body stoop To such abhorred pollution. Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die. More than our brother is our chastity. I’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request, And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. A room in the prison. Enter Duke, Claudio and Provost. DUKE. So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo? CLAUDIO. The miserable have no other medicine But only hope. I have hope to live, and am prepared to die. DUKE. Be absolute for death. Either death or life Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep. A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences That dost this habitation where thou keep’st Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art death’s fool; For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun, And yet runn’st toward him still. Thou art not noble; For all th’ accommodations that thou bear’st Are nursed by baseness. Thou’rt by no means valiant; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok’st, yet grossly fear’st Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself; For thou exists on many a thousand grains That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get, And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor; For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none; For thine own bowels which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins, Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age, But as it were an after-dinner’s sleep Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even. CLAUDIO. I humbly thank you. To sue to live, I find I seek to die, And seeking death, find life. Let it come on. ISABELLA. [_Within_.] What ho! Peace here; grace and good company! PROVOST. Who’s there? Come in. The wish deserves a welcome. DUKE. Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again. CLAUDIO. Most holy sir, I thank you. Enter Isabella. ISABELLA. My business is a word or two with Claudio. PROVOST. And very welcome. Look, signior, here’s your sister. DUKE. Provost, a word with you. PROVOST. As many as you please. DUKE. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be concealed. [_Exeunt Duke and Provost._] CLAUDIO. Now, sister, what’s the comfort? ISABELLA. Why, As all comforts are, most good, most good indeed. Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, Intends you for his swift ambassador, Where you shall be an everlasting leiger. Therefore your best appointment make with speed; Tomorrow you set on. CLAUDIO. Is there no remedy? ISABELLA. None, but such remedy as, to save a head, To cleave a heart in twain. CLAUDIO. But is there any? ISABELLA. Yes, brother, you may live. There is a devilish mercy in the judge, If you’ll implore it, that will free your life, But fetter you till death. CLAUDIO. Perpetual durance? ISABELLA. Ay, just; perpetual durance; a restraint, Though all the world’s vastidity you had, To a determined scope. CLAUDIO. But in what nature? ISABELLA. In such a one as, you consenting to’t, Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear, And leave you naked. CLAUDIO. Let me know the point. ISABELLA. O, I do fear thee, Claudio, and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle that we tread upon In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies. CLAUDIO. Why give you me this shame? Think you I can a resolution fetch From flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride And hug it in mine arms. ISABELLA. There spake my brother! There my father’s grave Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die. Thou art too noble to conserve a life In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy, Whose settled visage and deliberate word Nips youth i’ th’ head, and follies doth enew As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil. His filth within being cast, he would appear A pond as deep as hell. CLAUDIO. The precise Angelo? ISABELLA. O, ’tis the cunning livery of hell The damned’st body to invest and cover In precise guards! Dost thou think, Claudio, If I would yield him my virginity Thou mightst be freed? CLAUDIO. O heavens, it cannot be. ISABELLA. Yes, he would give it thee, from this rank offence, So to offend him still. This night’s the time That I should do what I abhor to name, Or else thou diest tomorrow. CLAUDIO. Thou shalt not do’t. ISABELLA. O, were it but my life, I’d throw it down for your deliverance As frankly as a pin. CLAUDIO. Thanks, dear Isabel. ISABELLA. Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow. CLAUDIO. Yes. Has he affections in him That thus can make him bite the law by th’ nose When he would force it? Sure it is no sin; Or of the deadly seven it is the least. ISABELLA. Which is the least? CLAUDIO. If it were damnable, he being so wise, Why would he for the momentary trick Be perdurably fined? O Isabel! ISABELLA. What says my brother? CLAUDIO. Death is a fearful thing. ISABELLA. And shamed life a hateful. CLAUDIO. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprisoned in the viewless winds And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling—’tis too horrible. The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature is a paradise To what we fear of death. ISABELLA. Alas, alas! CLAUDIO. Sweet sister, let me live. What sin you do to save a brother’s life, Nature dispenses with the deed so far That it becomes a virtue. ISABELLA. O, you beast! O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice? Is’t not a kind of incest to take life From thine own sister’s shame? What should I think? Heaven shield my mother played my father fair, For such a warped slip of wilderness Ne’er issued from his blood. Take my defiance, Die, perish! Might but my bending down Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed. I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, No word to save thee. CLAUDIO. Nay, hear me, Isabel. ISABELLA. O fie, fie, fie! Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade. Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd. ’Tis best that thou diest quickly. [_Going._] CLAUDIO. O, hear me, Isabella. Enter Duke as a Friar. DUKE. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word. ISABELLA. What is your will? DUKE. Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you. The satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit. ISABELLA. I have no superfluous leisure, my stay must be stolen out of other affairs, but I will attend you a while. DUKE. [_To Claudio aside_.] Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue, to practise his judgement with the disposition of natures. She, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible. Tomorrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready. CLAUDIO. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it. DUKE. Hold you there. Farewell. [_Exit Claudio._] Enter Provost. Provost, a word with you. PROVOST. What’s your will, father? DUKE. That, now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me a while with the maid; my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company. PROVOST. In good time. [_Exit Provost._] DUKE. The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. The goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother? ISABELLA. I am now going to resolve him. I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good Duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government. DUKE. That shall not be much amiss. Yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation: he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings, to the love I have in doing good, a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person; and much please the absent Duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business. ISABELLA. Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit. DUKE. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who miscarried at sea? ISABELLA. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name. DUKE. She should this Angelo have married, was affianced to her oath, and the nuptial appointed. Between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman. There she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. ISABELLA. Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her? DUKE. Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort, swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour; in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not. ISABELLA. What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail? DUKE. It is a rupture that you may easily heal, and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it. ISABELLA. Show me how, good father. DUKE. This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point. Only refer yourself to this advantage: first, that your stay with him may not be long; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it; and the place answer to convenience. This being granted in course, and now follows all. We shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place. If the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense; and here, by this, is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it? ISABELLA. The image of it gives me content already, and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection. DUKE. It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo; if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to Saint Luke’s; there at the moated grange resides this dejected Mariana. At that place call upon me; and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly. ISABELLA. I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father. [_Exit Isabella._] SCENE II. The street before the prison. Enter Elbow, Pompey and Officers. ELBOW. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard. DUKE. O heavens, what stuff is here? POMPEY. ’Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox on lambskins too, to signify that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing. ELBOW. Come your way, sir.—Bless you, good father friar. DUKE. And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir? ELBOW. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law; and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy. DUKE. Fie, sirrah, a bawd, a wicked bawd; The evil that thou causest to be done, That is thy means to live. Do thou but think What ’tis to cram a maw or clothe a back From such a filthy vice. Say to thyself, From their abominable and beastly touches I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. Canst thou believe thy living is a life, So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend. POMPEY. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir. But yet, sir, I would prove— DUKE. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin, Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer. Correction and instruction must both work Ere this rude beast will profit. ELBOW. He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning. The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster. If he be a whoremonger and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand. DUKE. That we were all, as some would seem to be, Free from our faults, as faults from seeming, free! ELBOW. His neck will come to your waist—a cord, sir. Enter Lucio. POMPEY. I spy comfort, I cry bail! Here’s a gentleman, and a friend of mine. LUCIO. How now, noble Pompey? What, at the wheels of Caesar? Art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply, ha? What say’st thou to this tune, matter, and method? Is’t not drowned i’ th’ last rain, ha? What say’st thou, trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad and few words? Or how? The trick of it? DUKE. Still thus, and thus; still worse! LUCIO. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha? POMPEY. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub. LUCIO. Why, ’tis good. It is the right of it. It must be so. Ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd; an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey? POMPEY. Yes, faith, sir. LUCIO. Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell. Go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? Or how? ELBOW. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. LUCIO. Well, then, imprison him. If imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, ’tis his right. Bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity, too. Bawd born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house. POMPEY. I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail. LUCIO. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage. If you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.—Bless you, friar. DUKE. And you. LUCIO. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha? ELBOW. Come your ways, sir, come. POMPEY. You will not bail me then, sir? LUCIO. Then, Pompey, nor now.—What news abroad, friar? What news? ELBOW. Come your ways, sir, come. LUCIO. Go to kennel, Pompey, go. [_Exeunt Elbow, Pompey and Officers._] What news, friar, of the Duke? DUKE. I know none. Can you tell me of any? LUCIO. Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome. But where is he, think you? DUKE. I know not where, but wheresoever, I wish him well. LUCIO. It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence. He puts transgression to’t. DUKE. He does well in’t. LUCIO. A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him. Something too crabbed that way, friar. DUKE. It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it. LUCIO. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied; but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation. Is it true, think you? DUKE. How should he be made, then? LUCIO. Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stockfishes. But it is certain that when he makes water, his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true. And he is a motion ungenerative; that’s infallible. DUKE. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. LUCIO. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the Duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand. He had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy. DUKE. I never heard the absent Duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way. LUCIO. O, sir, you are deceived. DUKE. ’Tis not possible. LUCIO. Who, not the Duke? Yes, your beggar of fifty; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish. The Duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too, that let me inform you. DUKE. You do him wrong, surely. LUCIO. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the Duke; and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing. DUKE. What, I prithee, might be the cause? LUCIO. No, pardon. ’Tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips. But this I can let you understand: the greater file of the subject held the Duke to be wise. DUKE. Wise? Why, no question but he was. LUCIO. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow. DUKE. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking. The very stream of his life, and the business he hath helmed, must upon a warranted need give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully. Or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice. LUCIO. Sir, I know him, and I love him. DUKE. Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love. LUCIO. Come, sir, I know what I know. DUKE. I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the Duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it. I am bound to call upon you, and I pray you your name? LUCIO. Sir, my name is Lucio, well known to the Duke. DUKE. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you. LUCIO. I fear you not. DUKE. O, you hope the Duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed, I can do you little harm. You’ll forswear this again. LUCIO. I’ll be hanged first! Thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die tomorrow or no? DUKE. Why should he die, sir? LUCIO. Why? For filling a bottle with a tun-dish. I would the Duke we talk of were returned again. This ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency. Sparrows must not build in his house-eaves because they are lecherous. The Duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered. He would never bring them to light. Would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar, I prithee pray for me. The Duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He’s now past it; yet, and, I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar though she smelt brown bread and garlic. Say that I said so. Farewell. [_Exit._] DUKE. No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure ’scape. Back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? But who comes here? Enter Escalus, Provost and Officers with Mistress Overdone, a Bawd. ESCALUS. Go, away with her to prison. BAWD. Good my lord, be good to me. Your honour is accounted a merciful man, good my lord. ESCALUS. Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind? This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant. PROVOST. A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, may it please your honour. BAWD. My lord, this is one Lucio’s information against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the Duke’s time; he promised her marriage. His child is a year and a quarter old come Philip and Jacob. I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me. ESCALUS. That fellow is a fellow of much license. Let him be called before us. Away with her to prison. Go to, no more words. [_Exeunt Officers with Bawd._] Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die tomorrow. Let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation. If my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with him. PROVOST. So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for th’ entertainment of death. ESCALUS. Good even, good father. DUKE. Bliss and goodness on you! ESCALUS. Of whence are you? DUKE. Not of this country, though my chance is now To use it for my time. I am a brother Of gracious order, late come from the See In special business from his Holiness. ESCALUS. What news abroad i’ th’ world? DUKE. None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness that the dissolution of it must cure it. Novelty is only in request, and as it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accursed. Much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day’s news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the Duke? ESCALUS. One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself. DUKE. What pleasure was he given to? ESCALUS. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at anything which professed to make him rejoice. A gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous, and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to understand that you have lent him visitation. DUKE. He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice. Yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life, which I, by my good leisure, have discredited to him, and now he is resolved to die. ESCALUS. You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty, but my brother justice have I found so severe that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice. DUKE. If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself. ESCALUS. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well. DUKE. Peace be with you. [_Exeunt Escalus and Provost._] He who the sword of heaven will bear Should be as holy as severe, Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and virtue go; More nor less to others paying Than by self-offences weighing. Shame to him whose cruel striking Kills for faults of his own liking! Twice treble shame on Angelo, To weed my vice, and let his grow! O, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the outward side! How may likeness, made in crimes, Make practice on the times, To draw with idle spiders’ strings Most ponderous and substantial things! Craft against vice I must apply. With Angelo tonight shall lie His old betrothed but despised. So disguise shall, by th’ disguised, Pay with falsehood false exacting, And perform an old contracting. [_Exit._] ACT IV SCENE I. A room in Mariana’s house. Enter Mariana and a Boy singing. SONG _ Take, O take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn. But my kisses bring again, Bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, Sealed in vain._ Enter Duke as a Friar. MARIANA. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away; Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent. [_Exit Boy._] I cry you mercy, sir, and well could wish You had not found me here so musical. Let me excuse me, and believe me so, My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe. DUKE. ’Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good and good provoke to harm. I pray you tell me, hath anybody inquired for me here today? Much upon this time have I promised here to meet. MARIANA. You have not been inquired after. I have sat here all day. Enter Isabella. DUKE. I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little. Maybe I will call upon you anon for some advantage to yourself. MARIANA. I am always bound to you. [_Exit._] DUKE. Very well met, and welcome. What is the news from this good deputy? ISABELLA. He hath a garden circummured with brick, Whose western side is with a vineyard backed; And to that vineyard is a planched gate That makes his opening with this bigger key. This other doth command a little door Which from the vineyard to the garden leads; There have I made my promise, upon the Heavy middle of the night to call on him. DUKE. But shall you on your knowledge find this way? ISABELLA. I have ta’en a due and wary note upon’t; With whispering and most guilty diligence, In action all of precept, he did show me The way twice o’er. DUKE. Are there no other tokens Between you ’greed concerning her observance? ISABELLA. No, none, but only a repair i’ th’ dark, And that I have possessed him my most stay Can be but brief, for I have made him know I have a servant comes with me along, That stays upon me; whose persuasion is I come about my brother. DUKE. ’Tis well borne up. I have not yet made known to Mariana A word of this.—What ho, within! Come forth. Enter Mariana. I pray you be acquainted with this maid; She comes to do you good. ISABELLA. I do desire the like. DUKE. Do you persuade yourself that I respect you? MARIANA. Good friar, I know you do, and have found it. DUKE. Take, then, this your companion by the hand, Who hath a story ready for your ear. I shall attend your leisure; but make haste. The vaporous night approaches. MARIANA. Will’t please you walk aside? [_Exeunt Mariana and Isabella._] DUKE. O place and greatness, millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee; volumes of report Run with these false, and most contrarious quest Upon thy doings; thousand escapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dream And rack thee in their fancies. Enter Mariana and Isabella. Welcome; how agreed? ISABELLA. She’ll take the enterprise upon her, father, If you advise it. DUKE. It is not my consent, But my entreaty too. ISABELLA. Little have you to say When you depart from him, but, soft and low, “Remember now my brother.” MARIANA. Fear me not. DUKE. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all. He is your husband on a pre-contract. To bring you thus together ’tis no sin, Sith that the justice of your title to him Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go; Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tithe’s to sow. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A room in the prison. Enter Provost and Pompey. PROVOST. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man’s head? POMPEY. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a married man, he’s his wife’s head, and I can never cut off a woman’s head. PROVOST. Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. Tomorrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper; if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment, and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping; for you have been a notorious bawd. POMPEY. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind, but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instruction from my fellow-partner. PROVOST. What ho, Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson, there? Enter Abhorson. ABHORSON. Do you call, sir? PROVOST. Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you tomorrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd. ABHORSON. A bawd, sir? Fie upon him, he will discredit our mystery. PROVOST. Go to, sir; you weigh equally. A feather will turn the scale. [_Exit._] POMPEY. Pray, sir, by your good favour—for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look—do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery? ABHORSON. Ay, sir, a mystery. POMPEY. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery. But what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine. ABHORSON. Sir, it is a mystery. POMPEY. Proof. ABHORSON. Every true man’s apparel fits your thief. If it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough. So every true man’s apparel fits your thief. Enter Provost. PROVOST. Are you agreed? POMPEY. Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd. He doth oftener ask forgiveness. PROVOST. You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe tomorrow four o’clock. ABHORSON. Come on, bawd. I will instruct thee in my trade. Follow. POMPEY. I do desire to learn, sir; and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare. For truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn. PROVOST. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio. [_Exeunt Abhorson and Pompey._] Th’ one has my pity; not a jot the other, Being a murderer, though he were my brother. Enter Claudio. Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death. ’Tis now dead midnight, and by eight tomorrow Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Barnardine? CLAUDIO. As fast locked up in sleep as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones. He will not wake. PROVOST. Who can do good on him? Well, go, prepare yourself. [_Knocking within_.] But hark, what noise? Heaven give your spirits comfort! [_Exit Claudio. Knock within._] By and by!— I hope it is some pardon or reprieve For the most gentle Claudio. Enter Duke. Welcome, father. DUKE. The best and wholesom’st spirits of the night Envelop you, good Provost! Who called here of late? PROVOST. None, since the curfew rung. DUKE. Not Isabel? PROVOST. No. DUKE. They will then, ere’t be long. PROVOST. What comfort is for Claudio? DUKE. There’s some in hope. PROVOST. It is a bitter deputy. DUKE. Not so, not so. His life is paralleled Even with the stroke and line of his great justice. He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others. Were he mealed with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; But this being so, he’s just. [_Knocking within. Provost goes to the door._] Now are they come. This is a gentle provost. Seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. [_Knocking within_.] How now? What noise? That spirit’s possessed with haste That wounds th’ unsisting postern with these strokes. Provost returns. PROVOST. There he must stay until the officer Arise to let him in. He is called up. DUKE. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet, But he must die tomorrow? PROVOST. None, sir, none. DUKE. As near the dawning, Provost, as it is, You shall hear more ere morning. PROVOST. Happily You something know, yet I believe there comes No countermand. No such example have we. Besides, upon the very siege of justice Lord Angelo hath to the public ear Professed the contrary. Enter a Messenger. This is his Lordship’s man. DUKE. And here comes Claudio’s pardon. MESSENGER. My lord hath sent you this note, and by me this further charge: that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is almost day. PROVOST. I shall obey him. [_Exit Messenger._] DUKE. [_Aside_.] This is his pardon, purchased by such sin For which the pardoner himself is in. Hence hath offence his quick celerity, When it is borne in high authority. When vice makes mercy, mercy’s so extended That for the fault’s love is th’ offender friended. Now, sir, what news? PROVOST. I told you: Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting-on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before. DUKE. Pray you, let’s hear. PROVOST. [_Reads_.] _Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock, and in the afternoon, Barnardine. For my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio’s head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed, with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril._ What say you to this, sir? DUKE. What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in th’ afternoon? PROVOST. A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old. DUKE. How came it that the absent Duke had not either delivered him to his liberty, or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. PROVOST. His friends still wrought reprieves for him; and indeed, his fact till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof. DUKE. It is now apparent? PROVOST. Most manifest, and not denied by himself. DUKE. Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? How seems he to be touched? PROVOST. A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what’s past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality and desperately mortal. DUKE. He wants advice. PROVOST. He will hear none. He hath evermore had the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not. Drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it. It hath not moved him at all. DUKE. More of him anon. There is written in your brow, Provost, honesty and constancy; if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me. But in the boldness of my cunning I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days’ respite, for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy. PROVOST. Pray, sir, in what? DUKE. In the delaying death. PROVOST. Alack, how may I do it? Having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio’s, to cross this in the smallest. DUKE. By the vow of mine order, I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo. PROVOST. Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour. DUKE. O, death’s a great disguiser, and you may add to it. Shave the head and tie the beard, and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death. You know the course is common. If anything fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life. PROVOST. Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath. DUKE. Were you sworn to the Duke, or to the Deputy? PROVOST. To him and to his substitutes. DUKE. You will think you have made no offence if the Duke avouch the justice of your dealing? PROVOST. But what likelihood is in that? DUKE. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion, can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know the character, I doubt not, and the signet is not strange to you. PROVOST. I know them both. DUKE. The contents of this is the return of the Duke; you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure, where you shall find within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour, perchance of the Duke’s death, perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, th’ unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be. All difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine’s head. I will give him a present shrift, and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amazed; but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another room in the same. Enter Pompey. POMPEY. I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession. One would think it were Mistress Overdone’s own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here’s young Master Rash; he’s in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine score and seventeen pounds; of which he made five marks ready money. Marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizie, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey, the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthright the tilter, and brave Master Shoe-tie the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and I think forty more, all great doers in our trade, and are now “for the Lord’s sake.” Enter Abhorson. ABHORSON. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. POMPEY. Master Barnardine! You must rise and be hanged, Master Barnardine. ABHORSON. What ho, Barnardine! BARNARDINE. [_Within_.] A pox o’ your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you? POMPEY. Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death. BARNARDINE. [_Within_.] Away, you rogue, away; I am sleepy. ABHORSON. Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too. POMPEY. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards. ABHORSON. Go in to him, and fetch him out. POMPEY. He is coming, sir, he is coming. I hear his straw rustle. Enter Barnardine. ABHORSON. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah? POMPEY. Very ready, sir. BARNARDINE. How now, Abhorson? What’s the news with you? ABHORSON. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant’s come. BARNARDINE. You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for’t. POMPEY. O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night and is hanged betimes in the morning may sleep the sounder all the next day. Enter Duke. ABHORSON. Look you, sir, here comes your ghostly father. Do we jest now, think you? DUKE. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you, and pray with you. BARNARDINE. Friar, not I. I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets. I will not consent to die this day, that’s certain. DUKE. O, sir, you must; and therefore I beseech you Look forward on the journey you shall go. BARNARDINE. I swear I will not die today for any man’s persuasion. DUKE. But hear you— BARNARDINE. Not a word. If you have anything to say to me, come to my ward, for thence will not I today. [_Exit._] DUKE. Unfit to live or die. O gravel heart! After him, fellows; bring him to the block. [_Exeunt Abhorson and Pompey._] Enter Provost. PROVOST. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner? DUKE. A creature unprepared, unmeet for death; And to transport him in the mind he is Were damnable. PROVOST. Here in the prison, father, There died this morning of a cruel fever One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, A man of Claudio’s years; his beard and head Just of his colour. What if we do omit This reprobate till he were well inclined, And satisfy the Deputy with the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio? DUKE. O, ’tis an accident that heaven provides! Dispatch it presently; the hour draws on Prefixed by Angelo. See this be done, And sent according to command, whiles I Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. PROVOST. This shall be done, good father, presently. But Barnardine must die this afternoon; And how shall we continue Claudio, To save me from the danger that might come If he were known alive? DUKE. Let this be done: Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio. Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting To yonder generation, you shall find Your safety manifested. PROVOST. I am your free dependant. DUKE. Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo. [_Exit Provost._] Now will I write letters to Angelo, The Provost, he shall bear them, whose contents Shall witness to him I am near at home; And that by great injunctions I am bound To enter publicly. Him I’ll desire To meet me at the consecrated fount, A league below the city; and from thence, By cold gradation and well-balanced form. We shall proceed with Angelo. Enter Provost. PROVOST. Here is the head; I’ll carry it myself. DUKE. Convenient is it. Make a swift return; For I would commune with you of such things That want no ear but yours. PROVOST. I’ll make all speed. [_Exit._] ISABELLA. [_Within_.] Peace, ho, be here! DUKE. The tongue of Isabel. She’s come to know If yet her brother’s pardon be come hither. But I will keep her ignorant of her good, To make her heavenly comforts of despair When it is least expected. Enter Isabella. ISABELLA. Ho, by your leave! DUKE. Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. ISABELLA. The better, given me by so holy a man. Hath yet the Deputy sent my brother’s pardon? DUKE. He hath released him, Isabel, from the world. His head is off, and sent to Angelo. ISABELLA. Nay, but it is not so. DUKE. It is no other. Show your wisdom, daughter, in your close patience. ISABELLA. O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes! DUKE. You shall not be admitted to his sight. ISABELLA. Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel! Injurious world! Most damned Angelo! DUKE. This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot. Forbear it, therefore; give your cause to heaven. Mark what I say, which you shall find By every syllable a faithful verity. The Duke comes home tomorrow;—nay, dry your eyes. One of our convent, and his confessor, Gives me this instance. Already he hath carried Notice to Escalus and Angelo, Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go, And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, And general honour. ISABELLA. I am directed by you. DUKE. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; ’Tis that he sent me of the Duke’s return. Say, by this token, I desire his company At Mariana’s house tonight. Her cause and yours I’ll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you Before the Duke; and to the head of Angelo Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, I am combined by a sacred vow, And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter. Command these fretting waters from your eyes With a light heart; trust not my holy order, If I pervert your course.—Who’s here? Enter Lucio. LUCIO. Good even. Friar, where is the Provost? DUKE. Not within, sir. LUCIO. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red. Thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran. I dare not for my head fill my belly. One fruitful meal would set me to’t. But they say the Duke will be here tomorrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother. If the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived. [_Exit Isabella._] DUKE. Sir, the Duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them. LUCIO. Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so well as I do. He’s a better woodman than thou tak’st him for. DUKE. Well, you’ll answer this one day. Fare ye well. LUCIO. Nay, tarry, I’ll go along with thee. I can tell thee pretty tales of the Duke. DUKE. You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough. LUCIO. I was once before him for getting a wench with child. DUKE. Did you such a thing? LUCIO. Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear it. They would else have married me to the rotten medlar. DUKE. Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Rest you well. LUCIO. By my troth, I’ll go with thee to the lane’s end. If bawdy talk offend you, we’ll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Angelo’s house. Enter Angelo and Escalus. ESCALUS. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other. ANGELO. In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness; pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted. And why meet him at the gates and redeliver our authorities there? ESCALUS. I guess not. ANGELO. And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street? ESCALUS. He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us. ANGELO. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed. Betimes i’ th’ morn I’ll call you at your house. Give notice to such men of sort and suit As are to meet him. ESCALUS. I shall, sir. Fare you well. [_Exit._] ANGELO. Good night. This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant And dull to all proceedings. A deflowered maid; And by an eminent body that enforced The law against it! But that her tender shame Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no, For my authority bears so credent bulk That no particular scandal once can touch But it confounds the breather. He should have lived, Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge By so receiving a dishonoured life With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived. Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right; we would, and we would not. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Fields without the town. Enter Duke, in his own habit, and Friar Peter. DUKE. These letters at fit time deliver me. The Provost knows our purpose and our plot. The matter being afoot, keep your instruction And hold you ever to our special drift, Though sometimes you do blench from this to that As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius’ house, And tell him where I stay. Give the like notice To Valencius, Rowland, and to Crassus, And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate. But send me Flavius first. FRIAR PETER. It shall be speeded well. [_Exit Friar Peter._] Enter Varrius. DUKE. I thank thee, Varrius, thou hast made good haste. Come, we will walk. There’s other of our friends Will greet us here anon. My gentle Varrius. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Street near the city gate. Enter Isabella and Mariana. ISABELLA. To speak so indirectly I am loath; I would say the truth, but to accuse him so That is your part; yet I am advised to do it, He says, to veil full purpose. MARIANA. Be ruled by him. ISABELLA. Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange, for ’tis a physic That’s bitter to sweet end. MARIANA. I would Friar Peter— Enter Friar Peter. ISABELLA. O, peace, the friar is come. FRIAR PETER. Come, I have found you out a stand most fit, Where you may have such vantage on the Duke He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded. The generous and gravest citizens Have hent the gates, and very near upon The Duke is entering. Therefore hence, away. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. A public place near the city gate. Enter at several doors Duke, Varrius, Lords; Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers and Citizens. DUKE. My very worthy cousin, fairly met. Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you. ANGELO and ESCALUS. Happy return be to your royal grace! DUKE. Many and hearty thankings to you both. We have made inquiry of you, and we hear Such goodness of your justice that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital. ANGELO. You make my bonds still greater. DUKE. O, your desert speaks loud, and I should wrong it To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves with characters of brass A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time And rasure of oblivion. Give me your hand And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within.—Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand. And good supporters are you. Enter Friar Peter and Isabella. FRIAR PETER. Now is your time. Speak loud, and kneel before him. ISABELLA. Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard Upon a wronged—I would fain have said, a maid. O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on any other object Till you have heard me in my true complaint, And given me justice, justice, justice, justice! DUKE. Relate your wrongs. In what? By whom? Be brief. Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice. Reveal yourself to him. ISABELLA. O worthy Duke, You bid me seek redemption of the devil. Hear me yourself, for that which I must speak Must either punish me, not being believed, Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, here! ANGELO. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm. She hath been a suitor to me for her brother, Cut off by course of justice. ISABELLA. By course of justice! ANGELO. And she will speak most bitterly and strange. ISABELLA. Most strange, but yet most truly will I speak. That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange? That Angelo’s a murderer, is’t not strange? That Angelo is an adulterous thief, An hypocrite, a virgin-violator, Is it not strange and strange? DUKE. Nay, it is ten times strange. ISABELLA. It is not truer he is Angelo Than this is all as true as it is strange. Nay, it is ten times true, for truth is truth To th’ end of reckoning. DUKE. Away with her. Poor soul, She speaks this in th’ infirmity of sense. ISABELLA. O Prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ’st There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not with that opinion That I am touched with madness. Make not impossible That which but seems unlike. ’Tis not impossible But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute, As Angelo; even so may Angelo, In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal Prince, If he be less, he’s nothing; but he’s more, Had I more name for badness. DUKE. By mine honesty, If she be mad, as I believe no other, Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, Such a dependency of thing on thing, As e’er I heard in madness. ISABELLA. O gracious Duke, Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason For inequality; but let your reason serve To make the truth appear where it seems hid, And hide the false seems true. DUKE. Many that are not mad Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say? ISABELLA. I am the sister of one Claudio, Condemned upon the act of fornication To lose his head; condemned by Angelo. I, in probation of a sisterhood, Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio As then the messenger. LUCIO. That’s I, an’t like your Grace. I came to her from Claudio and desired her To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo For her poor brother’s pardon. ISABELLA. That’s he, indeed. DUKE. You were not bid to speak. LUCIO. No, my good lord, Nor wished to hold my peace. DUKE. I wish you now, then; Pray you take note of it; and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect. LUCIO. I warrant your honour. DUKE. The warrant’s for yourself. Take heed to it. ISABELLA. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale. LUCIO. Right. DUKE. It may be right, but you are i’ the wrong To speak before your time.—Proceed. ISABELLA. I went To this pernicious caitiff deputy. DUKE. That’s somewhat madly spoken. ISABELLA. Pardon it; The phrase is to the matter. DUKE. Mended again. The matter; proceed. ISABELLA. In brief, to set the needless process by: How I persuaded, how I prayed and kneeled, How he refelled me, and how I replied— For this was of much length—the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter. He would not, but by gift of my chaste body To his concupiscible intemperate lust, Release my brother; and after much debatement, My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes, His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant For my poor brother’s head. DUKE. This is most likely! ISABELLA. O, that it were as like as it is true! DUKE. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know’st not what thou speak’st, Or else thou art suborned against his honour In hateful practice. First, his integrity Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself. If he had so offended, He would have weighed thy brother by himself, And not have cut him off. Someone hath set you on. Confess the truth, and say by whose advice Thou cam’st here to complain. ISABELLA. And is this all? Then, O you blessed ministers above, Keep me in patience, and with ripened time Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe, As I, thus wronged, hence unbelieved go. DUKE. I know you’d fain be gone. An officer! To prison with her! Shall we thus permit A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall On him so near us? This needs must be a practice. Who knew of your intent and coming hither? ISABELLA. One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick. [_Exeunt Officer with Isabella._] DUKE. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick? LUCIO. My lord, I know him. ’Tis a meddling friar. I do not like the man. Had he been lay, my lord, For certain words he spake against your Grace In your retirement, I had swinged him soundly. DUKE. Words against me? This’s a good friar, belike. And to set on this wretched woman here Against our substitute! Let this friar be found. LUCIO. But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar, I saw them at the prison. A saucy friar, A very scurvy fellow. FRIAR PETER. Blessed be your royal Grace! I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abused. First hath this woman Most wrongfully accused your substitute, Who is as free from touch or soil with her As she from one ungot. DUKE. We did believe no less. Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of? FRIAR PETER. I know him for a man divine and holy, Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, As he’s reported by this gentleman; And, on my trust, a man that never yet Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace. LUCIO. My lord, most villainously; believe it. FRIAR PETER. Well, he in time may come to clear himself; But at this instant he is sick, my lord, Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, Being come to knowledge that there was complaint Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know Is true and false; and what he with his oath And all probation will make up full clear Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman, To justify this worthy nobleman, So vulgarly and personally accused, Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it. DUKE. Good friar, let’s hear it. Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo? O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! Give us some seats.—Come, cousin Angelo, In this I’ll be impartial. Be you judge Of your own cause. Enter Mariana, veiled. Is this the witness, friar? First let her show her face, and after speak. MARIANA. Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face Until my husband bid me. DUKE. What, are you married? MARIANA. No, my lord. DUKE. Are you a maid? MARIANA. No, my lord. DUKE. A widow, then? MARIANA. Neither, my lord. DUKE. Why, you are nothing then, neither maid, widow, nor wife? LUCIO. My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife. DUKE. Silence that fellow. I would he had some cause to prattle for himself. LUCIO. Well, my lord. MARIANA. My lord, I do confess I ne’er was married, And I confess besides, I am no maid. I have known my husband; yet my husband Knows not that ever he knew me. LUCIO. He was drunk, then, my lord; it can be no better. DUKE. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too. LUCIO. Well, my lord. DUKE. This is no witness for Lord Angelo. MARIANA. Now I come to’t, my lord. She that accuses him of fornication In self-same manner doth accuse my husband, And charges him, my lord, with such a time When I’ll depose I had him in mine arms With all th’ effect of love. ANGELO. Charges she more than me? MARIANA. Not that I know. DUKE. No? You say your husband. MARIANA. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body, But knows, he thinks, that he knows Isabel’s. ANGELO. This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face. MARIANA. My husband bids me; now I will unmask. [_Unveiling_.] This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking on. This is the hand which, with a vowed contract, Was fast belocked in thine. This is the body That took away the match from Isabel And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagined person. DUKE. Know you this woman? LUCIO. Carnally, she says. DUKE. Sirrah, no more. LUCIO. Enough, my lord. ANGELO. My lord, I must confess I know this woman; And five years since there was some speech of marriage Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off, Partly for that her promised proportions Came short of composition; but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity. Since which time of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my faith and honour. MARIANA. Noble Prince, As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, I am affianced this man’s wife as strongly As words could make up vows. And, my good lord, But Tuesday night last gone, in’s garden-house, He knew me as a wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees, Or else for ever be confixed here, A marble monument! ANGELO. I did but smile till now. Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice. My patience here is touched. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, To find this practice out. DUKE. Ay, with my heart; And punish them to your height of pleasure. Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy oaths, Though they would swear down each particular saint, Were testimonies against his worth and credit, That’s sealed in approbation? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains To find out this abuse, whence ’tis derived. There is another friar that set them on; Let him be sent for. FRIAR PETER. Would he were here, my lord; for he indeed Hath set the women on to this complaint. Your Provost knows the place where he abides, And he may fetch him. DUKE. Go, do it instantly. [_Exit Provost._] And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, Do with your injuries as seems you best In any chastisement. I for a while Will leave you; but stir not you till you have Well determined upon these slanderers. ESCALUS. My lord, we’ll do it throughly. [_Exit Duke._] Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person? LUCIO. _Cucullus non facit monachum_, honest in nothing but in his clothes, and one that hath spoke most villainous speeches of the Duke. ESCALUS. We shall entreat you to abide here till he come, and enforce them against him. We shall find this friar a notable fellow. LUCIO. As any in Vienna, on my word. ESCALUS. Call that same Isabel here once again. I would speak with her. [_Exit an Attendant._] Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I’ll handle her. LUCIO. Not better than he, by her own report. ESCALUS. Say you? LUCIO. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess; perchance, publicly, she’ll be ashamed. Enter at several doors Duke as a friar, Provost and Isabella with Officers. ESCALUS. I will go darkly to work with her. LUCIO. That’s the way; for women are light at midnight. ESCALUS. [_To Isabella_.] Come on, mistress, here’s a gentlewoman denies all that you have said. LUCIO. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of, here with the Provost. ESCALUS. In very good time. Speak not you to him till we call upon you. LUCIO. Mum. ESCALUS. Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? They have confessed you did. DUKE. ’Tis false. ESCALUS. How! Know you where you are? DUKE. Respect to your great place; and let the devil Be sometime honoured for his burning throne. Where is the Duke? ’Tis he should hear me speak. ESCALUS. The Duke’s in us; and we will hear you speak. Look you speak justly. DUKE. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox, Good night to your redress! Is the Duke gone? Then is your cause gone too. The Duke’s unjust Thus to retort your manifest appeal, And put your trial in the villain’s mouth Which here you come to accuse. LUCIO. This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of. ESCALUS. Why, thou unreverend and unhallowed friar, Is’t not enough thou hast suborned these women To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth, And in the witness of his proper ear, To call him villain? And then to glance from him To th’ Duke himself, to tax him with injustice? Take him hence! To th’ rack with him! We’ll touse you Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. What! Unjust? DUKE. Be not so hot. The Duke Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he Dare rack his own. His subject am I not, Nor here provincial. My business in this state Made me a looker-on here in Vienna, Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble Till it o’errun the stew. Laws for all faults, But faults so countenanced that the strong statutes Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop, As much in mock as mark. ESCALUS. Slander to the state! Away with him to prison! ANGELO. What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio? Is this the man that you did tell us of? LUCIO. ’Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman Baldpate. Do you know me? DUKE. I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice. I met you at the prison, in the absence of the Duke. LUCIO. O did you so? And do you remember what you said of the Duke? DUKE. Most notedly, sir. LUCIO. Do you so, sir? And was the Duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be? DUKE. You must, sir, change persons with me ere you make that my report. You indeed spoke so of him, and much more, much worse. LUCIO. O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches? DUKE. I protest I love the Duke as I love myself. ANGELO. Hark how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses! ESCALUS. Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough upon him. Let him speak no more. Away with those giglets too, and with the other confederate companion! [_The Provost lays hands on the Duke._] DUKE. Stay, sir, stay a while. ANGELO. What, resists he? Help him, Lucio. LUCIO. Come, sir, come, sir, come, sir. Foh, sir! Why, you bald-pated lying rascal! You must be hooded, must you? Show your knave’s visage, with a pox to you! Show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off? [_Pulls off the friar’s hood and discovers the Duke._] DUKE. Thou art the first knave that e’er mad’st a duke. First, Provost, let me bail these gentle three. [_To Lucio_.] Sneak not away, sir, for the friar and you Must have a word anon.—Lay hold on him. LUCIO. This may prove worse than hanging. DUKE. [_To Escalus_.] What you have spoke I pardon. Sit you down. We’ll borrow place of him. [_To Angelo_.] Sir, by your leave. Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, That yet can do thee office? If thou hast, Rely upon it till my tale be heard, And hold no longer out. ANGELO. O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness To think I can be undiscernible, When I perceive your Grace, like power divine, Hath looked upon my passes. Then, good Prince, No longer session hold upon my shame, But let my trial be mine own confession. Immediate sentence then, and sequent death Is all the grace I beg. DUKE. Come hither, Mariana. Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman? ANGELO. I was, my lord. DUKE. Go, take her hence and marry her instantly. Do you the office, friar; which consummate, Return him here again.—Go with him, Provost. [_Exeunt Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost._] ESCALUS. My lord, I am more amazed at his dishonour Than at the strangeness of it. DUKE. Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince. As I was then Advertising and holy to your business, Not changing heart with habit, I am still Attorneyed at your service. ISABELLA. O, give me pardon, That I, your vassal, have employed and pained Your unknown sovereignty. DUKE. You are pardoned, Isabel. And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart, And you may marvel why I obscured myself, Labouring to save his life, and would not rather Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, It was the swift celerity of his death, Which I did think with slower foot came on, That brained my purpose. But peace be with him. That life is better life, past fearing death, Than that which lives to fear. Make it your comfort, So happy is your brother. ISABELLA. I do, my lord. Enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost. DUKE. For this new-married man approaching here, Whose salt imagination yet hath wronged Your well-defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana’s sake. But as he adjudged your brother, Being criminal in double violation Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach Thereon dependent, for your brother’s life, The very mercy of the law cries out Most audible, even from his proper tongue, “An Angelo for Claudio, death for death.” Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; Like doth quit like, and measure still for measure. Then, Angelo, thy fault’s thus manifested, Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage. We do condemn thee to the very block Where Claudio stooped to death, and with like haste. Away with him. MARIANA. O my most gracious lord, I hope you will not mock me with a husband. DUKE. It is your husband mocked you with a husband. Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, I thought your marriage fit. Else imputation, For that he knew you, might reproach your life, And choke your good to come. For his possessions, Although by confiscation they are ours, We do instate and widow you with all To buy you a better husband. MARIANA. O my dear lord, I crave no other, nor no better man. DUKE. Never crave him; we are definitive. MARIANA. [_Kneeling_.] Gentle my liege— DUKE. You do but lose your labour. Away with him to death. [_To Lucio_.] Now, sir, to you. MARIANA. O my good lord.—Sweet Isabel, take my part; Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I’ll lend you all my life to do you service. DUKE. Against all sense you do importune her. Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror. MARIANA. Isabel, Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me; Hold up your hands, say nothing. I’ll speak all. They say best men are moulded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad. So may my husband. O Isabel, will you not lend a knee? DUKE. He dies for Claudio’s death. ISABELLA. [_Kneeling_.] Most bounteous sir, Look, if it please you, on this man condemned As if my brother lived. I partly think A due sincerity governed his deeds Till he did look on me. Since it is so, Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died. For Angelo, His act did not o’ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perished by the way. Thoughts are no subjects; Intents but merely thoughts. MARIANA. Merely, my lord. DUKE. Your suit’s unprofitable. Stand up, I say. I have bethought me of another fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour? PROVOST. It was commanded so. DUKE. Had you a special warrant for the deed? PROVOST. No, my good lord, it was by private message. DUKE. For which I do discharge you of your office. Give up your keys. PROVOST. Pardon me, noble lord. I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; Yet did repent me after more advice. For testimony whereof, one in the prison That should by private order else have died, I have reserved alive. DUKE. What’s he? PROVOST. His name is Barnardine. DUKE. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. Go fetch him hither, let me look upon him. [_Exit Provost._] ESCALUS. I am sorry one so learned and so wise As you, Lord Angelo, have still appeared, Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood And lack of tempered judgement afterward. ANGELO. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure, And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart That I crave death more willingly than mercy; ’Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it. Enter Provost with Barnardine, Claudio (muffled) and Juliet. DUKE. Which is that Barnardine? PROVOST. This, my lord. DUKE. There was a friar told me of this man. Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul That apprehends no further than this world, And squar’st thy life according. Thou’rt condemned; But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, And pray thee take this mercy to provide For better times to come. Friar, advise him; I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow’s that? PROVOST. This is another prisoner that I saved, Who should have died when Claudio lost his head; As like almost to Claudio as himself. [_Unmuffles Claudio._] DUKE. [_To Isabella_.] If he be like your brother, for his sake Is he pardoned; and for your lovely sake, Give me your hand and say you will be mine. He is my brother too. But fitter time for that. By this Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe; Methinks I see a quick’ning in his eye. Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well. Look that you love your wife, her worth worth yours. I find an apt remission in myself. And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon. [_To Lucio_.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, One all of luxury, an ass, a madman. Wherein have I so deserved of you That you extol me thus? LUCIO. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may, but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped. DUKE. Whipped first, sir, and hanged after. Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city, If any woman wronged by this lewd fellow, As I have heard him swear himself there’s one Whom he begot with child—let her appear, And he shall marry her. The nuptial finished, Let him be whipped and hanged. LUCIO. I beseech your Highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now I made you a duke; good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold. DUKE. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. Thy slanders I forgive, and therewithal Remit thy other forfeits.—Take him to prison, And see our pleasure herein executed. LUCIO. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging. DUKE. Slandering a prince deserves it. [_Exeunt Officers with Lucio._] She, Claudio, that you wronged, look you restore. Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo. I have confessed her, and I know her virtue. Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness; There’s more behind that is more gratulate. Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy; We shall employ thee in a worthier place. Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s. Th’ offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, I have a motion much imports your good; Whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline, What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine. So, bring us to our palace, where we’ll show What’s yet behind that’s meet you all should know. [_Exeunt._] THE MERCHANT OF VENICE Contents ACT I Scene I. Venice. A street. Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene III. Venice. A public place. ACT II Scene I. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene II. Venice. A street. Scene III. The same. A room in Shylock’s house. Scene IV. The same. A street. Scene V. The same. Before Shylock’s house. Scene VI. The same. Scene VII. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene VIII. Venice. A street. Scene IX. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. ACT III Scene I. Venice. A street. Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene III. Venice. A street. Scene IV. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene V. The same. A garden. ACT IV Scene I. Venice. A court of justice. Scene II. The same. A street. ACT V Scene I. Belmont. The avenue to Portia’s house. Dramatis Personæ THE DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, suitor to Portia ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia GRATIANO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SALARINO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio LORENZO, in love with Jessica SHYLOCK, a rich Jew TUBAL, a Jew, his friend LAUNCELET GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelet LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio BALTHAZAR, servant to Portia STEPHANO, servant to Portia SALERIO, a messenger from Venice PORTIA, a rich heiress NERISSA, her waiting-woman JESSICA, daughter to Shylock Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, a Gaoler, Servants and other Attendants SCENE: Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia on the Continent ACT I SCENE I. Venice. A street. Enter Antonio, Salarino and Solanio. ANTONIO. In sooth I know not why I am so sad, It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn. And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself. SALARINO. Your mind is tossing on the ocean, There where your argosies, with portly sail Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickers That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings. SOLANIO. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports, and piers and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad. SALARINO. My wind cooling my broth Would blow me to an ague when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock’d in sand, Vailing her high top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel’s side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanc’d would make me sad? But tell not me, I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise. ANTONIO. Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year. Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. SALARINO. Why then you are in love. ANTONIO. Fie, fie! SALARINO. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad Because you are not merry; and ’twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper. And other of such vinegar aspect That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo and Gratiano. SOLANIO. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well. We leave you now with better company. SALARINO. I would have stay’d till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me. ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th’ occasion to depart. SALARINO. Good morrow, my good lords. BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when? You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so? SALARINO. We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours. [_Exeunt Salarino and Solanio._] LORENZO. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you, but at dinner-time I pray you have in mind where we must meet. BASSANIO. I will not fail you. GRATIANO. You look not well, Signior Antonio, You have too much respect upon the world. They lose it that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously chang’d. ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. GRATIANO. Let me play the fool, With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes? And creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, (I love thee, and ’tis my love that speaks): There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.” O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I’ll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well a while. I’ll end my exhortation after dinner. LORENZO. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak. GRATIANO. Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. ANTONIO. Fare you well. I’ll grow a talker for this gear. GRATIANO. Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat’s tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [_Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo._] ANTONIO. Is that anything now? BASSANIO. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search. ANTONIO. Well, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you today promis’d to tell me of? BASSANIO. ’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance. Nor do I now make moan to be abridg’d From such a noble rate, but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gag’d. To you, Antonio, I owe the most in money and in love, And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe. ANTONIO. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur’d My purse, my person, my extremest means Lie all unlock’d to your occasions. BASSANIO. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way, with more advised watch To find the other forth; and by adventuring both I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost. But if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both, Or bring your latter hazard back again, And thankfully rest debtor for the first. ANTONIO. You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have. Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it. Therefore, speak. BASSANIO. In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages: Her name is Portia, nothing undervalu’d To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strond, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift That I should questionless be fortunate. ANTONIO. Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum, therefore go forth Try what my credit can in Venice do; That shall be rack’d even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia. Go presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is, and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Enter Portia with her waiting-woman Nerissa. PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are. And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. Superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounc’d. NERISSA. They would be better if well followed. PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word “choose”! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike, so is the will of a living daughter curb’d by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations. Therefore the lott’ry that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come? PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them, and as thou namest them, I will describe them, and according to my description level at my affection. NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. PORTIA. Ay, that’s a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse, and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his mother play’d false with a smith. NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say “And you will not have me, choose.” He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death’s-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two! NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan’s, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine. He is every man in no man. If a throstle sing, he falls straight a-cap’ring. He will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. NERISSA. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of England? PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man’s picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour? PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, and seal’d under for another. NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony’s nephew? PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. And the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father’s will, if you should refuse to accept him. PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords. They have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father’s imposition, depending on the caskets. PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father’s will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence. And I pray God grant them a fair departure. NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio, as I think, so was he call’d. NERISSA. True, madam. He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes look’d upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. Enter a Servingman. How now! what news? SERVINGMAN. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave. And there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here tonight. PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach. If he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Venice. A public place. Enter Bassanio with Shylock the Jew. SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats, well. BASSANIO. Ay, sir, for three months. SHYLOCK. For three months, well. BASSANIO. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. SHYLOCK. Antonio shall become bound, well. BASSANIO. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer? SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound. BASSANIO. Your answer to that. SHYLOCK. Antonio is a good man. BASSANIO. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? SHYLOCK. Ho, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies. I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves—I mean pirates—and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats. I think I may take his bond. BASSANIO. Be assured you may. SHYLOCK. I will be assured I may. And that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? BASSANIO. If it please you to dine with us. SHYLOCK. Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here? Enter Antonio. BASSANIO. This is Signior Antonio. SHYLOCK. [_Aside._] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian, But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him! BASSANIO. Shylock, do you hear? SHYLOCK. I am debating of my present store, And by the near guess of my memory I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft! how many months Do you desire? [_To Antonio._] Rest you fair, good signior, Your worship was the last man in our mouths. ANTONIO. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I’ll break a custom. [_To Bassanio._] Is he yet possess’d How much ye would? SHYLOCK. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. ANTONIO. And for three months. SHYLOCK. I had forgot, three months, you told me so. Well then, your bond. And let me see, but hear you, Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage. ANTONIO. I do never use it. SHYLOCK. When Jacob graz’d his uncle Laban’s sheep,— This Jacob from our holy Abram was As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, The third possessor; ay, he was the third. ANTONIO. And what of him? Did he take interest? SHYLOCK. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, Directly interest; mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were compromis’d That all the eanlings which were streak’d and pied Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes being rank In end of autumn turned to the rams, And when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd pill’d me certain wands, And in the doing of the deed of kind, He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, Who then conceiving did in eaning time Fall parti-colour’d lambs, and those were Jacob’s. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest; And thrift is blessing if men steal it not. ANTONIO. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv’d for, A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? SHYLOCK. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. But note me, signior. ANTONIO. Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats, ’tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate. ANTONIO. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you? SHYLOCK. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances. Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, (For suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe.) You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help. Go to, then, you come to me, and you say “Shylock, we would have moneys.” You say so: You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold, moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say “Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?” Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this: “Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last; You spurn’d me such a day; another time You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys”? ANTONIO. I am as like to call thee so again, To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends, for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend? But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who if he break, thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty. SHYLOCK. Why, look you how you storm! I would be friends with you, and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with, Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me, This is kind I offer. BASSANIO. This were kindness. SHYLOCK. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond; and in a merry sport, If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum or sums as are Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me. ANTONIO. Content, in faith, I’ll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew. BASSANIO. You shall not seal to such a bond for me, I’ll rather dwell in my necessity. ANTONIO. Why, fear not, man, I will not forfeit it, Within these two months, that’s a month before This bond expires, I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond. SHYLOCK. O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this, If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man, Is not so estimable, profitable neither, As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his favour, I extend this friendship. If he will take it, so. If not, adieu, And for my love I pray you wrong me not. ANTONIO. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. SHYLOCK. Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s, Give him direction for this merry bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight, See to my house left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave, and presently I’ll be with you. ANTONIO. Hie thee, gentle Jew. [_Exit Shylock._] This Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind. BASSANIO. I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind. ANTONIO. Come on; in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa and their train. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phœbus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear’d the valiant; by my love I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes; Besides, the lott’ry of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. But if my father had not scanted me And hedg’d me by his wit to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look’d on yet For my affection. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you. Therefore I pray you lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, I would o’erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his rage, And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage. Therefore be advis’d. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. PORTIA. First, forward to the temple. After dinner Your hazard shall be made. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then, To make me blest or cursed’st among men! [_Cornets. Exeunt._] SCENE II. Venice. A street. Enter Launcelet Gobbo, the clown, alone. LAUNCELET. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me “Gobbo, Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelet Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says “No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo” or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” says the fiend, “away!” says the fiend. “For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me “My honest friend Launcelet, being an honest man’s son”—or rather an honest woman’s son, for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;—well, my conscience says “Launcelet, budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, (God bless the mark) is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who (saving your reverence) is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation, and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run, fiend, my heels are at your commandment, I will run. Enter Old Gobbo with a basket. GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew’s? LAUNCELET. [_Aside._] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father, who being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not. I will try confusions with him. GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s? LAUNCELET. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house. GOBBO. Be God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelet, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? LAUNCELET. Talk you of young Master Launcelet? [_Aside._] Mark me now, now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelet? GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son, his father, though I say’t, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. LAUNCELET. Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master Launcelet. GOBBO. Your worship’s friend, and Launcelet, sir. LAUNCELET. But I pray you, _ergo_, old man, _ergo_, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelet? GOBBO. Of Launcelet, an’t please your mastership. LAUNCELET. _Ergo_, Master Launcelet. Talk not of Master Launcelet, father, for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies, and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELET. [_Aside._] Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father? GOBBO. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman, but I pray you tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead? LAUNCELET. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not. LAUNCELET. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing, truth will come to light, murder cannot be hid long, a man’s son may, but in the end truth will out. GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up, I am sure you are not Launcelet my boy. LAUNCELET. Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing. I am Launcelet, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELET. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelet, the Jew’s man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed. I’ll be sworn if thou be Launcelet, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail. LAUNCELET. It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward. I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him. GOBBO. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now? LAUNCELET. Well, well. But for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come, give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune, here comes the man! To him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. Enter Bassanio with Leonardo and a follower or two. BASSANIO. You may do so, but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging. [_Exit a Servant._] LAUNCELET. To him, father. GOBBO. God bless your worship! BASSANIO. Gramercy, wouldst thou aught with me? GOBBO. Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy. LAUNCELET. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man, that would, sir, as my father shall specify. GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve. LAUNCELET. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify. GOBBO. His master and he (saving your worship’s reverence) are scarce cater-cousins. LAUNCELET. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you. GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and my suit is— LAUNCELET. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man, and though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you? LAUNCELET. Serve you, sir. GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew’s service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. LAUNCELET. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have “the grace of God”, sir, and he hath “enough”. BASSANIO. Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [_To a Servant._] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows’; see it done. LAUNCELET. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne’er a tongue in my head! [_Looking on his palm._] Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune; go to, here’s a simple line of life. Here’s a small trifle of wives, alas, fifteen wives is nothing; eleven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple ’scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling. [_Exeunt Launcelet and Old Gobbo._] BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestow’d, Return in haste, for I do feast tonight My best esteem’d acquaintance; hie thee, go. LEONARDO. My best endeavours shall be done herein. Enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. Where’s your master? LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks. [_Exit._] GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio! BASSANIO. Gratiano! GRATIANO. I have suit to you. BASSANIO. You have obtain’d it. GRATIANO. You must not deny me, I must go with you to Belmont. BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano, Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice, Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconst’red in the place I go to, And lose my hopes. GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me. If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say “amen”; Use all the observance of civility Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing. GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar tonight, you shall not gauge me By what we do tonight. BASSANIO. No, that were pity. I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well, I have some business. GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest, But we will visit you at supper-time. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A room in Shylock’s house. Enter Jessica and Launcelet. JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so. Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee, And, Launcelet, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest. Give him this letter, do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. LAUNCELET. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue, most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! These foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit. Adieu! JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelet. [_Exit Launcelet._] Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed to be my father’s child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. The same. A street. Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino and Solanio. LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation. SALARINO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. SOLANIO. ’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d, And better in my mind not undertook. LORENZO. ’Tis now but four o’clock, we have two hours To furnish us. Enter Launcelet with a letter. Friend Launcelet, what’s the news? LAUNCELET. And it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify. LORENZO. I know the hand, in faith ’tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. GRATIANO. Love news, in faith. LAUNCELET. By your leave, sir. LORENZO. Whither goest thou? LAUNCELET. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup tonight with my new master the Christian. LORENZO. Hold here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her, speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, [_Exit Launcelet._] Will you prepare you for this masque tonight? I am provided of a torch-bearer. SALARINO. Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight. SOLANIO. And so will I. LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence. SALARINO. ’Tis good we do so. [_Exeunt Salarino and Solanio._] GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica? LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father’s house, What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with, What page’s suit she hath in readiness. If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The same. Before Shylock’s house. Enter Shylock the Jew and Launcelet his man that was the clown. SHYLOCK. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio.— What, Jessica!—Thou shalt not gormandize As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!— And sleep, and snore, and rend apparel out. Why, Jessica, I say! LAUNCELET. Why, Jessica! SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. LAUNCELET. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding. Enter Jessica. JESSICA. Call you? What is your will? SHYLOCK. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica. There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love, they flatter me. But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags tonight. LAUNCELET. I beseech you, sir, go. My young master doth expect your reproach. SHYLOCK. So do I his. LAUNCELET. And they have conspired together. I will not say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o’clock i’ th’ morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in th’ afternoon. SHYLOCK. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica, Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces, But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements. Let not the sound of shallow fopp’ry enter My sober house. By Jacob’s staff I swear I have no mind of feasting forth tonight. But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah. Say I will come. LAUNCELET. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this. There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess’ eye. [_Exit Launcelet._] SHYLOCK. What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha? JESSICA. His words were “Farewell, mistress,” nothing else. SHYLOCK. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder, Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat. Drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him, and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in. Perhaps I will return immediately: Do as I bid you, shut doors after you, “Fast bind, fast find.” A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [_Exit._] JESSICA. Farewell, and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost. [_Exit._] SCENE VI. The same. Enter the masquers, Gratiano and Salarino. GRATIANO. This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand. SALARINO. His hour is almost past. GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock. SALARINO. O ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly To seal love’s bonds new-made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d. How like a younger or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind! Enter Lorenzo. SALARINO. Here comes Lorenzo, more of this hereafter. LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode. Not I but my affairs have made you wait. When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I’ll watch as long for you then. Approach. Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within? Enter Jessica above, in boy’s clothes. JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue. LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love. JESSICA. Lorenzo certain, and my love indeed, For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham’d of my exchange. But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur’d. LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once, For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast. JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight. [_Exit above._] GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a gentle, and no Jew. LORENZO. Beshrew me but I love her heartily, For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself. And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. Enter Jessica. What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. [_Exit with Jessica and Salarino._] Enter Antonio. ANTONIO. Who’s there? GRATIANO. Signior Antonio! ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest? ’Tis nine o’clock, our friends all stay for you. No masque tonight, the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard. I have sent twenty out to seek for you. GRATIANO. I am glad on’t. I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone tonight. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco and both their trains. PORTIA. Go, draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” The second, silver, which this promise carries, “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” How shall I know if I do choose the right? PORTIA. The one of them contains my picture, prince. If you choose that, then I am yours withal. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see. I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket? “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” Must give, for what? For lead? Hazard for lead! This casket threatens; men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross, I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue? “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand. If thou be’st rated by thy estimation Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady. And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady: I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray’d no farther, but chose here? Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold: “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” Why, that’s the lady, all the world desires her. From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint. The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia. The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spets in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come As o’er a brook to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is’t like that lead contains her? ’Twere damnation To think so base a thought. It were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’d Being ten times undervalued to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel Stamped in gold; but that’s insculp’d upon; But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key. Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may. PORTIA. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours. [_He unlocks the golden casket._] PRINCE OF MOROCCO. O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing. _All that glisters is not gold, Often have you heard that told. Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold. Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll’d, Fare you well, your suit is cold._ Cold indeed and labour lost, Then farewell heat, and welcome frost. Portia, adieu! I have too griev’d a heart To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part. [_Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets._] PORTIA. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VIII. Venice. A street. Enter Salarino and Solanio. SALARINO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. SOLANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais’d the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship. SALARINO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the Duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. Besides, Antonio certified the Duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. SOLANIO. I never heard a passion so confus’d, So strange, outrageous, and so variable As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. “My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol’n from me by my daughter! And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol’n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl, She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.” SALARINO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. SOLANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day Or he shall pay for this. SALARINO. Marry, well rememb’red. I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me, in the narrow seas that part The French and English, there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish’d in silence that it were not his. SOLANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear, Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. SALARINO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part, Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answered “Do not so, Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time, And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love: Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.” And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio’s hand, and so they parted. SOLANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. SALARINO. Do we so. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IX. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Enter Nerissa and a Servitor. NERISSA. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight. The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath, And comes to his election presently. Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, his train, and Portia. PORTIA. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince, If you choose that wherein I am contain’d, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d. But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately. ARRAGON. I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to anyone Which casket ’twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and be gone. PORTIA. To these injunctions everyone doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. ARRAGON. And so have I address’d me. Fortune now To my heart’s hope! Gold, silver, and base lead. “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see: “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” What many men desire! that “many” may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th’ interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house, Tell me once more what title thou dost bear. “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O that estates, degrees, and offices Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare? How many be commanded that command? How much low peasantry would then be gleaned From the true seed of honour? And how much honour Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new varnish’d? Well, but to my choice. “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here. [_He opens the silver casket._] PORTIA. Too long a pause for that which you find there. ARRAGON. What’s here? The portrait of a blinking idiot Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! “Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.” Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head? Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better? PORTIA. To offend and judge are distinct offices, And of opposed natures. ARRAGON. What is here? _The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow’s bliss. There be fools alive, I wis, Silver’d o’er, and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head: So be gone; you are sped._ Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here. With one fool’s head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth. [_Exit Arragon with his train._] PORTIA. Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth. O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. NERISSA. The ancient saying is no heresy: Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. PORTIA. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Where is my lady? PORTIA. Here. What would my lord? MESSENGER. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify th’ approaching of his lord, From whom he bringeth sensible regreets; To wit (besides commends and courteous breath) Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love. A day in April never came so sweet, To show how costly summer was at hand, As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. PORTIA. No more, I pray thee. I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly. NERISSA. Bassanio, Lord Love, if thy will it be! [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Venice. A street. Enter Solanio and Salarino. SOLANIO. Now, what news on the Rialto? SALARINO. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrack’d on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word. SOLANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,—O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!— SALARINO. Come, the full stop. SOLANIO. Ha, what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship. SALARINO. I would it might prove the end of his losses. SOLANIO. Let me say “amen” betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. Enter Shylock. How now, Shylock, what news among the merchants? SHYLOCK. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight. SALARINO. That’s certain, I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal. SOLANIO. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. SHYLOCK. She is damn’d for it. SALARINO. That’s certain, if the devil may be her judge. SHYLOCK. My own flesh and blood to rebel! SOLANIO. Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years? SHYLOCK. I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood. SALARINO. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory, more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no? SHYLOCK. There I have another bad match, a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto, a beggar that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian cur’sy; let him look to his bond. SALARINO. Why, I am sure if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh! What’s that good for? SHYLOCK. To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac’d me and hind’red me half a million, laugh’d at my losses, mock’d at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge! The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. Enter a man from Antonio. SERVANT. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both. SALARINO. We have been up and down to seek him. Enter Tubal. SOLANIO. Here comes another of the tribe; a third cannot be match’d, unless the devil himself turn Jew. [_Exeunt Solanio, Salarino and the Servant._] SHYLOCK. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter? TUBAL. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. SHYLOCK. Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now, I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin. No news of them? Why so? And I know not what’s spent in the search. Why, thou—loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief, and no satisfaction, no revenge, nor no ill luck stirring but what lights o’ my shoulders, no sighs but o’ my breathing, no tears but o’ my shedding. TUBAL. Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa— SHYLOCK. What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck? TUBAL. —hath an argosy cast away coming from Tripolis. SHYLOCK. I thank God! I thank God! Is it true, is it true? TUBAL. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wrack. SHYLOCK. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! Ha, ha, heard in Genoa? TUBAL. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats. SHYLOCK. Thou stick’st a dagger in me. I shall never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats! TUBAL. There came divers of Antonio’s creditors in my company to Venice that swear he cannot choose but break. SHYLOCK. I am very glad of it. I’ll plague him, I’ll torture him. I am glad of it. TUBAL. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey. SHYLOCK. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal. It was my turquoise, I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. TUBAL. But Antonio is certainly undone. SHYLOCK. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him if he forfeit, for were he out of Venice I can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue. Go, good Tubal, at our synagogue, Tubal. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa and all their trains. PORTIA. I pray you tarry, pause a day or two Before you hazard, for in choosing wrong I lose your company; therefore forbear a while. There’s something tells me (but it is not love) I would not lose you, and you know yourself Hate counsels not in such a quality. But lest you should not understand me well,— And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,— I would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but then I am forsworn. So will I never be. So may you miss me. But if you do, you’ll make me wish a sin, That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, They have o’erlook’d me and divided me. One half of me is yours, the other half yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. O these naughty times Puts bars between the owners and their rights! And so though yours, not yours. Prove it so, Let Fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long, but ’tis to peise the time, To eche it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election. BASSANIO. Let me choose, For as I am, I live upon the rack. PORTIA. Upon the rack, Bassanio! Then confess What treason there is mingled with your love. BASSANIO. None but that ugly treason of mistrust, Which makes me fear th’ enjoying of my love. There may as well be amity and life ’Tween snow and fire as treason and my love. PORTIA. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack Where men enforced do speak anything. BASSANIO. Promise me life, and I’ll confess the truth. PORTIA. Well then, confess and live. BASSANIO. “Confess and love” Had been the very sum of my confession: O happy torment, when my torturer Doth teach me answers for deliverance! But let me to my fortune and the caskets. PORTIA. Away, then! I am lock’d in one of them. If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. Let music sound while he doth make his choice. Then if he lose he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music. That the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And wat’ry death-bed for him. He may win, And what is music then? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch. Such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love Than young Alcides when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages come forth to view The issue of th’ exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay I view the fight than thou that mak’st the fray. A song, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself. _Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend’red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy’s knell: I’ll begin it.—Ding, dong, bell._ ALL. _Ding, dong, bell._ BASSANIO. So may the outward shows be least themselves. The world is still deceiv’d with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season’d with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who inward search’d, have livers white as milk, And these assume but valour’s excrement To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see ’tis purchas’d by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee, Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge ’Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threaten’st than dost promise aught, Thy palenness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I, joy be the consequence! PORTIA. [_Aside._] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair, And shudd’ring fear, and green-ey’d jealousy. O love, be moderate; allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess! I feel too much thy blessing, make it less, For fear I surfeit. BASSANIO. What find I here? [_Opening the leaden casket_.] Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath, so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh t’entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes!— How could he see to do them? Having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. _You that choose not by the view Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleas’d with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn to where your lady is, And claim her with a loving kiss._ A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave, [_Kissing her_.] I come by note to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a prize That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout, Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no, So, thrice-fair lady, stand I even so, As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you. PORTIA. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am; though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better, yet for you I would be trebled twenty times myself, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times More rich, That only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account. But the full sum of me Is sum of something, which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all, is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours Is now converted. But now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself Are yours,—my lord’s. I give them with this ring, Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you. BASSANIO. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers As after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude, Where every something being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy Express’d and not express’d. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence. O then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead! NERISSA. My lord and lady, it is now our time, That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady! GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish; For I am sure you can wish none from me. And when your honours mean to solemnize The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too. BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. GRATIANO. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid. You lov’d, I lov’d; for intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls. For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last, (if promise last) I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achiev’d her mistress. PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa? NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d withal. BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord. BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much honoured in your marriage. GRATIANO. We’ll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats. NERISSA. What! and stake down? GRATIANO. No, we shall ne’er win at that sport and stake down. But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend, Salerio! Enter Lorenzo, Jessica and Salerio. BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither, If that the youth of my new int’rest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome. PORTIA. So do I, my lord, They are entirely welcome. LORENZO. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here, But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. SALERIO. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you. [_Gives Bassanio a letter._] BASSANIO. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you tell me how my good friend doth. SALERIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind, Nor well, unless in mind. His letter there Will show you his estate. [_Bassanio opens the letter._] GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger, bid her welcome. Your hand, Salerio. What’s the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success. We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. SALERIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yond same paper That steals the colour from Bassanio’s cheek. Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse? With leave, Bassanio, I am half yourself, And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you. BASSANIO. O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman. And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing; for indeed I have engag’d myself to a dear friend, Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio? Hath all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks? SALERIO. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear, that if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature that did bear the shape of man So keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the Duke at morning and at night, And doth impeach the freedom of the state If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, The Duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port have all persuaded with him, But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. JESSICA. When I was with him, I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him. And I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio. PORTIA. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? BASSANIO. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best condition’d and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies, and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy. PORTIA. What sum owes he the Jew? BASSANIO. For me three thousand ducats. PORTIA. What, no more? Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond. Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend. For never shall you lie by Portia’s side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over. When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime, Will live as maids and widows. Come, away! For you shall hence upon your wedding day. Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend. BASSANIO. _Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit, and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are clear’d between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure. If your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter._ PORTIA. O love, dispatch all business and be gone! BASSANIO. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste; but, till I come again, No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay, Nor rest be interposer ’twixt us twain. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Venice. A street. Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio and Gaoler. SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy. This is the fool that lent out money gratis. Gaoler, look to him. ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock. SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond, speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak. SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak. I’ll have my bond, and therefore speak no more. I’ll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not, I’ll have no speaking, I will have my bond. [_Exit._] SALARINO. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. ANTONIO. Let him alone. I’ll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life, his reason well I know: I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me. Therefore he hates me. SALARINO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law, For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, ’Twill much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go. These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh Tomorrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on, pray God Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica and Balthazar. LORENZO. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you. PORTIA. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now; for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit; Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestowed In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish cruelty! This comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore no more of it. Hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord’s return. For mine own part, I have toward heaven breath’d a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord’s return. There is a monastery two miles off, And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition, The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you. LORENZO. Madam, with all my heart I shall obey you in all fair commands. PORTIA. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again. LORENZO. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you! JESSICA. I wish your ladyship all heart’s content. PORTIA. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas’d To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica. [_Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo._] Now, Balthazar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all th’ endeavour of a man In speed to Padua, see thou render this Into my cousin’s hands, Doctor Bellario; And look what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed Unto the traject, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone. I shall be there before thee. BALTHAZAR. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. [_Exit._] PORTIA. Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand That you yet know not of; we’ll see our husbands Before they think of us. NERISSA. Shall they see us? PORTIA. They shall, Nerissa, but in such a habit That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I’ll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutered like young men, I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride; and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies How honourable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died; I could not do withal. Then I’ll repent, And wish for all that, that I had not kill’d them. And twenty of these puny lies I’ll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinued school About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. NERISSA. Why, shall we turn to men? PORTIA. Fie, what a question’s that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! But come, I’ll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate; and therefore haste away, For we must measure twenty miles today. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The same. A garden. Enter Launcelet and Jessica. LAUNCELET. Yes, truly, for look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children, therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter. Therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn’d. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee? LAUNCELET. Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew’s daughter. JESSICA. That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. LAUNCELET. Truly then I fear you are damn’d both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla your father, I fall into Charybdis your mother. Well, you are gone both ways. JESSICA. I shall be saved by my husband. He hath made me a Christian. LAUNCELET. Truly the more to blame he, we were Christians enow before, e’en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. Enter Lorenzo. JESSICA. I’ll tell my husband, Launcelet, what you say. Here he comes. LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelet, if you thus get my wife into corners! JESSICA. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo. Launcelet and I are out. He tells me flatly there’s no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew’s daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork. LORENZO. I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro’s belly! The Moor is with child by you, Launcelet. LAUNCELET. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for. LORENZO. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner. LAUNCELET. That is done, sir, they have all stomachs. LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner. LAUNCELET. That is done too, sir, only “cover” is the word. LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir? LAUNCELET. Not so, sir, neither. I know my duty. LORENZO. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. LAUNCELET. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. [_Exit._] LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words, and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife? JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth, And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. LORENZO. I will anon. First let us go to dinner. JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. LORENZO. No pray thee, let it serve for table-talk. Then howsome’er thou speak’st, ’mong other things I shall digest it. JESSICA. Well, I’ll set you forth. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Venice. A court of justice. Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio and others. DUKE. What, is Antonio here? ANTONIO. Ready, so please your Grace. DUKE. I am sorry for thee, thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch, Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. ANTONIO. I have heard Your Grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm’d To suffer with a quietness of spirit The very tyranny and rage of his. DUKE. Go one and call the Jew into the court. SALARINO. He is ready at the door. He comes, my lord. Enter Shylock. DUKE. Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act, and then, ’tis thought, Thou’lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; And where thou now exacts the penalty, Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh, Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, But, touch’d with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal, Glancing an eye of pity on his losses That have of late so huddled on his back, Enow to press a royal merchant down, And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars never train’d To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. SHYLOCK. I have possess’d your Grace of what I purpose, And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond. If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city’s freedom! You’ll ask me why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats. I’ll not answer that, But say it is my humour. Is it answer’d? What if my house be troubled with a rat, And I be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats To have it ban’d? What, are you answer’d yet? Some men there are love not a gaping pig; Some that are mad if they behold a cat; And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose, Cannot contain their urine; for affection Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer: As there is no firm reason to be render’d Why he cannot abide a gaping pig, Why he a harmless necessary cat, Why he a woollen bagpipe, but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to offend, himself being offended, So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodg’d hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answered? BASSANIO. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. SHYLOCK. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. BASSANIO. Do all men kill the things they do not love? SHYLOCK. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? BASSANIO. Every offence is not a hate at first. SHYLOCK. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice? ANTONIO. I pray you, think you question with the Jew. You may as well go stand upon the beach And bid the main flood bate his usual height; You may as well use question with the wolf, Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops and to make no noise When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; You may as well do anything most hard As seek to soften that—than which what’s harder?— His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, Make no moe offers, use no farther means, But with all brief and plain conveniency. Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. BASSANIO. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. SHYLOCK. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them, I would have my bond. DUKE. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend’ring none? SHYLOCK. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchas’d slave, Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them. Shall I say to you “Let them be free, marry them to your heirs? Why sweat they under burdens? Let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be season’d with such viands”? You will answer “The slaves are ours.” So do I answer you: The pound of flesh which I demand of him Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment. Answer; shall I have it? DUKE. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here today. SALARINO. My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. DUKE. Bring us the letters. Call the messenger. BASSANIO. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. ANTONIO. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death, the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. Enter Nerissa dressed like a lawyer’s clerk. DUKE. Came you from Padua, from Bellario? NERISSA. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace. [_Presents a letter._] BASSANIO. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? SHYLOCK. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. GRATIANO. Not on thy sole but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak’st thy knife keen. But no metal can, No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee? SHYLOCK. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. GRATIANO. O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accus’d; Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit Govern’d a wolf who, hang’d for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And whilst thou layest in thy unhallowed dam, Infus’d itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv’d and ravenous. SHYLOCK. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud. Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. DUKE. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he? NERISSA. He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you’ll admit him. DUKE OF VENICE. With all my heart: some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario’s letter. [_Reads._] _Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick, but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome. His name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant. We turn’d o’er many books together. He is furnished with my opinion, which, bettered with his own learning (the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend), comes with him at my importunity to fill up your Grace’s request in my stead. I beseech you let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation._ You hear the learn’d Bellario what he writes, And here, I take it, is the doctor come. Enter Portia dressed like a doctor of laws. Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario? PORTIA. I did, my lord. DUKE. You are welcome. Take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court? PORTIA. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here? And which the Jew? DUKE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. PORTIA. Is your name Shylock? SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name. PORTIA. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. [_To Antonio_.] You stand within his danger, do you not? ANTONIO. Ay, so he says. PORTIA. Do you confess the bond? ANTONIO. I do. PORTIA. Then must the Jew be merciful. SHYLOCK. On what compulsion must I? Tell me that. PORTIA. The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest, It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown. His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. SHYLOCK. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. PORTIA. Is he not able to discharge the money? BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court, Yea, twice the sum, if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority. To do a great right, do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will. PORTIA. It must not be, there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established; ’Twill be recorded for a precedent, And many an error by the same example Will rush into the state. It cannot be. SHYLOCK. A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! PORTIA. I pray you let me look upon the bond. SHYLOCK. Here ’tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. PORTIA. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offered thee. SHYLOCK. An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. PORTIA. Why, this bond is forfeit, And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful, Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. SHYLOCK. When it is paid according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law; your exposition Hath been most sound. I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me. I stay here on my bond. ANTONIO. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment. PORTIA. Why then, thus it is: You must prepare your bosom for his knife. SHYLOCK. O noble judge! O excellent young man! PORTIA. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond. SHYLOCK. ’Tis very true. O wise and upright judge, How much more elder art thou than thy looks! PORTIA. Therefore lay bare your bosom. SHYLOCK. Ay, his breast So says the bond, doth it not, noble judge? “Nearest his heart”: those are the very words. PORTIA. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh? SHYLOCK. I have them ready. PORTIA. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. SHYLOCK. Is it so nominated in the bond? PORTIA. It is not so express’d, but what of that? ’Twere good you do so much for charity. SHYLOCK. I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond. PORTIA. You, merchant, have you anything to say? ANTONIO. But little. I am arm’d and well prepar’d. Give me your hand, Bassanio. Fare you well, Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you, For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom: it is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty, from which ling’ring penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife, Tell her the process of Antonio’s end, Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death. And when the tale is told, bid her be judge Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent but you that you shall lose your friend And he repents not that he pays your debt. For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I’ll pay it instantly with all my heart. BASSANIO. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself, But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem’d above thy life. I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you. PORTIA. Your wife would give you little thanks for that If she were by to hear you make the offer. GRATIANO. I have a wife who I protest I love. I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. NERISSA. ’Tis well you offer it behind her back, The wish would make else an unquiet house. SHYLOCK. These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter— Would any of the stock of Barabbas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian! We trifle time, I pray thee, pursue sentence. PORTIA. A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine, The court awards it and the law doth give it. SHYLOCK. Most rightful judge! PORTIA. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it and the court awards it. SHYLOCK. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare. PORTIA. Tarry a little, there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood. The words expressly are “a pound of flesh”: Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh, But in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice. GRATIANO. O upright judge! Mark, Jew. O learned judge! SHYLOCK. Is that the law? PORTIA. Thyself shalt see the act. For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d Thou shalt have justice more than thou desir’st. GRATIANO. O learned judge! Mark, Jew, a learned judge! SHYLOCK. I take this offer then. Pay the bond thrice And let the Christian go. BASSANIO. Here is the money. PORTIA. Soft! The Jew shall have all justice. Soft! no haste! He shall have nothing but the penalty. GRATIANO. O Jew, an upright judge, a learned judge! PORTIA. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more, But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak’st more Or less than a just pound, be it but so much As makes it light or heavy in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. GRATIANO. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. PORTIA. Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture. SHYLOCK. Give me my principal, and let me go. BASSANIO. I have it ready for thee. Here it is. PORTIA. He hath refus’d it in the open court, He shall have merely justice and his bond. GRATIANO. A Daniel still say I, a second Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. SHYLOCK. Shall I not have barely my principal? PORTIA. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. SHYLOCK. Why, then the devil give him good of it! I’ll stay no longer question. PORTIA. Tarry, Jew. The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party ’gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state, And the offender’s life lies in the mercy Of the Duke only, ’gainst all other voice. In which predicament I say thou stand’st; For it appears by manifest proceeding That indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d The danger formerly by me rehears’d. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. GRATIANO. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself, And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord; Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge. DUKE. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s; The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. PORTIA. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio. SHYLOCK. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that. You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live. PORTIA. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? GRATIANO. A halter gratis, nothing else, for God’s sake! ANTONIO. So please my lord the Duke and all the court To quit the fine for one half of his goods, I am content, so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it Upon his death unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter. Two things provided more, that for this favour, He presently become a Christian; The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. DUKE. He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here. PORTIA. Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say? SHYLOCK. I am content. PORTIA. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. SHYLOCK. I pray you give me leave to go from hence; I am not well; send the deed after me And I will sign it. DUKE. Get thee gone, but do it. GRATIANO. In christ’ning shalt thou have two god-fathers. Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not to the font. [_Exit Shylock._] DUKE. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. PORTIA. I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon, I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth. DUKE. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For in my mind you are much bound to him. [_Exeunt Duke and his train._] BASSANIO. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties, in lieu whereof, Three thousand ducats due unto the Jew We freely cope your courteous pains withal. ANTONIO. And stand indebted, over and above In love and service to you evermore. PORTIA. He is well paid that is well satisfied, And I delivering you, am satisfied, And therein do account myself well paid, My mind was never yet more mercenary. I pray you know me when we meet again, I wish you well, and so I take my leave. BASSANIO. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further. Take some remembrance of us as a tribute, Not as fee. Grant me two things, I pray you, Not to deny me, and to pardon me. PORTIA. You press me far, and therefore I will yield. [_To Antonio_.] Give me your gloves, I’ll wear them for your sake. [_To Bassanio_.] And, for your love, I’ll take this ring from you. Do not draw back your hand; I’ll take no more, And you in love shall not deny me this. BASSANIO. This ring, good sir? Alas, it is a trifle, I will not shame myself to give you this. PORTIA. I will have nothing else but only this, And now methinks I have a mind to it. BASSANIO. There’s more depends on this than on the value. The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, And find it out by proclamation, Only for this I pray you pardon me. PORTIA. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answer’d. BASSANIO. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife, And when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it. PORTIA. That ’scuse serves many men to save their gifts. And if your wife be not a mad-woman, And know how well I have deserv’d this ring, She would not hold out enemy for ever For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you! [_Exeunt Portia and Nerissa._] ANTONIO. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring. Let his deservings and my love withal Be valued ’gainst your wife’s commandment. BASSANIO. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him; Give him the ring, and bring him if thou canst Unto Antonio’s house. Away, make haste. [_Exit Gratiano._] Come, you and I will thither presently, And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A street. Enter Portia and Nerissa. PORTIA. Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it, we’ll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. Enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en. My Lord Bassanio upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. PORTIA. That cannot be; His ring I do accept most thankfully, And so I pray you tell him. Furthermore, I pray you show my youth old Shylock’s house. GRATIANO. That will I do. NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [_Aside to Portia_.] I’ll see if I can get my husband’s ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. PORTIA. [_To Nerissa_.] Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we’ll outface them, and outswear them too. Away! make haste! Thou know’st where I will tarry. NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Belmont. The avenue to Portia’s house. Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. LORENZO. The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise, in such a night, Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls, And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents Where Cressid lay that night. JESSICA. In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew, And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself, And ran dismay’d away. LORENZO. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage. JESSICA. In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs That did renew old Æson. LORENZO. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont. JESSICA. In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, And ne’er a true one. LORENZO. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her. JESSICA. I would out-night you did no body come; But hark, I hear the footing of a man. Enter Stephano. LORENZO. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? STEPHANO. A friend. LORENZO. A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend? STEPHANO. Stephano is my name, and I bring word My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont. She doth stray about By holy crosses where she kneels and prays For happy wedlock hours. LORENZO. Who comes with her? STEPHANO. None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you is my master yet return’d? LORENZO. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house. Enter Launcelet. LAUNCELET. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! LORENZO. Who calls? LAUNCELET. Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola! LORENZO. Leave holloaing, man. Here! LAUNCELET. Sola! Where, where? LORENZO. Here! LAUNCELET. Tell him there’s a post come from my master with his horn full of good news. My master will be here ere morning. [_Exit._] LORENZO. Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter; why should we go in? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, Within the house, your mistress is at hand, And bring your music forth into the air. [_Exit Stephano._] How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold. There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Enter Musicians. Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn. With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear, And draw her home with music. [_Music._] JESSICA. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. LORENZO. The reason is, your spirits are attentive. For do but note a wild and wanton herd Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood, If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods, Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. Enter Portia and Nerissa. PORTIA. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. NERISSA. When the moon shone we did not see the candle. PORTIA. So doth the greater glory dim the less. A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music! hark! NERISSA. It is your music, madam, of the house. PORTIA. Nothing is good, I see, without respect. Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. NERISSA. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. PORTIA. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended; and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season’d are To their right praise and true perfection! Peace! How the moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak’d! [_Music ceases._] LORENZO. That is the voice, Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia. PORTIA. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice. LORENZO. Dear lady, welcome home. PORTIA. We have been praying for our husbands’ welfare, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return’d? LORENZO. Madam, they are not yet; But there is come a messenger before To signify their coming. PORTIA. Go in, Nerissa. Give order to my servants, that they take No note at all of our being absent hence, Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. [_A tucket sounds._] LORENZO. Your husband is at hand, I hear his trumpet. We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not. PORTIA. This night methinks is but the daylight sick, It looks a little paler. ’Tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid. Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano and their Followers. BASSANIO. We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun. PORTIA. Let me give light, but let me not be light, For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me. But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord. BASSANIO. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend. This is the man, this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound. PORTIA. You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. ANTONIO. No more than I am well acquitted of. PORTIA. Sir, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. GRATIANO. [_To Nerissa_.] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong, In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk. Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. PORTIA. A quarrel, ho, already! What’s the matter? GRATIANO. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutlers’ poetry Upon a knife, “Love me, and leave me not.” NERISSA. What talk you of the posy, or the value? You swore to me when I did give it you, That you would wear it till your hour of death, And that it should lie with you in your grave. Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge’s clerk! No, God’s my judge, The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that had it. GRATIANO. He will, and if he live to be a man. NERISSA. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. GRATIANO. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk, A prating boy that begg’d it as a fee, I could not for my heart deny it him. PORTIA. You were to blame,—I must be plain with you,— To part so slightly with your wife’s first gift, A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger, And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear Never to part with it, and here he stands. I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief, An ’twere to me I should be mad at it. BASSANIO. [_Aside._] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off, And swear I lost the ring defending it. GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begg’d it, and indeed Deserv’d it too. And then the boy, his clerk, That took some pains in writing, he begg’d mine, And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings. PORTIA. What ring gave you, my lord? Not that, I hope, which you receiv’d of me. BASSANIO. If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it, but you see my finger Hath not the ring upon it, it is gone. PORTIA. Even so void is your false heart of truth. By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed Until I see the ring. NERISSA. Nor I in yours Till I again see mine! BASSANIO. Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring, If you did know for whom I gave the ring, And would conceive for what I gave the ring, And how unwillingly I left the ring, When nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure. PORTIA. If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honour to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleas’d to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony? Nerissa teaches me what to believe: I’ll die for’t but some woman had the ring. BASSANIO. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, No woman had it, but a civil doctor, Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me, And begg’d the ring, the which I did deny him, And suffer’d him to go displeas’d away, Even he that had held up the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was enforc’d to send it after him. I was beset with shame and courtesy. My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; For by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think you would have begg’d The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. PORTIA. Let not that doctor e’er come near my house, Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you, I’ll not deny him anything I have, No, not my body, nor my husband’s bed. Know him I shall, I am well sure of it. Lie not a night from home. Watch me like Argus, If you do not, if I be left alone, Now by mine honour which is yet mine own, I’ll have that doctor for mine bedfellow. NERISSA. And I his clerk. Therefore be well advis’d How you do leave me to mine own protection. GRATIANO. Well, do you so. Let not me take him then, For if I do, I’ll mar the young clerk’s pen. ANTONIO. I am th’ unhappy subject of these quarrels. PORTIA. Sir, grieve not you. You are welcome notwithstanding. BASSANIO. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong, And in the hearing of these many friends I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself— PORTIA. Mark you but that! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself, In each eye one. Swear by your double self, And there’s an oath of credit. BASSANIO. Nay, but hear me. Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee. ANTONIO. I once did lend my body for his wealth, Which but for him that had your husband’s ring Had quite miscarried. I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. PORTIA. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this, And bid him keep it better than the other. ANTONIO. Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring. BASSANIO. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! PORTIA. I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio, For by this ring, the doctor lay with me. NERISSA. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano, For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk, In lieu of this, last night did lie with me. GRATIANO. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough. What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserv’d it? PORTIA. Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz’d. Here is a letter; read it at your leisure. It comes from Padua from Bellario. There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, Nerissa there, her clerk. Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as you, And even but now return’d. I have not yet Enter’d my house. Antonio, you are welcome, And I have better news in store for you Than you expect: unseal this letter soon. There you shall find three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly. You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter. ANTONIO. I am dumb. BASSANIO. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not? GRATIANO. Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold? NERISSA. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man. BASSANIO. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow. When I am absent, then lie with my wife. ANTONIO. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road. PORTIA. How now, Lorenzo! My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. NERISSA. Ay, and I’ll give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess’d of. LORENZO. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people. PORTIA. It is almost morning, And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in, And charge us there upon inter’gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully. GRATIANO. Let it be so. The first inter’gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, Whether till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now, being two hours to day. But were the day come, I should wish it dark Till I were couching with the doctor’s clerk. Well, while I live, I’ll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring. [_Exeunt._] THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR Contents ACT I Scene I. Windsor. Before Page’s house Scene II. The same Scene III. A room in the Garter Inn Scene IV. A room in Doctor Caius’s house ACT II Scene I. Before Page’s house Scene II. A room in the Garter Inn Scene III. A field near Windsor ACT III Scene I. A field near Frogmore Scene II. A street in Windsor Scene III. A room in Ford’s house Scene IV. A room in Page’s house Scene V. A room in the Garter Inn ACT IV Scene I. The street Scene II. A room in Ford’s house Scene III. A room in the Garter Inn Scene IV. A room in Ford’s house Scene V. A room in the Garter Inn Scene VI. Another room in the Garter Inn ACT V Scene I. A room in the Garter Inn Scene II. Windsor Park Scene III. The street in Windsor Scene IV. Windsor Park Scene V. Another part of the Park Dramatis Personæ HOST of the Garter Inn SIR JOHN FALSTAFF ROBIN, page to Falstaff BARDOLPH, follower of Falstaff PISTOL, follower of Falstaff NYM, follower of Falstaff Robert SHALLOW, a country justice Abraham SLENDER, cousin to Shallow Peter SIMPLE, servant to Slender FENTON, a young gentleman George PAGE, a Gentleman dwelling at Windsor MISTRESS PAGE, his wife MISTRESS ANNE PAGE, her daughter, in love with Fenton WILLIAM PAGE, a boy, son to Page Frank FORD, a Gentleman dwelling at Windsor MISTRESS FORD, his wife JOHN, Servant to Ford ROBERT, Servant to Ford SIR HUGH EVANS, a Welsh parson DOCTOR CAIUS, a French physician MISTRESS QUICKLY, servant to Doctor Caius John RUGBY, servant to Doctor Caius SERVANTS to Page, &c. SCENE: Windsor and the neighbourhood ACT I SCENE I. Windsor. Before Page’s house Enter Justice Shallow, Slender and Sir Hugh Evans. SHALLOW. Sir Hugh, persuade me not. I will make a Star Chamber matter of it. If he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. SLENDER. In the county of Gloucester, Justice of Peace and Coram. SHALLOW. Ay, cousin Slender, and Custalorum. SLENDER. Ay, and Ratolorum too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself “Armigero” in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation—“Armigero.” SHALLOW. Ay, that I do, and have done any time these three hundred years. SLENDER. All his successors, gone before him hath done’t; and all his ancestors that come after him may. They may give the dozen white luces in their coat. SHALLOW. It is an old coat. EVANS. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well. It agrees well, passant. It is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love. SHALLOW. The luce is the fresh fish. The salt fish is an old coat. SLENDER. I may quarter, coz. SHALLOW. You may, by marrying. EVANS. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. SHALLOW. Not a whit. EVANS. Yes, py’r Lady. If he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures. But that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the Church, and will be glad to do my benevolence to make atonements and compremises between you. SHALLOW. The Council shall hear it; it is a riot. EVANS. It is not meet the Council hear a riot. There is no fear of Got in a riot. The Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot. Take your vizaments in that. SHALLOW. Ha! O’ my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it. EVANS. It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it; and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it. There is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George Page, which is pretty virginity. SLENDER. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman? EVANS. It is that fery person for all the ’orld, as just as you will desire, and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death’s-bed—Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!—give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page. SHALLOW. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound? EVANS. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny. SHALLOW. I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts. EVANS. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is goot gifts. SHALLOW. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there? EVANS. Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false, or as I despise one that is not true. The knight Sir John is there, and I beseech you be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [_Knocks._] What, ho! Got pless your house here! PAGE. [_Within_.] Who’s there? EVANS. Here is Got’s plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow, and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. Enter Page. PAGE. I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Master Page, I am glad to see you, much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page? And I thank you always with my heart, la, with my heart. PAGE. Sir, I thank you. SHALLOW. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. PAGE. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. SLENDER. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. PAGE. It could not be judged, sir. SLENDER. You’ll not confess, you’ll not confess. SHALLOW. That he will not. ’Tis your fault; ’tis your fault. ’Tis a good dog. PAGE. A cur, sir. SHALLOW. Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog, can there be more said? He is good, and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here? PAGE. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you. EVANS. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. SHALLOW. He hath wronged me, Master Page. PAGE. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. SHALLOW. If it be confessed, it is not redressed. Is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me, indeed he hath, at a word, he hath. Believe me. Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wronged. PAGE. Here comes Sir John. Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym and Pistol. FALSTAFF. Now, Master Shallow, you’ll complain of me to the King? SHALLOW. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. FALSTAFF. But not kissed your keeper’s daughter! SHALLOW. Tut, a pin! This shall be answered. FALSTAFF. I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answered. SHALLOW. The Council shall know this. FALSTAFF. ’Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you’ll be laughed at. EVANS. _Pauca verba_, Sir John; goot worts. FALSTAFF. Good worts? Good cabbage!—Slender, I broke your head. What matter have you against me? SLENDER. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you, and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern and made me drunk, and afterwards picked my pocket. BARDOLPH. You Banbury cheese! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. PISTOL. How now, Mephostophilus? SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. NYM. Slice, I say! _Pauca, pauca_, slice, that’s my humour. SLENDER. Where’s Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin? EVANS. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand; there is three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is, Master Page, _fidelicet_ Master Page; and there is myself, _fidelicet_ myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. PAGE. We three to hear it and end it between them. EVANS. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it in my notebook, and we will afterwards ’ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. FALSTAFF. Pistol! PISTOL. He hears with ears. EVANS. The tevil and his tam! What phrase is this, “He hears with ear”? Why, it is affectations. FALSTAFF. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse? SLENDER. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else! Of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yed Miller, by these gloves. FALSTAFF. Is this true, Pistol? EVANS. No, it is false, if it is a pick-purse. PISTOL. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner!—Sir John and master mine, I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.— Word of denial in thy _labras_ here! Word of denial! Froth and scum, thou liest. SLENDER. [_Points at Nym_.] By these gloves, then, ’twas he. NYM. Be avised, sir, and pass good humours. I will say “marry trap with you”, if you run the nuthook’s humour on me. That is the very note of it. SLENDER. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it. For though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. FALSTAFF. What say you, Scarlet and John? BARDOLPH. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences. EVANS. It is his “five senses”. Fie, what the ignorance is! BARDOLPH. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashiered; and so conclusions passed the careers. SLENDER. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but ’tis no matter. I’ll ne’er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick. If I be drunk, I’ll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. EVANS. So Got ’udge me, that is a virtuous mind. FALSTAFF. You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it. Enter Mistress Ford, Mistress Page and her daughter Anne Page with wine. PAGE Nay, daughter, carry the wine in, we’ll drink within. [_Exit Anne Page._] SLENDER O heaven, this is Mistress Anne Page. PAGE. How now, Mistress Ford? FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met. By your leave, good mistress. [_Kisses her._] PAGE. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner. Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. [_Exeunt all but Slender._] SLENDER. I had rather than forty shillings I had my book of _Songs and Sonnets_ here. Enter Simple. How now, Simple, where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the _Book of Riddles_ about you, have you? SIMPLE. _Book of Riddles?_ Why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas? Enter Shallow and Sir Hugh Evans. SHALLOW. Come, coz; come, coz, we stay for you. A word with you, coz. Marry, this, coz: there is, as ’twere, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me? SLENDER. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable. If it be so, I shall do that that is reason. SHALLOW. Nay, but understand me. SLENDER. So I do, sir. EVANS. Give ear to his motions, Master Slender. I will description the matter to you, if you be capacity of it. SLENDER. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says. I pray you pardon me, he’s a Justice of Peace in his country, simple though I stand here. EVANS. But that is not the question. The question is concerning your marriage. SHALLOW. Ay, there’s the point, sir. EVANS. Marry, is it; the very point of it—to Mistress Anne Page. SLENDER. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands. EVANS. But can you affection the ’oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth, or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid? SHALLOW. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her? SLENDER. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason. EVANS. Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies! You must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her. SHALLOW. That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her? SLENDER. I will do a greater thing than that, upon your request, cousin, in any reason. SHALLOW. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz. What I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid? SLENDER. I will marry her, sir, at your request. But if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another. I hope upon familiarity will grow more contempt. But if you say “Marry her,” I will marry her. That I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. EVANS. It is a fery discretion answer, save the fall is in the ’ord “dissolutely.” The ’ort is, according to our meaning, “resolutely.” His meaning is good. SHALLOW. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. SLENDER. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la! SHALLOW. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. Enter Anne Page. SHALLOW. Here comes fair Mistress Anne.—Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne. ANNE. The dinner is on the table, my father desires your worships’ company. SHALLOW. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne. EVANS. ’Od’s plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace. [_Exeunt Shallow and Sir Hugh Evans._] ANNE Will’t please your worship to come in, sir? SLENDER. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well. ANNE. The dinner attends you, sir. SLENDER. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. [_To Simple_.] Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [_Exit Simple._] A Justice of Peace sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead. But what though? Yet I live like a poor gentleman born. ANNE. I may not go in without your worship. They will not sit till you come. SLENDER. I’ faith, I’ll eat nothing. I thank you as much as though I did. ANNE. I pray you, sir, walk in. SLENDER. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence—three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes—and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? Be there bears i’ the town? ANNE. I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of. SLENDER. I love the sport well, but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not? ANNE. Ay, indeed, sir. SLENDER. That’s meat and drink to me now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain. But, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it that it passed. But women, indeed, cannot abide ’em; they are very ill-favoured rough things. Enter Page. PAGE Come, gentle Master Slender, come. We stay for you. SLENDER. I’ll eat nothing, I thank you, sir. PAGE. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! Come, come. SLENDER. Nay, pray you lead the way. PAGE. Come on, sir. SLENDER. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. ANNE. Not I, sir; pray you keep on. SLENDER. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will not do you that wrong. ANNE. I pray you, sir. SLENDER. I’ll rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong, indeed, la! [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. EVANS. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ house which is the way. And there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer and his wringer. SIMPLE. Well, sir. EVANS. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter. For it is a ’oman that altogether’s acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page; and the letter is to desire and require her to solicit your master’s desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you be gone. I will make an end of my dinner; there’s pippins and cheese to come. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol and Robin. FALSTAFF. Mine host of the Garter! HOST. What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely. FALSTAFF. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. HOST. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier. Let them wag; trot, trot. FALSTAFF. I sit at ten pounds a week. HOST. Thou’rt an emperor—Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain Bardolph. He shall draw, he shall tap. Said I well, bully Hector? FALSTAFF. Do so, good mine host. HOST. I have spoke, let him follow.—Let me see thee froth and lime. I am at a word, follow. [_Exit Host._] FALSTAFF. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade. An old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered servingman a fresh tapster. Go, adieu. BARDOLPH. It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive. PISTOL. O base Hungarian wight, wilt thou the spigot wield? [_Exit Bardolph._] NYM He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited? FALSTAFF. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox. His thefts were too open. His filching was like an unskilful singer, he kept not time. NYM. The good humour is to steal at a minute’s rest. PISTOL. “Convey,” the wise it call. “Steal?” Foh! A _fico_ for the phrase! FALSTAFF. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. PISTOL. Why, then, let kibes ensue. FALSTAFF. There is no remedy, I must cony-catch, I must shift. PISTOL. Young ravens must have food. FALSTAFF. Which of you know Ford of this town? PISTOL. I ken the wight, he is of substance good. FALSTAFF. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. PISTOL. Two yards, and more. FALSTAFF. No quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about, but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford’s wife. I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation. I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is “I am Sir John Falstaff’s.” PISTOL. He hath studied her will and translated her will—out of honesty into English. NYM. The anchor is deep. Will that humour pass? FALSTAFF. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse. He hath a legion of angels. PISTOL. As many devils entertain, and “To her, boy,” say I. NYM. The humour rises; it is good. Humour me the angels. FALSTAFF. I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades. Sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. PISTOL. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. NYM. I thank thee for that humour. FALSTAFF. O, she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here’s another letter to her. She bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheaters to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page;—and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive. PISTOL. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel? Then Lucifer take all! NYM. I will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter. I will keep the ’haviour of reputation. FALSTAFF. [_To Robin_.] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly; Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.— Rogues, hence, avaunt! Vanish like hailstones, go! Trudge, plod away o’ th’ hoof, seek shelter, pack! Falstaff will learn the humour of this age: French thrift, you rogues—myself and skirted page. [_Exeunt Falstaff and Robin._] PISTOL Let vultures gripe thy guts! For gourd and fullam holds, And high and low beguile the rich and poor. Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! NYM. I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge. PISTOL. Wilt thou revenge? NYM. By welkin and her star! PISTOL. With wit or steel? NYM. With both the humours, I. I will discuss the humour of this love to Ford. PISTOL. And I to Page shall eke unfold How Falstaff, varlet vile, His dove will prove, his gold will hold, And his soft couch defile. NYM. My humour shall not cool. I will incense Ford to deal with poison, I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous. That is my true humour. PISTOL. Thou art the Mars of malcontents. I second thee. Troop on. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Doctor Caius’s house Enter Mistress Quickly and Simple. MISTRESS QUICKLY. What, John Rugby! Enter Rugby. I pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i’ faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the King’s English. RUGBY. I’ll go watch. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Go; and we’ll have a posset for’t soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. [_Exit Rugby._] An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate. His worst fault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way, but nobody but has his fault. But let that pass. Peter Simple you say your name is? SIMPLE. Ay, for fault of a better. MISTRESS QUICKLY. And Master Slender’s your master? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover’s paring-knife? SIMPLE. No, forsooth, he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard. MISTRESS QUICKLY. A softly-sprighted man, is he not? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth. But he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head. He hath fought with a warrener. MISTRESS QUICKLY. How say you? O, I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait? SIMPLE. Yes, indeed, does he. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master. Anne is a good girl, and I wish— Enter Rugby. RUGBY Out, alas! Here comes my master. MISTRESS QUICKLY. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man, go into this closet. He will not stay long. [_Simple steps into the closet._] What, John Rugby! John! What, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master. I doubt he be not well, that he comes not home. [_Exit Rugby._] [_Sings_.] _And down, down, adown-a, etc._ Enter Doctor Caius. CAIUS Vat is you sing? I do not like dese toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet _une boîtine verte_, a box, a green-a box. Do intend vat I speak? A green-a box. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth, I’ll fetch it you. [_Aside_.] I am glad he went not in himself. If he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad. CAIUS. _Fe, fe, fe fe! Ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m’en vais à la cour—la grande affaire._ MISTRESS QUICKLY. Is it this, sir? CAIUS. _Oui, mette-le au mon_ pocket. _Dépêche_, quickly—Vere is dat knave Rugby? MISTRESS QUICKLY. What, John Rugby, John! Enter Rugby. RUGBY Here, sir. CAIUS. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court. RUGBY. ’Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. CAIUS. By my trot, I tarry too long. ’Od’s me! _Qu’ay j’oublié?_ Dere is some simples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay me, he’ll find the young man there, and be mad! CAIUS. _O diable, diable!_ Vat is in my closet? Villainy! _Larron!_ [_Pulling Simple out_.] Rugby, my rapier! MISTRESS QUICKLY. Good master, be content. CAIUS. Wherefore shall I be content-a? MISTRESS QUICKLY. The young man is an honest man. CAIUS. What shall de honest man do in my closet? Dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. MISTRESS QUICKLY. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it. He came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh. CAIUS. Vell? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to— MISTRESS QUICKLY. Peace, I pray you. CAIUS. Peace-a your tongue!—Speak-a your tale. SIMPLE. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master in the way of marriage. MISTRESS QUICKLY. This is all, indeed, la! But I’ll ne’er put my finger in the fire, and need not. CAIUS. Sir Hugh send-a you?—Rugby, _baille_ me some paper.—Tarry you a little-a while. [_Writes._] MISTRESS QUICKLY. [_Aside to Simple_.] I am glad he is so quiet. If he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man, I’ll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master—I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house, and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself— SIMPLE. [_Aside to Mistress Quickly_.] ’Tis a great charge to come under one body’s hand. MISTRESS QUICKLY. [_Aside to Simple_.] Are you avised o’ that? You shall find it a great charge, and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding—to tell you in your ear, I would have no words of it—my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne’s mind. That’s neither here nor there. CAIUS. You jack’nape, give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh. By gar, it is a shallenge. I will cut his troat in de park, and I will teach a scurvy jackanape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone, it is not good you tarry here.—By gar, I will cut all his two stones. By gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog. [_Exit Simple._] MISTRESS QUICKLY. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. CAIUS. It is no matter-a ver dat. Do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I will myself have Anne Page. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate. What, the good-year! CAIUS. Rugby, come to the court with me. [_To Mistress Quickly_.] By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door.—Follow my heels, Rugby. [_Exeunt Caius and Rugby._] MISTRESS QUICKLY. You shall have An—fool’s head of your own. No, I know Anne’s mind for that. Never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne’s mind than I do, nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven. FENTON. [_Within_.] Who’s within there, ho? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Who’s there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you. Enter Fenton. FENTON How now, good woman? How dost thou? MISTRESS QUICKLY. The better, that it pleases your good worship to ask. FENTON. What news? How does pretty Mistress Anne? MISTRESS QUICKLY. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way, I praise heaven for it. FENTON. Shall I do any good, think’st thou? Shall I not lose my suit? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Troth, sir, all is in His hands above. But notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I’ll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye? FENTON. Yes, marry, have I; what of that? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Well, thereby hangs a tale. Good faith, it is such another Nan! But, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour’s talk of that wart. I shall never laugh but in that maid’s company. But, indeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you—well, go to. FENTON. Well, I shall see her today. Hold, there’s money for thee. Let me have thy voice in my behalf. If thou seest her before me, commend me. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Will I? I’ faith, that we will! And I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence, and of other wooers. FENTON. Well, farewell, I am in great haste now. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Farewell to your worship. [_Exit Fenton._] Truly, an honest gentleman—but Anne loves him not, for I know Anne’s mind as well as another does. Out upon ’t, what have I forgot? [_Exit._] ACT II SCENE I. Before Page’s house Enter Mistress Page reading a letter. MISTRESS PAGE. What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see. [_Reads_.] _Ask me no reason why I love you, for though Love use Reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I. Go to, then, there’s sympathy. You are merry, so am I. Ha, ha, then there’s more sympathy. You love sack, and so do I. Would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice, that I love thee. I will not say, pity me—’tis not a soldier-like phrase—but I say love me. By me, Thine own true knight, By day or night, Or any kind of light, With all his might, For thee to fight, John Falstaff._ What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age, to show himself a young gallant! What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked—with the devil’s name!—out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth. Heaven forgive me! Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? For revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. Enter Mistress Ford. MISTRESS FORD. Mistress Page! Trust me, I was going to your house. MISTRESS PAGE. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I’ll ne’er believe that. I have to show to the contrary. MISTRESS PAGE. Faith, but you do, in my mind. MISTRESS FORD. Well, I do, then. Yet I say I could show you to the contrary. O, Mistress Page, give me some counsel. MISTRESS PAGE. What’s the matter, woman? MISTRESS FORD. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! MISTRESS PAGE. Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it? Dispense with trifles. What is it? MISTRESS FORD. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. MISTRESS PAGE. What? Thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack, and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. MISTRESS FORD. We burn daylight. Here, read, read. Perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men’s liking. And yet he would not swear; praised women’s modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words. But they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of “Greensleeves.” What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like? MISTRESS PAGE. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here’s the twin brother of thy letter. But let thine inherit first, for I protest mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names—sure, more, and these are of the second edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. MISTRESS FORD. Why, this is the very same—the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us? MISTRESS PAGE. Nay, I know not. It makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I’ll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. MISTRESS FORD. “Boarding” call you it? I’ll be sure to keep him above deck. MISTRESS PAGE. So will I. If he come under my hatches, I’ll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him. Let’s appoint him a meeting, give him a show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, look where he comes; and my good man too. He’s as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause, and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance. MISTRESS FORD. You are the happier woman. MISTRESS PAGE. Let’s consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither. [_They retire._] Enter Ford with Pistol, and Page with Nym. FORD Well, I hope it be not so. PISTOL. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs. Sir John affects thy wife. FORD. Why, sir, my wife is not young. PISTOL. He woos both high and low, both rich and poor, Both young and old, one with another, Ford. He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend. FORD. Love my wife? PISTOL. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou like Sir Actaeon he, With Ringwood at thy heels. O, odious is the name! FORD. What name, sir? PISTOL. The horn, I say. Farewell. Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by night. Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing.— Away, Sir Corporal Nym.—Believe it, Page, he speaks sense. [_Exit Pistol._] FORD [_Aside_.] I will be patient. I will find out this. NYM. [_To Page_.] And this is true, I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours. I should have borne the humoured letter to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym. I speak, and I avouch ’tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese. Adieu. [_Exit Nym._] PAGE [_Aside_.] “The humour of it,” quoth ’a! Here’s a fellow frights English out of his wits. FORD. [_Aside_.] I will seek out Falstaff. PAGE. [_Aside_.] I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue. FORD. [_Aside_.] If I do find it—well. PAGE. [_Aside_.] I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o’ the town commended him for a true man. FORD. [_Aside_.] ’Twas a good sensible fellow—well. Mistress Page and Mistress Ford come forward. PAGE. How now, Meg? MISTRESS PAGE. Whither go you, George? Hark you. MISTRESS FORD. How now, sweet Frank, why art thou melancholy? FORD. I melancholy? I am not melancholy. Get you home, go. MISTRESS FORD. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now.—Will you go, Mistress Page? MISTRESS PAGE. Have with you. You’ll come to dinner, George? [_Aside to Mistress Ford_.] Look who comes yonder. She shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. MISTRESS FORD. [_Aside to Mistress Page_.] Trust me, I thought on her. She’ll fit it. Enter Mistress Quickly. MISTRESS PAGE. You are come to see my daughter Anne? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth. And, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne? MISTRESS PAGE. Go in with us and see. We’d have an hour’s talk with you. [_Exeunt Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Mistress Quickly._] PAGE How now, Master Ford? FORD. You heard what this knave told me, did you not? PAGE. Yes, and you heard what the other told me? FORD. Do you think there is truth in them? PAGE. Hang ’em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it, but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men, very rogues, now they be out of service. FORD. Were they his men? PAGE. Marry, were they. FORD. I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter? PAGE. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head. FORD. I do not misdoubt my wife, but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident. I would have nothing lie on my head. I cannot be thus satisfied. Enter Host. PAGE. Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily.—How now, mine host? HOST. How now, bully rook? Thou’rt a gentleman.—Cavaliero Justice, I say! Enter Shallow. SHALLOW. I follow, mine host, I follow.—Good even and twenty, good Master Page. Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand. HOST. Tell him, Cavaliero Justice; tell him, bully rook. SHALLOW. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor. FORD. Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with you. HOST. What say’st thou, my bully rook? [_Ford and the Host talk apart._] SHALLOW [_To Page_.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons, and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [_Shallow and Page talk apart. Ford and the Host come forward._] HOST Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest cavaliero? FORD. None, I protest. But I’ll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest. HOST. My hand, bully. Thou shalt have egress and regress—said I well?—and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, myn-heers? SHALLOW. Have with you, mine host. PAGE. I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier. SHALLOW. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance—your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what. ’Tis the heart, Master Page; ’tis here, ’tis here. I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats. HOST. Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag? PAGE. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight. [_Exeunt Host, Shallow and Page._] FORD Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page’s house, and what they made there I know not. Well, I will look further into ’t, and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour. If she be otherwise, ’tis labour well bestowed. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff and Pistol. FALSTAFF. I will not lend thee a penny. PISTOL. Why then, the world’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. FALSTAFF. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow Nym, or else you had looked through the grate like a gemini of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and tall fellows. And when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took ’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not. PISTOL. Didst not thou share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence? FALSTAFF. Reason, you rogue, reason. Think’st thou I’ll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go—a short knife and a throng—to your manor of Pickt-hatch, go. You’ll not bear a letter for me, you rogue? You stand upon your honour! Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise. Ay, ay, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it! You! PISTOL. I do relent. What wouldst thou more of man? Enter Robin. ROBIN Sir, here’s a woman would speak with you. FALSTAFF. Let her approach. Enter Mistress Quickly. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Good morrow, goodwife. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Not so, an’t please your worship. FALSTAFF. Good maid, then. MISTRESS QUICKLY. I’ll be sworn, as my mother was, the first hour I was born. FALSTAFF. I do believe the swearer. What with me? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two? FALSTAFF. Two thousand, fair woman; and I’ll vouchsafe thee the hearing. MISTRESS QUICKLY. There is one Mistress Ford, sir—I pray, come a little nearer this ways. I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius. FALSTAFF. Well, on; Mistress Ford, you say— MISTRESS QUICKLY. Your worship says very true. I pray your worship come a little nearer this ways. FALSTAFF. I warrant thee, nobody hears. Mine own people, mine own people. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Are they so? God bless them, and make them His servants! FALSTAFF. Well, Mistress Ford, what of her? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Why, sir, she’s a good creature. Lord, Lord, your worship’s a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, come, Mistress Ford. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Marry, this is the short and the long of it: you have brought her into such a canaries as ’tis wonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift, smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold, and in such alligant terms, and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman’s heart; and I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. I had myself twenty angels given me this morning, but I defy all angels in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty. And, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all. And yet there has been earls—nay, which is more, pensioners—but, I warrant you, all is one with her. FALSTAFF. But what says she to me? Be brief, my good she-Mercury. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Marry, she hath received your letter, for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of. Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas, the sweet woman leads an ill life with him. He’s a very jealousy man; she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship. Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too; and let me tell you in your ear, she’s as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe’er be the other; and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home, but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man. Surely I think you have charms, la! Yes, in truth. FALSTAFF. Not I, I assure thee. Setting the attraction of my good parts aside, I have no other charms. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Blessing on your heart for ’t! FALSTAFF. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford’s wife and Page’s wife acquainted each other how they love me? MISTRESS QUICKLY. That were a jest indeed! They have not so little grace, I hope. That were a trick indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves. Her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and, truly, Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does. Do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will, and truly she deserves it, for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page, no remedy. FALSTAFF. Why, I will. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Nay, but do so then, and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another’s mind, and the boy never need to understand anything; for ’tis not good that children should know any wickedness. Old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. FALSTAFF. Fare thee well, commend me to them both. There’s my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman.—This news distracts me. [_Exeunt Mistress Quickly and Robin._] PISTOL. This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers; Clap on more sails, pursue; up with your fights; Give fire! She is my prize, or ocean whelm them all! [_Exit Pistol._] FALSTAFF. Sayst thou so, old Jack? Go thy ways, I’ll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say ’tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter. Enter Bardolph with a cup of sack. BARDOLPH Sir John, there’s one Master Brook below would fain speak with you and be acquainted with you, and hath sent your worship a morning’s draught of sack. FALSTAFF. Brook is his name? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir. FALSTAFF. Call him in. [_Exit Bardolph._] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o’erflow such liquor. Ah, ha, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompassed you? Go to, _via!_ Enter Bardolph with Ford disguised as Brook. FORD God bless you, sir. FALSTAFF. And you, sir. Would you speak with me? FORD. I make bold to press with so little preparation upon you. FALSTAFF. You’re welcome. What’s your will?—Give us leave, drawer. [_Exit Bardolph._] FORD Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much. My name is Brook. FALSTAFF. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you. FORD. Good Sir John, I sue for yours; not to charge you, for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are, the which hath something emboldened me to this unseasoned intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. FALSTAFF. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. FORD. Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me. If you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. FALSTAFF. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter. FORD. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing. FALSTAFF. Speak, good Master Brook. I shall be glad to be your servant. FORD. Sir, I hear you are a scholar—I will be brief with you—and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means as desire to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection. But, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy it is to be such an offender. FALSTAFF. Very well, sir, proceed. FORD. There is a gentlewoman in this town, her husband’s name is Ford. FALSTAFF. Well, sir. FORD. I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her, followed her with a doting observance, engrossed opportunities to meet her, fee’d every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her, not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given. Briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me, which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none, unless experience be a jewel. That I have purchased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught me to say this: Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues, Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues. FALSTAFF. Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Have you importuned her to such a purpose? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Of what quality was your love, then? FORD. Like a fair house built on another man’s ground, so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. FALSTAFF. To what purpose have you unfolded this to me? FORD. When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many warlike, courtlike, and learned preparations. FALSTAFF. O, sir! FORD. Believe it, for you know it. There is money. Spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford’s wife. Use your art of wooing, win her to consent to you. If any man may, you may as soon as any. FALSTAFF. Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection that I should win what you would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. FORD. O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on the excellency of her honour that the folly of my soul dares not present itself; she is too bright to be looked against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves. I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to’t, Sir John? FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford’s wife. FORD. O good sir! FALSTAFF. I say you shall. FORD. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none. FALSTAFF. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me, her assistant or go-between parted from me. I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven, for at that time the jealous rascally knave her husband will be forth. Come you to me at night. You shall know how I speed. FORD. I am blessed in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir? FALSTAFF. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not. Yet I wrong him to call him poor. They say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money, for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue’s coffer, and there’s my harvest-home. FORD. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. FALSTAFF. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits, I will awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like a meteor o’er the cuckold’s horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford’s a knave, and I will aggravate his style. Thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [_Exit Falstaff._] FORD. What a damned epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him, the hour is fixed, the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman: my bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms, names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends. But cuckold? Wittol? Cuckold? The devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his wife, he will not be jealous. I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself. Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o’clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it. Better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! Cuckold, cuckold, cuckold! [_Exit._] SCENE III. A field near Windsor Enter Doctor Caius and Rugby. CAIUS. Jack Rugby! RUGBY. Sir? CAIUS. Vat is de clock, Jack? RUGBY. ’Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet. CAIUS. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come. He has pray his Pible well dat he is no come. By gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. RUGBY. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came. CAIUS. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him. RUGBY. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. CAIUS. Villainy, take your rapier. RUGBY. Forbear; here’s company. Enter Page, Shallow, Slender and Host. HOST God bless thee, bully doctor! SHALLOW. God save you, Master Doctor Caius! PAGE. Now, good Master Doctor! SLENDER. Give you good morrow, sir. CAIUS. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for? HOST. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? Is he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully? What says my Aesculapius, my Galen, my heart of elder, ha? Is he dead, bully stale? Is he dead? CAIUS. By gar, he is de coward Jack-priest of de vorld. He is not show his face. HOST. Thou art a Castalion King Urinal Hector of Greece, my boy! CAIUS. I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. SHALLOW. He is the wiser man, Master doctor. He is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies. If you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page? PAGE. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace. SHALLOW. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us. We are the sons of women, Master Page. PAGE. ’Tis true, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. It will be found so, Master Page.—Master Doctor Caius, I come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace. You have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor. HOST. Pardon, guest justice.—A word, Monsieur Mockwater. CAIUS. Mockvater? Vat is dat? HOST. Mockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. CAIUS. By gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears. HOST. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. CAIUS. Clapper-de-claw? Vat is dat? HOST. That is, he will make thee amends. CAIUS. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me, for, by gar, me vill have it. HOST. And I will provoke him to’t, or let him wag. CAIUS. Me tank you for dat. HOST. And, moreover, bully—but first, Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. PAGE [_Aside to Host_.] Sir Hugh is there, is he? HOST. [_Aside to Page_.] He is there. See what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well? SHALLOW. [_Aside to Host_.] We will do it. PAGE, SHALLOW and SLENDER Adieu, good Master Doctor. [_Exeunt Page, Shallow and Slender._] CAIUS By gar, me vill kill de priest, for he speak for a jackanape to Anne Page. HOST. Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler. Go about the fields with me through Frogmore. I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting, and thou shalt woo her. Cried game! Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, me tank you for dat. By gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest: de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. HOST. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page. Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, ’tis good; vell said. HOST. Let us wag, then. CAIUS. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. A field near Frogmore Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. EVANS. I pray you now, good Master Slender’s servingman, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic? SIMPLE. Marry, sir, the Petty-ward, the Park-ward, every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way. EVANS. I most fehemently desire you, you will also look that way. SIMPLE. I will, Sir. [_Exit Simple._] EVANS Pless my soul, how full of cholers I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog his urinals about his knave’s costard when I have good opportunities for the ’ork. Pless my soul! [_Sings._] _To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sings madrigals. There will we make our peds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow_— Mercy on me, I have a great dispositions to cry. [_Sings._] _Melodious birds sing madrigals— Whenas I sat in Pabylon— And a thousand vagram posies. To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals._ Enter Simple. SIMPLE Yonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh. EVANS. He’s welcome. [_Sings._] _To shallow rivers, to whose falls—_ Heaven prosper the right! What weapons is he? SIMPLE. No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. EVANS. Pray you, give me my gown—or else keep it in your arms. Enter Page, Shallow and Slender. SHALLOW How now, Master Parson? Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. SLENDER. [_Aside_.] Ah, sweet Anne Page! PAGE. God save you, good Sir Hugh! EVANS. God pless you from his mercy sake, all of you! SHALLOW. What, the sword and the word? Do you study them both, Master Parson? PAGE. And youthful still—in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day? EVANS. There is reasons and causes for it. PAGE. We are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson. EVANS. Fery well; what is it? PAGE. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. SHALLOW. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect. EVANS. What is he? PAGE. I think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. EVANS. Got’s will and His passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. PAGE. Why? EVANS. He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen, and he is a knave besides, a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. PAGE. I warrant you, he’s the man should fight with him. SLENDER. [_Aside_.] O, sweet Anne Page! SHALLOW. It appears so by his weapons. Keep them asunder. Here comes Doctor Caius. Enter Host, Caius and Rugby. PAGE Nay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon. SHALLOW. So do you, good Master Doctor. HOST. Disarm them, and let them question. Let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. CAIUS. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear. Verefore will you not meet-a me? EVANS. [_Aside to Caius_.] Pray you, use your patience. In good time. CAIUS. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. EVANS. [_Aside to Caius_.] Pray you, let us not be laughing stocks to other men’s humours. I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. [_Aloud_.] By Jeshu, I will knog your urinal about your knave’s cogscomb. CAIUS. _Diable!_ Jack Rugby, mine Host de Jarteer, have I not stay for him to kill him? Have I not, at de place I did appoint? EVANS. As I am a Christians soul, now look you, this is the place appointed. I’ll be judgment by mine host of the Garter. HOST. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer! CAIUS. Ay, dat is very good; excellent. HOST. Peace, I say! Hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? Am I subtle? Am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? No, he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? No, he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. [_To Caius_.] Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so. [_To Evans_.] Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both. I have directed you to wrong places. Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace, follow, follow, follow. [_Exit Host._] SHALLOW. Afore God, a mad host! Follow, gentlemen, follow. SLENDER. [_Aside_.] O, sweet Anne Page! [_Exeunt Shallow, Slender and Page._] CAIUS Ha, do I perceive dat? Have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha? EVANS. This is well, he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be friends, and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. CAIUS. By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he deceive me too. EVANS. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you follow. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A street in Windsor Enter Mistress Page following Robin. MISTRESS PAGE. Nay, keep your way, little gallant. You were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather, lead mine eyes, or eye your master’s heels? ROBIN. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf. MISTRESS PAGE. O, you are a flattering boy! Now I see you’ll be a courtier. Enter Ford. FORD Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you? MISTRESS PAGE. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home? FORD. Ay, and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think if your husbands were dead you two would marry. MISTRESS PAGE. Be sure of that—two other husbands. FORD. Where had you this pretty weathercock? MISTRESS PAGE. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight’s name, sirrah? ROBIN. Sir John Falstaff. FORD. Sir John Falstaff! MISTRESS PAGE. He, he; I can never hit on’s name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed? FORD. Indeed she is. MISTRESS PAGE. By your leave, sir, I am sick till I see her. [_Exeunt Mistress Page and Robin._] FORD Has Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife’s inclination, he gives her folly motion and advantage. And now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind. And Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots they are laid, and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well, I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so-seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon, and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [_Clock strikes_.] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search. There I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather praised for this than mocked, for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go. Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Caius and Rugby. SHALLOW, PAGE, etc. Well met, Master Ford. FORD. Trust me, a good knot. I have good cheer at home, and I pray you all go with me. SHALLOW. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. SLENDER. And so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I’ll speak of. SHALLOW. We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer. SLENDER. I hope I have your good will, father Page. PAGE. You have, Master Slender, I stand wholly for you.—But my wife, Master doctor, is for you altogether. CAIUS. Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me! My nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. HOST. What say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May. He will carry ’t, he will carry ’t. ’Tis in his buttons he will carry ’t. PAGE. Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having. He kept company with the wild Prince and Poins. He is of too high a region, he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance. If he take her, let him take her simply. The wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. FORD. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner. Besides your cheer, you shall have sport: I will show you a monster. Master Doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page, and you, Sir Hugh. SHALLOW. Well, fare you well. We shall have the freer wooing at Master Page’s. [_Exeunt Shallow and Slender._] CAIUS Go home, John Rugby; I come anon. [_Exit Rugby._] HOST Farewell, my hearts. I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him. [_Exit Host._] FORD [_Aside_.] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him; I’ll make him dance.—Will you go, gentles? ALL. Have with you to see this monster. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A room in Ford’s house Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. MISTRESS FORD. What, John! What, Robert! MISTRESS PAGE. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck-basket— MISTRESS FORD. I warrant.—What, Robin, I say! Enter John and Robert with a great buck-basket. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, come, come. MISTRESS FORD. Here, set it down. MISTRESS PAGE. Give your men the charge; we must be brief. MISTRESS FORD. Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and, without any pause or staggering, take this basket on your shoulders. That done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet Mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side. MISTRESS PAGE. You will do it? MISTRESS FORD. I ha’ told them over and over, they lack no direction.—Be gone, and come when you are called. [_Exeunt John and Robert._] MISTRESS PAGE. Here comes little Robin. Enter Robin. MISTRESS FORD. How now, my eyas-musket, what news with you? ROBIN. My Master, Sir John, is come in at your back door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company. MISTRESS PAGE. You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us? ROBIN. Ay, I’ll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath threatened to put me into everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he swears he’ll turn me away. MISTRESS PAGE. Thou’rt a good boy, this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I’ll go hide me. MISTRESS FORD. Do so.—Go tell thy master I am alone. [_Exit Robin._] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. MISTRESS PAGE. I warrant thee. If I do not act it, hiss me. [_Exit Mistress Page._] MISTRESS FORD. Go to, then. We’ll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we’ll teach him to know turtles from jays. Enter Falstaff. FALSTAFF. “Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel?” Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough. This is the period of my ambition. O this blessed hour! MISTRESS FORD. O, sweet Sir John! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish: I would thy husband were dead. I’ll speak it before the best lord: I would make thee my lady. MISTRESS FORD. I your lady, Sir John? Alas, I should be a pitiful lady. FALSTAFF. Let the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond. Thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. MISTRESS FORD. A plain kerchief, Sir John. My brows become nothing else, nor that well neither. FALSTAFF. By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so. Thou wouldst make an absolute courtier, and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. MISTRESS FORD. Believe me, there’s no such thing in me. FALSTAFF. What made me love thee? Let that persuade thee there’s something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn buds that come like women in men’s apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple-time. I cannot. But I love thee, none but thee; and thou deservest it. MISTRESS FORD. Do not betray me, sir; I fear you love Mistress Page. FALSTAFF. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln. MISTRESS FORD. Well, heaven knows how I love you, and you shall one day find it. FALSTAFF. Keep in that mind, I’ll deserve it. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind. Enter Robin. ROBIN. Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford, here’s Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently. FALSTAFF. She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the arras. MISTRESS FORD. Pray you, do so; she’s a very tattling woman. [_Falstaff hides himself behind the arras._] Enter Mistress Page. What’s the matter? How now? MISTRESS PAGE. O Mistress Ford, what have you done? You’re shamed, you’re overthrown, you’re undone for ever! MISTRESS FORD. What’s the matter, good Mistress Page? MISTRESS PAGE. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford, having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion! MISTRESS FORD. What cause of suspicion? MISTRESS PAGE. What cause of suspicion? Out upon you! How am I mistook in you! MISTRESS FORD. Why, alas, what’s the matter? MISTRESS PAGE. Your husband’s coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house, by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence. You are undone. MISTRESS FORD. ’Tis not so, I hope. MISTRESS PAGE. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here! But ’tis most certain your husband’s coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed, call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. MISTRESS FORD. What shall I do? There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame as much as his peril. I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. MISTRESS PAGE. For shame! Never stand “you had rather” and “you had rather”. Your husband’s here at hand. Bethink you of some conveyance. In the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here is a basket. If he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking. Or—it is whiting-time—send him by your two men to Datchet Mead. MISTRESS FORD. He’s too big to go in there. What shall I do? FALSTAFF. [_Comes out of hiding_.] Let me see ’t, let me see ’t! O, let me see ’t! I’ll in, I’ll in. Follow your friend’s counsel. I’ll in. MISTRESS PAGE. What, Sir John Falstaff? Are these your letters, knight? FALSTAFF. I love thee, and none but thee. Help me away. Let me creep in here. I’ll never— [_He goes into the basket; they cover him with dirty clothes._] MISTRESS PAGE. Help to cover your master, boy.—Call your men, Mistress Ford.—You dissembling knight! [_Exit Robin._] MISTRESS FORD. What, John! Robert! John! Enter John and Robert. Go, take up these clothes here, quickly. Where’s the cowl-staff? Look how you drumble! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet Mead; quickly, come. Enter Ford, Page, Caius and Sir Hugh Evans. FORD. Pray you come near. If I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me, then let me be your jest; I deserve it.—How now? Whither bear you this? JOHN and ROBERT. To the laundress, forsooth. MISTRESS FORD. Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing! FORD. Buck? I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck! I warrant you, buck, and of the season too, it shall appear. [_Exeunt John and Robert with the basket._] Gentlemen, I have dreamed tonight; I’ll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys. Ascend my chambers, search, seek, find out. I’ll warrant we’ll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. [_Locks the door_.] So, now uncape. PAGE. Good Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself too much. FORD. True, Master Page.—Up, gentlemen, you shall see sport anon. Follow me, gentlemen. [_Exit Ford._] EVANS This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. CAIUS. By gar, ’tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France. PAGE. Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. [_Exeunt Page, Evans and Caius._] MISTRESS PAGE. Is there not a double excellency in this? MISTRESS FORD. I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. MISTRESS PAGE. What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket! MISTRESS FORD. I am half afraid he will have need of washing, so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. MISTRESS PAGE. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. MISTRESS FORD. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff’s being here, for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. MISTRESS PAGE. I will lay a plot to try that, and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff. His dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine. MISTRESS FORD. Shall we send that foolish carrion Mistress Quickly to him, and excuse his throwing into the water, and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment? MISTRESS PAGE. We will do it. Let him be sent for tomorrow eight o’clock to have amends. Enter Ford, Page, Caius and Sir Hugh Evans. FORD I cannot find him. Maybe the knave bragged of that he could not compass. MISTRESS PAGE. [_Aside to Mistress Ford_.] Heard you that? MISTRESS FORD. You use me well, Master Ford, do you? FORD. Ay, I do so. MISTRESS FORD. Heaven make you better than your thoughts! FORD. Amen! MISTRESS PAGE. You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford. FORD. Ay, ay; I must bear it. EVANS. If there be anypody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! CAIUS. Be gar, nor I too; there is nobodies. PAGE. Fie, fie, Master Ford, are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha’ your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. FORD. ’Tis my fault, Master Page. I suffer for it. EVANS. You suffer for a pad conscience. Your wife is as honest a ’omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too. CAIUS. By gar, I see ’tis an honest woman. FORD. Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the park. I pray you pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife, come, Mistress Page, I pray you pardon me. Pray heartily, pardon me. PAGE. Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we’ll mock him. I do invite you tomorrow morning to my house to breakfast; after, we’ll a-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so? FORD. Anything. EVANS. If there is one, I shall make two in the company. CAIUS. If there be one or two, I shall make-a the turd. FORD. Pray you go, Master Page. [_Exeunt all but Evans and Caius._] EVANS. I pray you now, remembrance tomorrow on the lousy knave, mine host. CAIUS. Dat is good, by gar, with all my heart. EVANS. A lousy knave, to have his gibes and his mockeries! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Page’s house Enter Fenton and Anne Page. FENTON. I see I cannot get thy father’s love; Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. ANNE. Alas, how then? FENTON. Why, thou must be thyself. He doth object I am too great of birth, And that my state being galled with my expense, I seek to heal it only by his wealth. Besides these, other bars he lays before me: My riots past, my wild societies— And tells me ’tis a thing impossible I should love thee but as a property. ANNE. Maybe he tells you true. FENTON. No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! Albeit I will confess thy father’s wealth Was the first motive that I wooed thee, Anne, Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags. And ’tis the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. ANNE. Gentle Master Fenton, Yet seek my father’s love, still seek it, sir. If opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attain it, why then—hark you hither. [_They talk apart._] Enter Shallow, Slender and Mistress Quickly. SHALLOW. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly. My kinsman shall speak for himself. SLENDER. I’ll make a shaft or a bolt on ’t. ’Slid, ’tis but venturing. SHALLOW. Be not dismayed. SLENDER. No, she shall not dismay me. I care not for that, but that I am afeard. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Hark ye, Master Slender would speak a word with you. ANNE. I come to him. [_Aside_.] This is my father’s choice. O, what a world of vile ill-favoured faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! MISTRESS QUICKLY. And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you. [_They talk aside._] SHALLOW. [_To Slender_.] She’s coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father! SLENDER. I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him.—Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. SHALLOW. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. SLENDER. Ay, that I do, as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire. SHALLOW. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. SLENDER. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire. SHALLOW. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure. ANNE. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself. SHALLOW. Marry, I thank you for it, I thank you for that good comfort.—She calls you, coz; I’ll leave you. ANNE. Now, Master Slender. SLENDER. Now, good Mistress Anne. ANNE. What is your will? SLENDER. My will? ’Od’s heartlings, that’s a pretty jest indeed! I ne’er made my will yet, I thank heaven. I am not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise. ANNE. I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me? SLENDER. Truly, for mine own part I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath made motions. If it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be his dole. They can tell you how things go better than I can. You may ask your father. Here he comes. Enter Page and Mistress Page. PAGE Now, Master Slender.—Love him, daughter Anne.— Why, how now? What does Master Fenton here? You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house. I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of. FENTON. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. MISTRESS PAGE. Good Master Fenton, come not to my child. PAGE. She is no match for you. FENTON. Sir, will you hear me? PAGE. No, good Master Fenton.— Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.— Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. [_Exeunt Page, Shallow and Slender._] MISTRESS QUICKLY. Speak to Mistress Page. FENTON. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter In such a righteous fashion as I do, Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners, I must advance the colours of my love And not retire. Let me have your good will. ANNE. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. MISTRESS PAGE. I mean it not; I seek you a better husband. MISTRESS QUICKLY. That’s my master, Master Doctor. ANNE. Alas, I had rather be set quick i’ th’ earth, And bowled to death with turnips. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, trouble not yourself, good Master Fenton, I will not be your friend, nor enemy. My daughter will I question how she loves you, And as I find her, so am I affected. Till then, farewell, sir. She must needs go in; Her father will be angry. FENTON. Farewell, gentle mistress. Farewell, Nan. [_Exeunt Mistress Page and Anne._] MISTRESS QUICKLY. This is my doing now. “Nay,” said I, “will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on Master Fenton.” This is my doing. FENTON. I thank thee; and I pray thee, once tonight Give my sweet Nan this ring. There’s for thy pains. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Now Heaven send thee good fortune! [_Exit Fenton._] A kind heart he hath. A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne, or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton had her. I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have promised and I’ll be as good as my word—but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses. What a beast am I to slack it! [_Exit._] SCENE V. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff. FALSTAFF. Bardolph, I say! Enter Bardolph. BARDOLPH. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in ’t. [_Exit Bardolph._] Have I lived to be carried in a basket like a barrow of butcher’s offal, and to be thrown in the Thames? Well, if I be served such another trick, I’ll have my brains ta’en out and buttered, and give them to a dog for a New Year’s gift. ’Sblood, the rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drowned a blind bitch’s puppies, fifteen i’ the litter; and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had been drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and shallow—a death that I abhor, for the water swells a man, and what a thing should I have been when I had been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy. Enter Bardolph with sack. BARDOLPH Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. FALSTAFF. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water, for my belly’s as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. BARDOLPH. Come in, woman. Enter Mistress Quickly. MISTRESS QUICKLY. By your leave, I cry you mercy. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Take away these chalices. Go, brew me a pottle of sack finely. BARDOLPH. With eggs, sir? FALSTAFF. Simple of itself. I’ll no pullet sperm in my brewage. [_Exit Bardolph._] How now? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford? I have had ford enough. I was thrown into the ford, I have my belly full of ford. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Alas the day, good heart, that was not her fault. She does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection. FALSTAFF. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman’s promise. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her, between eight and nine. I must carry her word quickly. She’ll make you amends, I warrant you. FALSTAFF. Well, I will visit her. Tell her so, and bid her think what a man is. Let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit. MISTRESS QUICKLY. I will tell her. FALSTAFF. Do so. Between nine and ten, sayst thou? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Eight and nine, sir. FALSTAFF. Well, be gone. I will not miss her. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Peace be with you, sir. [_Exit Mistress Quickly._] FALSTAFF. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within. I like his money well. O, here he comes. Enter Ford disguised. FORD God bless you, sir. FALSTAFF. Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford’s wife? FORD. That indeed, Sir John, is my business. FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will not lie to you. I was at her house the hour she appointed me. FORD. And how sped you, sir? FALSTAFF. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. FORD. How so, sir? Did she change her determination? FALSTAFF. No. Master Brook, but the peaking cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual ’larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife’s love. FORD. What, while you were there? FALSTAFF. While I was there. FORD. And did he search for you, and could not find you? FALSTAFF. You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford’s approach; and, in her invention and Ford’s wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket. FORD. A buck-basket! FALSTAFF. By the Lord, a buck-basket! Rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins, that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. FORD. And how long lay you there? FALSTAFF. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet Lane. They took me on their shoulders, met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket. I quaked for fear lest the lunatic knave would have searched it; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well, on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook. I suffered the pangs of three several deaths: first, an intolerable fright to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compassed like a good bilbo in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease. Think of that, a man of my kidney, think of that—that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw. It was a miracle to ’scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horseshoe! Think of that—hissing hot—think of that, Master Brook. FORD. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My suit, then, is desperate. You’ll undertake her no more? FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding; I have received from her another embassy of meeting. ’Twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook. FORD. ’Tis past eight already, sir. FALSTAFF. Is it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed; and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook. Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. [_Exit Falstaff._] FORD Hum! Ha! Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep? Master Ford, awake; awake, Master Ford! There’s a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This ’tis to be married; this ’tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am. I will now take the lecher. He is at my house. He cannot scape me. ’Tis impossible he should. He cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepperbox. But, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not shall not make me tame. If I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me: I’ll be horn-mad. [_Exit._] ACT IV SCENE I. The street Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly and William. MISTRESS PAGE. Is he at Master Ford’s already, think’st thou? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Sure he is by this; or will be presently. But truly he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. MISTRESS PAGE. I’ll be with her by and by. I’ll but bring my young man here to school. Look where his master comes; ’tis a playing day, I see. Enter Sir Hugh Evans. How now, Sir Hugh, no school today? EVANS. No, Master Slender is let the boys leave to play. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Blessing of his heart! MISTRESS PAGE. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray you ask him some questions in his accidence. EVANS. Come hither, William. Hold up your head, come. MISTRESS PAGE. Come on, sirrah. Hold up your head. Answer your master, be not afraid. EVANS. William, how many numbers is in nouns? WILLIAM. Two. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they say “’Od’s nouns.” EVANS. Peace your tattlings! What is “fair,” William? WILLIAM. _Pulcher_. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Polecats? There are fairer things than polecats, sure. EVANS. You are a very simplicity ’oman; I pray you, peace.—What is _lapis_, William? WILLIAM. A stone. EVANS. And what is “a stone,” William? WILLIAM. A pebble. EVANS. No, it is _lapis_. I pray you remember in your prain. WILLIAM. _Lapis_. EVANS. That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles? WILLIAM. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined: _singulariter, nominativo, hic, haec, hoc_. EVANS. _Nominativo, hig, haeg, hog_, pray you, mark: _genitivo, huius_. Well, what is your accusative case? WILLIAM. _Accusativo, hinc_. EVANS. I pray you, have your remembrance, child. _Accusativo, hung, hang, hog_. MISTRESS QUICKLY. “Hang-hog” is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. EVANS. Leave your prabbles, ’oman.—What is the focative case, William? WILLIAM. O—_vocativo_—O— EVANS. Remember, William; focative is _caret_. MISTRESS QUICKLY. And that’s a good root. EVANS. ’Oman, forbear. MISTRESS PAGE. Peace. EVANS. What is your genitive case plural, William? WILLIAM. Genitive case? EVANS. Ay. WILLIAM. Genitive: _horum, harum, horum_. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Vengeance of Jenny’s case, fie on her! Never name her, child, if she be a whore. EVANS. For shame, ’oman. MISTRESS QUICKLY. You do ill to teach the child such words.—He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they’ll do fast enough of themselves; and to call “whore ’m”!—Fie upon you! EVANS. ’Oman, art thou lunatics? Hast thou no understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires. MISTRESS PAGE. [_To Quickly_.] Prithee, hold thy peace. EVANS. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. WILLIAM. Forsooth, I have forgot. EVANS. It is _qui, quae, quod_. If you forget your _quis_, your _quaes_, and your _quods_, you must be preeches. Go your ways and play, go. MISTRESS PAGE. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. EVANS. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. MISTRESS PAGE. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [_Exit Sir Hugh Evans._] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A room in Ford’s house Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair’s breadth, not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, compliment, and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now? MISTRESS FORD. He’s a-birding, sweet Sir John. MISTRESS PAGE. [_Within_.] What ho, gossip Ford, what ho! MISTRESS FORD. Step into the chamber, Sir John. [_Exit Falstaff._] Enter Mistress Page. MISTRESS PAGE. How now, sweetheart, who’s at home besides yourself? MISTRESS FORD. Why, none but mine own people. MISTRESS PAGE. Indeed? MISTRESS FORD. No, certainly. [_Aside to her_.] Speak louder. MISTRESS PAGE. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. MISTRESS FORD. Why? MISTRESS PAGE. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again. He so takes on yonder with my husband, so rails against all married mankind, so curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion soever, and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying “Peer out, peer out!” that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here. MISTRESS FORD. Why, does he talk of him? MISTRESS PAGE. Of none but him, and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here; and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here. Now he shall see his own foolery. MISTRESS FORD. How near is he, Mistress Page? MISTRESS PAGE. Hard by, at street end. He will be here anon. MISTRESS FORD. I am undone! The knight is here. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, then, you are utterly shamed, and he’s but a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him! Better shame than murder. MISTRESS FORD. Which way should he go? How should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again? Enter Falstaff. FALSTAFF. No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I not go out ere he come? MISTRESS PAGE. Alas, three of Master Ford’s brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out, otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here? FALSTAFF. What shall I do? I’ll creep up into the chimney. MISTRESS FORD. There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. MISTRESS PAGE. Creep into the kiln-hole. FALSTAFF. Where is it? MISTRESS FORD. He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note. There is no hiding you in the house. FALSTAFF. I’ll go out then. MISTRESS PAGE. If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John—unless you go out disguised. MISTRESS FORD. How might we disguise him? MISTRESS PAGE. Alas the day, I know not. There is no woman’s gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape. FALSTAFF. Good hearts, devise something. Any extremity rather than a mischief. MISTRESS FORD. My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above. MISTRESS PAGE. On my word, it will serve him. She’s as big as he is. And there’s her thrummed hat, and her muffler too.—Run up, Sir John. MISTRESS FORD. Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head. MISTRESS PAGE. Quick, quick! We’ll come dress you straight; put on the gown the while. [_Exit Falstaff._] MISTRESS FORD. I would my husband would meet him in this shape. He cannot abide the old woman of Brentford; he swears she’s a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threatened to beat her. MISTRESS PAGE. Heaven guide him to thy husband’s cudgel and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! MISTRESS FORD. But is my husband coming? MISTRESS PAGE. Ay, in good sadness is he, and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. MISTRESS FORD. We’ll try that; for I’ll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it as they did last time. MISTRESS PAGE. Nay, but he’ll be here presently. Let’s go dress him like the witch of Brentford. MISTRESS FORD. I’ll first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up, I’ll bring linen for him straight. [_Exit Mistress Ford._] MISTRESS PAGE. Hang him, dishonest varlet! We cannot misuse him enough. We’ll leave a proof, by that which we will do, Wives may be merry and yet honest too. We do not act that often jest and laugh; ’Tis old but true: “Still swine eats all the draff.” [_Exit._] Enter Mistress Ford with John and Robert. MISTRESS FORD. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders. Your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him. Quickly, dispatch. [_Exit Mistress Ford._] JOHN. Come, come, take it up. ROBERT. Pray heaven it be not full of knight again. JOHN. I hope not, I had lief as bear so much lead. Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius and Sir Hugh Evans. FORD Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again?—Set down the basket, villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals! There’s a knot, a gin, a pack, a conspiracy against me. Now shall the devil be shamed.—What, wife, I say! Come, come forth! Behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching! PAGE. Why, this passes, Master Ford! You are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned. EVANS. Why, this is lunatics, this is mad as a mad dog. SHALLOW. Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed. FORD. So say I too, sir. Enter Mistress Ford. Come hither, Mistress Ford—Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, mistress, do I? MISTRESS FORD. Heaven be my witness you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty. FORD. Well said, brazen-face, hold it out.—Come forth, sirrah. [_Pulls clothes out of the basket._] PAGE. This passes. MISTRESS FORD. Are you not ashamed? Let the clothes alone. FORD. I shall find you anon. EVANS. ’Tis unreasonable. Will you take up your wife’s clothes? Come, away. FORD. Empty the basket, I say. MISTRESS FORD. Why, man, why? FORD. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket. Why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is. My intelligence is true, my jealousy is reasonable.—Pluck me out all the linen. MISTRESS FORD. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea’s death. PAGE. Here’s no man. SHALLOW. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford, this wrongs you. EVANS. Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart. This is jealousies. FORD. Well, he’s not here I seek for. PAGE. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. FORD Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity, let me for ever be your table-sport. Let them say of me “As jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife’s leman.” Satisfy me once more, once more search with me. [_Exeunt John and Robert with the basket._] MISTRESS FORD. What, ho, Mistress Page! Come you and the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber. FORD. Old woman? What old woman’s that? MISTRESS FORD. Why, it is my maid’s aunt of Brentford. FORD. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element. We know nothing.—Come down, you witch, you hag, you! Come down, I say! MISTRESS FORD. Nay, good sweet husband!—Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. Enter Falstaff disguised as an old woman, led by Mistress Page. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand. FORD. I’ll prat her. [_Beats him_.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you runnion! Out, out! I’ll conjure you, I’ll fortune-tell you. [_Exit Falstaff._] MISTRESS PAGE. Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, he will do it. ’Tis a goodly credit for you. FORD. Hang her, witch! EVANS. By yea and no, I think the ’oman is a witch indeed. I like not when a ’oman has a great peard. I spy a great peard under her muffler. FORD. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you follow, see but the issue of my jealousy. If I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. PAGE. Let’s obey his humour a little further. Come, gentlemen. [_Exeunt Ford, Page, Caius, Evans and Shallow._] MISTRESS PAGE. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, by th’ mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully, methought. MISTRESS PAGE. I’ll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o’er the altar. It hath done meritorious service. MISTRESS FORD. What think you? May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge? MISTRESS PAGE. The spirit of wantonness is sure scared out of him. If the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. MISTRESS FORD. Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him? MISTRESS PAGE. Yes, by all means, if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband’s brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. MISTRESS FORD. I’ll warrant they’ll have him publicly shamed, and methinks there would be no period to the jest should he not be publicly shamed. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, to the forge with it, then shape it. I would not have things cool. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Host and Bardolph. BARDOLPH. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses. The Duke himself will be tomorrow at court, and they are going to meet him. HOST. What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen. They speak English? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir. I’ll call them to you. HOST. They shall have my horses, but I’ll make them pay, I’ll sauce them. They have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests. They must come off, I’ll sauce them. Come. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Ford’s house Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Sir Hugh Evans. EVANS. ’Tis one of the best discretions of a ’oman as ever I did look upon. PAGE. And did he send you both these letters at an instant? MISTRESS PAGE. Within a quarter of an hour. FORD. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt. I rather will suspect the sun with cold Than thee with wantonness. Now doth thy honour stand, In him that was of late an heretic, As firm as faith. PAGE. ’Tis well, ’tis well, no more. Be not as extreme in submission as in offence. But let our plot go forward. Let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. FORD. There is no better way than that they spoke of. PAGE. How? To send him word they’ll meet him in the park at midnight? Fie, fie, he’ll never come. EVANS. You say he has been thrown in the rivers, and has been grievously peaten as an old ’oman. Methinks there should be terrors in him, that he should not come. Methinks his flesh is punished; he shall have no desires. PAGE. So think I too. MISTRESS FORD. Devise but how you’ll use him when he comes, And let us two devise to bring him thither. MISTRESS PAGE. There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest, Doth all the winter time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragged horns, And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner. You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed eld Received and did deliver to our age, This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth. PAGE. Why, yet there want not many that do fear In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak. But what of this? MISTRESS FORD. Marry, this is our device, That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us, Disguised like Herne, with huge horns on his head. PAGE. Well, let it not be doubted but he’ll come, And in this shape; when you have brought him thither, What shall be done with him? What is your plot? MISTRESS PAGE. That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, And three or four more of their growth, we’ll dress Like urchins, oafs and fairies, green and white, With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden, As Falstaff, she, and I are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once With some diffused song; upon their sight We two in great amazedness will fly. Then let them all encircle him about, And fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight, And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, In their so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. MISTRESS FORD. And till he tell the truth, Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound And burn him with their tapers. MISTRESS PAGE. The truth being known, We’ll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit, And mock him home to Windsor. FORD. The children must Be practised well to this, or they’ll ne’er do ’t. EVANS. I will teach the children their behaviours, and I will be like a jackanapes also, to burn the knight with my taber. FORD. That will be excellent. I’ll go buy them vizards. MISTRESS PAGE. My Nan shall be the queen of all the fairies, Finely attired in a robe of white. PAGE. That silk will I go buy. [_Aside_.] And in that time Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away, And marry her at Eton.—Go, send to Falstaff straight. FORD. Nay, I’ll to him again in name of Brook. He’ll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he’ll come. MISTRESS PAGE. Fear not you that. Go, get us properties And tricking for our fairies. EVANS. Let us about it. It is admirable pleasures and fery honest knaveries. [_Exeunt Page, Ford and Evans._] MISTRESS PAGE. Go, Mistress Ford. Send quickly to Sir John to know his mind. [_Exit Mistress Ford._] I’ll to the Doctor. He hath my good will, And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot, And he my husband best of all affects. The Doctor is well moneyed, and his friends Potent at court. He, none but he, shall have her, Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. [_Exit._] SCENE V. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Host and Simple. HOST. What wouldst thou have, boor? What, thick-skin? Speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap. SIMPLE. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender. HOST. There’s his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed. ’Tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go, knock and call. He’ll speak like an Anthropophaginian unto thee. Knock, I say. SIMPLE. There’s an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber. I’ll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down. I come to speak with her, indeed. HOST. Ha? A fat woman? The knight may be robbed. I’ll call.—Bully knight! Bully Sir John! Speak from thy lungs military. Art thou there? It is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. FALSTAFF. [_Above_.] How now, mine host? HOST. Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her descend. My chambers are honourable. Fie! Privacy? Fie! Enter Falstaff. FALSTAFF. There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with me, but she’s gone. SIMPLE. Pray you, sir, was’t not the wise woman of Brentford? FALSTAFF. Ay, marry was it, mussel-shell. What would you with her? SIMPLE. My master, sir, my Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go through the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no. FALSTAFF. I spake with the old woman about it. SIMPLE. And what says she, I pray, sir? FALSTAFF. Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of it. SIMPLE. I would I could have spoken with the woman herself. I had other things to have spoken with her too, from him. FALSTAFF. What are they? Let us know. HOST. Ay, come. Quick. SIMPLE. I may not conceal them, sir. FALSTAFF. Conceal them, or thou diest. SIMPLE. Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page, to know if it were my master’s fortune to have her or no. FALSTAFF. ’Tis, ’tis his fortune. SIMPLE. What sir? FALSTAFF. To have her, or no. Go, say the woman told me so. SIMPLE. May I be bold to say so, sir? FALSTAFF. Ay, sir; like who more bold? SIMPLE. I thank your worship; I shall make my master glad with these tidings. [_Exit Simple._] HOST Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee? FALSTAFF. Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life; and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. Enter Bardolph. BARDOLPH Out, alas, sir, cozenage, mere cozenage! HOST. Where be my horses? Speak well of them, varletto. BARDOLPH. Run away, with the cozeners. For so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off from behind one of them, in a slough of mire, and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. HOST. They are gone but to meet the Duke, villain, do not say they be fled. Germans are honest men. Enter Sir Hugh Evans. EVANS Where is mine host? HOST. What is the matter, sir? EVANS. Have a care of your entertainments. There is a friend of mine come to town tells me there is three cozen-Germans that has cozened all the hosts of Readings, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you. You are wise, and full of gibes and vlouting-stocks, and ’tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well. [_Exit Evans._] Enter Doctor Caius. CAIUS. Vere is mine host de Jarteer? HOST. Here, Master Doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma. CAIUS. I cannot tell vat is dat, but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a Duke de Jamany. By my trot, dere is no duke that the court is know to come. I tell you for good will. Adieu. [_Exit Doctor Caius._] HOST Hue and cry, villain, go!—Assist me, knight, I am undone.—Fly, run, hue and cry, villain, I am undone! [_Exeunt Host and Bardolph._] FALSTAFF. I would all the world might be cozened, for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court how I have been transformed, and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by drop, and liquor fishermen’s boots with me. I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crestfallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough, I would repent. Enter Mistress Quickly. Now, whence come you? MISTRESS QUICKLY. From the two parties, forsooth. FALSTAFF. The devil take one party and his dam the other, and so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villainous inconstancy of man’s disposition is able to bear. MISTRESS QUICKLY. And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant, speciously one of them. Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her. FALSTAFF. What tellst thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow, and was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brentford. But that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i’ the stocks, i’ the common stocks, for a witch. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber, you shall hear how things go, and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed. FALSTAFF. Come up into my chamber. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Another room in the Garter Inn Enter Fenton and Host. HOST. Master Fenton, talk not to me. My mind is heavy. I will give over all. FENTON. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose, And, as I am a gentleman, I’ll give thee A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. HOST. I will hear you, Master Fenton, and I will, at the least, keep your counsel. FENTON. From time to time I have acquainted you With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page, Who mutually hath answered my affection, So far forth as herself might be her chooser, Even to my wish. I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at, The mirth whereof so larded with my matter That neither singly can be manifested Without the show of both, wherein fat Falstaff Hath a great scene; the image of the jest I’ll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host: Tonight at Herne’s oak, just ’twixt twelve and one, Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen— The purpose why is here—in which disguise, While other jests are something rank on foot, Her father hath commanded her to slip Away with Slender, and with him at Eton Immediately to marry. She hath consented. Now, sir, Her mother, even strong against that match And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed That he shall likewise shuffle her away, While other sports are tasking of their minds, And at the dean’ry, where a priest attends, Straight marry her. To this her mother’s plot She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath Made promise to the doctor. Now thus it rests: Her father means she shall be all in white And in that habit, when Slender sees his time To take her by the hand and bid her go, She shall go with him. Her mother hath intended The better to denote her to the doctor, For they must all be masked and vizarded— That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed, With ribbons pendant flaring ’bout her head; And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, To pinch her by the hand, and on that token The maid hath given consent to go with him. HOST. Which means she to deceive, father or mother? FENTON. Both, my good host, to go along with me. And here it rests, that you’ll procure the vicar To stay for me at church, ’twixt twelve and one, And, in the lawful name of marrying, To give our hearts united ceremony. HOST. Well, husband your device; I’ll to the vicar. Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. FENTON. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; Besides, I’ll make a present recompense. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly. FALSTAFF. Prithee, no more prattling. Go. I’ll hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away, go! They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away! MISTRESS QUICKLY. I’ll provide you a chain, and I’ll do what I can to get you a pair of horns. FALSTAFF. Away, I say; time wears. Hold up your head, and mince. [_Exit Mistress Quickly._] Enter Ford. How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known tonight or never. Be you in the park about midnight, at Herne’s oak, and you shall see wonders. FORD. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed? FALSTAFF. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man, but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver’s beam, because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste. Go along with me; I’ll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant, and whipped top, I knew not what ’twas to be beaten till lately. Follow me, I’ll tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom tonight I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Windsor Park Enter Page, Shallow and Slender. PAGE. Come, come. We’ll couch i’ the castle ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter— SLENDER. Ay, forsooth. I have spoke with her, and we have a nay-word how to know one another. I come to her in white and cry “mum”; she cries “budget”; and by that we know one another. SHALLOW. That’s good too. But what needs either your “mum” or her “budget”? The white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o’clock. PAGE. The night is dark. Light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let’s away; follow me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The street in Windsor Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Doctor Caius. MISTRESS PAGE. Master Doctor, my daughter is in green. When you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the park. We two must go together. CAIUS. I know vat I have to do. Adieu. MISTRESS PAGE. Fare you well, sir. [_Exit Caius._] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor’s marrying my daughter. But ’tis no matter. Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak. MISTRESS FORD. Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil Hugh? MISTRESS PAGE. They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne’s oak, with obscured lights, which, at the very instant of Falstaff’s and our meeting, they will at once display to the night. MISTRESS FORD. That cannot choose but amaze him. MISTRESS PAGE. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked. MISTRESS FORD. We’ll betray him finely. MISTRESS PAGE. Against such lewdsters and their lechery, Those that betray them do no treachery. MISTRESS FORD. The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Windsor Park Enter Sir Hugh Evans disguised, and children as Fairies. EVANS. Trib, trib, fairies. Come, and remember your parts. Be pold, I pray you, follow me into the pit, and when I give the watch-’ords, do as I pid you. Come, come; trib, trib. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Another part of the Park Enter Falstaff wearing a buck’s head. FALSTAFF. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve, the minute draws on. Now the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love, that in some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other a man a beast! You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love of Leda. O omnipotent love, how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast; O Jove, a beastly fault! And then another fault in the semblance of a fowl; think on’t, Jove, a foul fault! When gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag, and the fattest, I think, i’ the forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? My doe? Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. MISTRESS FORD. Sir John? Art thou there, my deer, my male deer? FALSTAFF. My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes, let it thunder to the tune of “Greensleeves”, hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here. [_He embraces her._] MISTRESS FORD. Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart. FALSTAFF. Divide me like a bribed buck, each a haunch. I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome! [_A noise of horns within._] MISTRESS PAGE. Alas, what noise? MISTRESS FORD. Heaven forgive our sins! FALSTAFF. What should this be? MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE. Away, away! [_They run off._] FALSTAFF. I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that’s in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus. Enter Mistress Quickly as the Queen of Fairies, Sir Hugh Evans as a Satyr, Pistol as Hobgoblin, Anne Page and children as Fairies, carrying tapers. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. PISTOL. Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys! Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap, Where fires thou find’st unraked and hearths unswept, There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry. Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. FALSTAFF. They are fairies, he that speaks to them shall die. I’ll wink and couch. No man their works must eye. [_Lies down upon his face._] EVANS Where’s Bead? Go you, and where you find a maid That ere she sleep has thrice her prayers said, Rein up the organs of her fantasy; Sleep she as sound as careless infancy. But those as sleep and think not on their sins, Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. MISTRESS QUICKLY. About, about! Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out. Strew good luck, oafs, on every sacred room, That it may stand till the perpetual doom In state as wholesome as in state ’tis fit, Worthy the owner and the owner it. The several chairs of order look you scour With juice of balm and every precious flower. Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, With loyal blazon, evermore be blest! And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring. Th’ expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; And _Honi soit qui mal y pense_ write In em’rald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white, Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee. Fairies use flowers for their charactery. Away, disperse! But till ’tis one o’clock, Our dance of custom round about the oak Of Herne the hunter let us not forget. EVANS. Pray you, lock hand in hand, yourselves in order set; And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, To guide our measure round about the tree. But stay, I smell a man of middle earth. FALSTAFF. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese! PISTOL. Vile worm, thou wast o’erlooked even in thy birth. MISTRESS QUICKLY. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end. If he be chaste, the flame will back descend And turn him to no pain; but if he start, It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. PISTOL. A trial, come. EVANS. Come, will this wood take fire? [_They put the tapers to his fingers, and he starts._] FALSTAFF. O, o, o! MISTRESS QUICKLY. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! About him, fairies, sing a scornful rhyme, And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. SONG. Fie on sinful fantasy! Fie on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with unchaste desire, Fed in heart, whose flames aspire, As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. Pinch him, fairies, mutually; Pinch him for his villainy. Pinch him and burn him and turn him about, Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out. [_During the song they pinch him, and Doctor Caius comes one way and steals away a boy in green; and Slender another way takes a boy in white; Fenton comes in and steals away Anne Page. A noise of hunting is heard within and all the fairies run away. Falstaff pulls off his buck’s head, and rises up._] Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. PAGE. Nay, do not fly. I think we have watched you now. Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn? MISTRESS PAGE. I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher.— Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives? See you these, husband? [_She points to the horns._] Do not these fair yokes Become the forest better than the town? FORD. Now, sir, who’s a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff’s a knave, a cuckoldly knave. Here are his horns, Master Brook. And, Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford’s but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid to Master Brook. His horses are arrested for it, Master Brook. MISTRESS FORD. Sir John, we have had ill luck, we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again, but I will always count you my deer. FALSTAFF. I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass. FORD. Ay, and an ox too. Both the proofs are extant. FALSTAFF. And these are not fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent when ’tis upon ill employment! EVANS. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. FORD. Well said, fairy Hugh. EVANS. And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you. FORD. I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art able to woo her in good English. FALSTAFF. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o’erreaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? Shall I have a cox-comb of frieze? ’Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese. EVANS. Seese is not good to give putter. Your belly is all putter. FALSTAFF. “Seese” and “putter”? Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight? FORD. What, a hodge-pudding? A bag of flax? MISTRESS PAGE. A puffed man? PAGE. Old, cold, withered, and of intolerable entrails? FORD. And one that is as slanderous as Satan? PAGE. And as poor as Job? FORD. And as wicked as his wife? EVANS. And given to fornications, and to taverns, and sack, and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles? FALSTAFF. Well, I am your theme. You have the start of me. I am dejected, I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o’er me. Use me as you will. FORD. Marry, sir, we’ll bring you to Windsor to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander. Over and above that you have suffered, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction. PAGE. Yet be cheerful, knight. Thou shalt eat a posset tonight at my house, where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her Master Slender hath married her daughter. MISTRESS PAGE. [_Aside_.] Doctors doubt that. If Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius’ wife. Enter Slender. SLENDER Whoa, ho, ho, father Page! PAGE. Son, how now! How now, son, have you dispatched? SLENDER. Dispatched? I’ll make the best in Gloucestershire know on’t. Would I were hanged, la, else! PAGE. Of what, son? SLENDER. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she’s a great lubberly boy. If it had not been i’ the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir! And ’tis a postmaster’s boy. PAGE. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. SLENDER. What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman’s apparel, I would not have had him. PAGE. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments? SLENDER. I went to her in white and cried “mum”, and she cried “budget”, as Anne and I had appointed, and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster’s boy. MISTRESS PAGE. Good George, be not angry. I knew of your purpose, turned my daughter into green, and indeed she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married. Enter Doctor Caius. CAIUS Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened, I ha’ married _un garçon_, a boy; _un paysan_, by gar, a boy. It is not Anne Page. By gar, I am cozened. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, did you take her in green? CAIUS. Ay, by gar, and ’tis a boy. By gar, I’ll raise all Windsor. FORD This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne? Enter Fenton and Anne Page. PAGE. My heart misgives me. Here comes Master Fenton.—How now, Master Fenton! ANNE. Pardon, good father. Good my mother, pardon. PAGE. Now, mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender? MISTRESS PAGE. Why went you not with Master Doctor, maid? FENTON. You do amaze her. Hear the truth of it. You would have married her most shamefully, Where there was no proportion held in love. The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. Th’ offence is holy that she hath committed, And this deceit loses the name of craft, Of disobedience, or unduteous title, Since therein she doth evitate and shun A thousand irreligious cursed hours, Which forced marriage would have brought upon her. FORD. Stand not amazed, here is no remedy. In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state. Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. FALSTAFF. I am glad, though you have ta’en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. PAGE. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven give thee joy! What cannot be eschewed must be embraced. FALSTAFF. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased. MISTRESS PAGE. Well, I will muse no further.—Master Fenton, Heaven give you many, many merry days! Good husband, let us every one go home, And laugh this sport o’er by a country fire, Sir John and all. FORD. Let it be so, Sir John, To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word, For he tonight shall lie with Mistress Ford. [_Exeunt._] A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM Contents ACT I Scene I. Athens. A room in the Palace of Theseus Scene II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage ACT II Scene I. A wood near Athens Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT III Scene I. The Wood. Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT IV Scene I. The Wood Scene II. Athens. A Room in Quince’s House ACT V Scene I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus Dramatis Personæ THESEUS, Duke of Athens HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus EGEUS, Father to Hermia HERMIA, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander HELENA, in love with Demetrius LYSANDER, in love with Hermia DEMETRIUS, in love with Hermia PHILOSTRATE, Master of the Revels to Theseus QUINCE, the Carpenter SNUG, the Joiner BOTTOM, the Weaver FLUTE, the Bellows-mender SNOUT, the Tinker STARVELING, the Tailor OBERON, King of the Fairies TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies PUCK, or ROBIN GOODFELLOW, a Fairy PEASEBLOSSOM, Fairy COBWEB, Fairy MOTH, Fairy MUSTARDSEED, Fairy PYRAMUS, THISBE, WALL, MOONSHINE, LION; Characters in the Interlude performed by the Clowns Other Fairies attending their King and Queen Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta SCENE: Athens, and a wood not far from it ACT I SCENE I. Athens. A room in the Palace of Theseus Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate and Attendants. THESEUS. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace; four happy days bring in Another moon; but oh, methinks, how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, Like to a step-dame or a dowager, Long withering out a young man’s revenue. HIPPOLYTA. Four days will quickly steep themselves in night; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow New bent in heaven, shall behold the night Of our solemnities. THESEUS. Go, Philostrate, Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments; Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth; Turn melancholy forth to funerals; The pale companion is not for our pomp. [_Exit Philostrate._] Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword, And won thy love doing thee injuries; But I will wed thee in another key, With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysander and Demetrius. EGEUS. Happy be Theseus, our renownèd Duke! THESEUS. Thanks, good Egeus. What’s the news with thee? EGEUS. Full of vexation come I, with complaint Against my child, my daughter Hermia. Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, This man hath my consent to marry her. Stand forth, Lysander. And, my gracious Duke, This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child. Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes, And interchang’d love-tokens with my child. Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung, With feigning voice, verses of feigning love; And stol’n the impression of her fantasy With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, conceits, Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats (messengers Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth) With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart, Turn’d her obedience (which is due to me) To stubborn harshness. And, my gracious Duke, Be it so she will not here before your grace Consent to marry with Demetrius, I beg the ancient privilege of Athens: As she is mine I may dispose of her; Which shall be either to this gentleman Or to her death, according to our law Immediately provided in that case. THESEUS. What say you, Hermia? Be advis’d, fair maid. To you your father should be as a god; One that compos’d your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure, or disfigure it. Demetrius is a worthy gentleman. HERMIA. So is Lysander. THESEUS. In himself he is. But in this kind, wanting your father’s voice, The other must be held the worthier. HERMIA. I would my father look’d but with my eyes. THESEUS. Rather your eyes must with his judgment look. HERMIA. I do entreat your Grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am made bold, Nor how it may concern my modesty In such a presence here to plead my thoughts: But I beseech your Grace that I may know The worst that may befall me in this case, If I refuse to wed Demetrius. THESEUS. Either to die the death, or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father’s choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessèd they that master so their blood To undergo such maiden pilgrimage, But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness. HERMIA. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, Ere I will yield my virgin patent up Unto his lordship, whose unwishèd yoke My soul consents not to give sovereignty. THESEUS. Take time to pause; and by the next new moon The sealing-day betwixt my love and me For everlasting bond of fellowship, Upon that day either prepare to die For disobedience to your father’s will, Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would, Or on Diana’s altar to protest For aye austerity and single life. DEMETRIUS. Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield Thy crazèd title to my certain right. LYSANDER. You have her father’s love, Demetrius. Let me have Hermia’s. Do you marry him. EGEUS. Scornful Lysander, true, he hath my love; And what is mine my love shall render him; And she is mine, and all my right of her I do estate unto Demetrius. LYSANDER. I am, my lord, as well deriv’d as he, As well possess’d; my love is more than his; My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d, If not with vantage, as Demetrius’; And, which is more than all these boasts can be, I am belov’d of beauteous Hermia. Why should not I then prosecute my right? Demetrius, I’ll avouch it to his head, Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena, And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes, Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, Upon this spotted and inconstant man. THESEUS. I must confess that I have heard so much, And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof; But, being over-full of self-affairs, My mind did lose it.—But, Demetrius, come, And come, Egeus; you shall go with me. I have some private schooling for you both.— For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself To fit your fancies to your father’s will, Or else the law of Athens yields you up (Which by no means we may extenuate) To death, or to a vow of single life. Come, my Hippolyta. What cheer, my love? Demetrius and Egeus, go along; I must employ you in some business Against our nuptial, and confer with you Of something nearly that concerns yourselves. EGEUS. With duty and desire we follow you. [_Exeunt all but Lysander and Hermia._] LYSANDER. How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast? HERMIA. Belike for want of rain, which I could well Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. LYSANDER. Ay me! For aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But either it was different in blood— HERMIA. O cross! Too high to be enthrall’d to low. LYSANDER. Or else misgraffèd in respect of years— HERMIA. O spite! Too old to be engag’d to young. LYSANDER. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends— HERMIA. O hell! to choose love by another’s eyes! LYSANDER. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And, ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold!’ The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion. HERMIA. If then true lovers have ever cross’d, It stands as an edict in destiny. Then let us teach our trial patience, Because it is a customary cross, As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs, Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers. LYSANDER. A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia. I have a widow aunt, a dowager Of great revenue, and she hath no child. From Athens is her house remote seven leagues, And she respects me as her only son. There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee, And to that place the sharp Athenian law Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then, Steal forth thy father’s house tomorrow night; And in the wood, a league without the town (Where I did meet thee once with Helena To do observance to a morn of May), There will I stay for thee. HERMIA. My good Lysander! I swear to thee by Cupid’s strongest bow, By his best arrow with the golden head, By the simplicity of Venus’ doves, By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen When the false Trojan under sail was seen, By all the vows that ever men have broke (In number more than ever women spoke), In that same place thou hast appointed me, Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee. LYSANDER. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena. Enter Helena. HERMIA. God speed fair Helena! Whither away? HELENA. Call you me fair? That fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars and your tongue’s sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching. O were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go. My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I’d give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart! HERMIA. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA. O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA. O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA. The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA. The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA. None but your beauty; would that fault were mine! HERMIA. Take comfort: he no more shall see my face; Lysander and myself will fly this place. Before the time I did Lysander see, Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me. O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn’d a heaven into hell! LYSANDER. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold: Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold Her silver visage in the watery glass, Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass (A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal), Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal. HERMIA. And in the wood where often you and I Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie, Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, There my Lysander and myself shall meet, And thence from Athens turn away our eyes, To seek new friends and stranger companies. Farewell, sweet playfellow. Pray thou for us, And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! Keep word, Lysander. We must starve our sight From lovers’ food, till morrow deep midnight. LYSANDER. I will, my Hermia. [_Exit Hermia._] Helena, adieu. As you on him, Demetrius dote on you! [_Exit Lysander._] HELENA. How happy some o’er other some can be! Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so; He will not know what all but he do know. And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes, So I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love’s mind of any judgment taste. Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste. And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, So the boy Love is perjur’d everywhere. For, ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne, He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine; And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight. Then to the wood will he tomorrow night Pursue her; and for this intelligence If I have thanks, it is a dear expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, To have his sight thither and back again. [_Exit Helena._] SCENE II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout and Starveling. QUINCE. Is all our company here? BOTTOM. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. QUINCE. Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which is thought fit through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and Duchess, on his wedding-day at night. BOTTOM. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point. QUINCE. Marry, our play is _The most lamentable comedy and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisbe_. BOTTOM. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves. QUINCE. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver. BOTTOM. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. QUINCE. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. BOTTOM. What is Pyramus—a lover, or a tyrant? QUINCE. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. BOTTOM. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes. I will move storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest—yet my chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. The raging rocks And shivering shocks Shall break the locks Of prison gates, And Phibbus’ car Shall shine from far, And make and mar The foolish Fates. This was lofty. Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling. QUINCE. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Flute, you must take Thisbe on you. FLUTE. What is Thisbe? A wandering knight? QUINCE. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman. I have a beard coming. QUINCE. That’s all one. You shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will. BOTTOM. And I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too. I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice; ‘Thisne, Thisne!’—‘Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear! thy Thisbe dear! and lady dear!’ QUINCE. No, no, you must play Pyramus; and, Flute, you Thisbe. BOTTOM. Well, proceed. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, the tailor. STARVELING. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisbe’s mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. SNOUT Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. You, Pyramus’ father; myself, Thisbe’s father; Snug, the joiner, you, the lion’s part. And, I hope here is a play fitted. SNUG Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study. QUINCE. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. BOTTOM. Let me play the lion too. I will roar that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the Duke say ‘Let him roar again, let him roar again.’ QUINCE. If you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all. ALL That would hang us every mother’s son. BOTTOM. I grant you, friends, if you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us. But I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an ’twere any nightingale. QUINCE. You can play no part but Pyramus, for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man as one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely gentleman-like man. Therefore you must needs play Pyramus. BOTTOM. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in? QUINCE. Why, what you will. BOTTOM. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow. QUINCE. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-faced. But, masters, here are your parts, and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by tomorrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse, for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogg’d with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you fail me not. BOTTOM. We will meet, and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains, be perfect; adieu. QUINCE. At the Duke’s oak we meet. BOTTOM. Enough. Hold, or cut bow-strings. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. A wood near Athens Enter a Fairy at one door, and Puck at another. PUCK. How now, spirit! Whither wander you? FAIRY Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon’s sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon. PUCK. The King doth keep his revels here tonight; Take heed the Queen come not within his sight, For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she, as her attendant, hath A lovely boy, stol’n from an Indian king; She never had so sweet a changeling. And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild: But she perforce withholds the lovèd boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square; that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there. FAIRY Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call’d Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn, And sometime make the drink to bear no barm, Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he? PUCK. Thou speak’st aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy. Here comes Oberon. FAIRY And here my mistress. Would that he were gone! Enter Oberon at one door, with his Train, and Titania at another, with hers. OBERON. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. TITANIA. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company. OBERON. Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord? TITANIA. Then I must be thy lady; but I know When thou hast stol’n away from fairyland, And in the shape of Corin sat all day Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steep of India, But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded; and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity? OBERON. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night From Perigenia, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegles break his faith, With Ariadne and Antiopa? TITANIA. These are the forgeries of jealousy: And never, since the middle summer’s spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land, Hath every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard. The fold stands empty in the drownèd field, And crows are fatted with the murrion flock; The nine-men’s-morris is fill’d up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their winter here. No night is now with hymn or carol blest. Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original. OBERON. Do you amend it, then. It lies in you. Why should Titania cross her Oberon? I do but beg a little changeling boy To be my henchman. TITANIA. Set your heart at rest; The fairyland buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot’ress of my order, And in the spicèd Indian air, by night, Full often hath she gossip’d by my side; And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands, Marking th’ embarkèd traders on the flood, When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive, And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following (her womb then rich with my young squire), Would imitate, and sail upon the land, To fetch me trifles, and return again, As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; And for her sake do I rear up her boy, And for her sake I will not part with him. OBERON. How long within this wood intend you stay? TITANIA. Perchance till after Theseus’ wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in our round, And see our moonlight revels, go with us; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. OBERON. Give me that boy and I will go with thee. TITANIA. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away. We shall chide downright if I longer stay. [_Exit Titania with her Train._] OBERON. Well, go thy way. Thou shalt not from this grove Till I torment thee for this injury.— My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb’rest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid’s music. PUCK. I remember. OBERON. That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not), Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took At a fair vestal, thronèd by the west, And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon; And the imperial votress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once: The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league. PUCK. I’ll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. [_Exit Puck._] OBERON. Having once this juice, I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes: The next thing then she waking looks upon (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape) She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm from off her sight (As I can take it with another herb) I’ll make her render up her page to me. But who comes here? I am invisible; And I will overhear their conference. Enter Demetrius, Helena following him. DEMETRIUS. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood, And here am I, and wode within this wood Because I cannot meet with Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. HELENA. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant, But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you. DEMETRIUS. Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or rather do I not in plainest truth Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you? HELENA. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love, (And yet a place of high respect with me) Than to be usèd as you use your dog? DEMETRIUS. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit; For I am sick when I do look on thee. HELENA. And I am sick when I look not on you. DEMETRIUS. You do impeach your modesty too much To leave the city and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not, To trust the opportunity of night And the ill counsel of a desert place, With the rich worth of your virginity. HELENA. Your virtue is my privilege: for that It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you, in my respect, are all the world. Then how can it be said I am alone When all the world is here to look on me? DEMETRIUS. I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. HELENA. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d; Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; The dove pursues the griffin, the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger. Bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies! DEMETRIUS. I will not stay thy questions. Let me go, Or if thou follow me, do not believe But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. HELENA. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. We cannot fight for love as men may do. We should be woo’d, and were not made to woo. [_Exit Demetrius._] I’ll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well. [_Exit Helena._] OBERON. Fare thee well, nymph. Ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. Enter Puck. Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer. PUCK. Ay, there it is. OBERON. I pray thee give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: A sweet Athenian lady is in love With a disdainful youth. Anoint his eyes; But do it when the next thing he espies May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love: And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. PUCK. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another part of the wood Enter Titania with her Train. TITANIA. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song; Then for the third part of a minute, hence; Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds; Some war with reremice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats; and some keep back The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices, and let me rest. Fairies sing. FIRST FAIRY. You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms do no wrong, Come not near our Fairy Queen: CHORUS. Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby: Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So good night, with lullaby. FIRST FAIRY. Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence. Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail do no offence. CHORUS. Philomel with melody, &c. SECOND FAIRY. Hence away! Now all is well. One aloof stand sentinel. [_Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps._] Enter Oberon. OBERON. What thou seest when thou dost wake, [_Squeezes the flower on Titania’s eyelids._] Do it for thy true love take; Love and languish for his sake. Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair, In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak’st, it is thy dear. Wake when some vile thing is near. [_Exit._] Enter Lysander and Hermia. LYSANDER. Fair love, you faint with wand’ring in the wood. And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way. We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day. HERMIA. Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head. LYSANDER. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth. HERMIA. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. LYSANDER. O take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! Love takes the meaning in love’s conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knit, So that but one heart we can make of it: Two bosoms interchainèd with an oath, So then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny; For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. HERMIA. Lysander riddles very prettily. Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied! But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy Lie further off, in human modesty, Such separation as may well be said Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end! LYSANDER. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I; And then end life when I end loyalty! Here is my bed. Sleep give thee all his rest! HERMIA. With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be pressed! [_They sleep._] Enter Puck. PUCK. Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian found I none, On whose eyes I might approve This flower’s force in stirring love. Night and silence! Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, Despisèd the Athenian maid; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul, she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe; When thou wak’st let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid. So awake when I am gone; For I must now to Oberon. [_Exit._] Enter Demetrius and Helena, running. HELENA. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus. HELENA. O, wilt thou darkling leave me? Do not so. DEMETRIUS. Stay, on thy peril; I alone will go. [_Exit Demetrius._] HELENA. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase! The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies, For she hath blessèd and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears. If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. No, no, I am as ugly as a bear, For beasts that meet me run away for fear: Therefore no marvel though Demetrius Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne? But who is here? Lysander, on the ground! Dead or asleep? I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. LYSANDER. [_Waking._] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word Is that vile name to perish on my sword! HELENA. Do not say so, Lysander, say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you. Then be content. LYSANDER. Content with Hermia? No, I do repent The tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia, but Helena I love. Who will not change a raven for a dove? The will of man is by his reason sway’d, And reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season; So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason; And touching now the point of human skill, Reason becomes the marshal to my will, And leads me to your eyes, where I o’erlook Love’s stories, written in love’s richest book. HELENA. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, In such disdainful manner me to woo. But fare you well; perforce I must confess, I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady of one man refus’d, Should of another therefore be abus’d! [_Exit._] LYSANDER. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there, And never mayst thou come Lysander near! For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings; Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive; So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! And, all my powers, address your love and might To honour Helen, and to be her knight! [_Exit._] HERMIA. [_Starting._] Help me, Lysander, help me! Do thy best To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast! Ay me, for pity! What a dream was here! Lysander, look how I do quake with fear. Methought a serpent eat my heart away, And you sat smiling at his cruel prey. Lysander! What, removed? Lysander! lord! What, out of hearing? Gone? No sound, no word? Alack, where are you? Speak, and if you hear; Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear. No? Then I well perceive you are not nigh. Either death or you I’ll find immediately. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. The Wood. The Queen of Fairies still lying asleep. Enter Bottom, Quince, Snout, Starveling, Snug and Flute. BOTTOM. Are we all met? QUINCE. Pat, pat; and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the Duke. BOTTOM. Peter Quince? QUINCE. What sayest thou, bully Bottom? BOTTOM. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? SNOUT By’r lakin, a parlous fear. STARVELING. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. BOTTOM. Not a whit; I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. QUINCE. Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. BOTTOM. No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight. SNOUT Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion? STARVELING. I fear it, I promise you. BOTTOM. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves, to bring in (God shield us!) a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing. For there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to it. SNOUT Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. BOTTOM. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect: ‘Ladies,’ or, ‘Fair ladies, I would wish you,’ or, ‘I would request you,’ or, ’I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are’: and there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. QUINCE. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things: that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber, for you know, Pyramus and Thisbe meet by moonlight. SNOUT Doth the moon shine that night we play our play? BOTTOM. A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. QUINCE. Yes, it doth shine that night. BOTTOM. Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement. QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisbe, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. SNOUT You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom? BOTTOM. Some man or other must present Wall. And let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisbe whisper. QUINCE. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin: when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so everyone according to his cue. Enter Puck behind. PUCK. What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here, So near the cradle of the Fairy Queen? What, a play toward? I’ll be an auditor; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. QUINCE. Speak, Pyramus.—Thisbe, stand forth. PYRAMUS. _Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet_ QUINCE. Odours, odours. PYRAMUS. _. . . odours savours sweet. So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe dear. But hark, a voice! Stay thou but here awhile, And by and by I will to thee appear._ [_Exit._] PUCK. A stranger Pyramus than e’er played here! [_Exit._] THISBE. Must I speak now? QUINCE. Ay, marry, must you, For you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. THISBE. _Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire, I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb._ QUINCE. Ninus’ tomb, man! Why, you must not speak that yet. That you answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues, and all.—Pyramus enter! Your cue is past; it is ‘never tire.’ THISBE. O, _As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire._ Enter Puck and Bottom with an ass’s head. PYRAMUS. _If I were fair, Thisbe, I were only thine._ QUINCE. O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters, fly, masters! Help! [_Exeunt Clowns._] PUCK. I’ll follow you. I’ll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier; Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. [_Exit._] BOTTOM. Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Enter Snout. SNOUT O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee? BOTTOM. What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you? [_Exit Snout._] Enter Quince. QUINCE. Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! Thou art translated. [_Exit._] BOTTOM. I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of me, to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can. I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [_Sings._] The ousel cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill. TITANIA. [_Waking._] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? BOTTOM. [_Sings._] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo gray, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay. for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ‘cuckoo’ never so? TITANIA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note. So is mine eye enthrallèd to thy shape; And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee. BOTTOM. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays. The more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. TITANIA. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. BOTTOM. Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. TITANIA. Out of this wood do not desire to go. Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate. The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee: therefore, go with me. I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing, while thou on pressèd flowers dost sleep. And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.— Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Enter four Fairies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. COBWEB. And I. MOTH. And I. MUSTARDSEED. And I. ALL. Where shall we go? TITANIA. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Hail, mortal! COBWEB. Hail! MOTH. Hail! MUSTARDSEED. Hail! BOTTOM. I cry your worships mercy, heartily.—I beseech your worship’s name. COBWEB. Cobweb. BOTTOM. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you.—Your name, honest gentleman? PEASEBLOSSOM. Peaseblossom. BOTTOM. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too.—Your name, I beseech you, sir? MUSTARDSEED. Mustardseed. BOTTOM. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well. That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed. TITANIA. Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye, And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another part of the wood Enter Oberon. OBERON. I wonder if Titania be awak’d; Then, what it was that next came in her eye, Which she must dote on in extremity. Enter Puck. Here comes my messenger. How now, mad spirit? What night-rule now about this haunted grove? PUCK. My mistress with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated bower, While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, Were met together to rehearse a play Intended for great Theseus’ nuptial day. The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort Who Pyramus presented in their sport, Forsook his scene and enter’d in a brake. When I did him at this advantage take, An ass’s nole I fixed on his head. Anon, his Thisbe must be answerèd, And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy, As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, Rising and cawing at the gun’s report, Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, So at his sight away his fellows fly, And at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls; He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears, thus strong, Made senseless things begin to do them wrong; For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear, And left sweet Pyramus translated there. When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania wak’d, and straightway lov’d an ass. OBERON. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do? PUCK. I took him sleeping—that is finish’d too— And the Athenian woman by his side, That, when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d. Enter Demetrius and Hermia. OBERON. Stand close. This is the same Athenian. PUCK. This is the woman, but not this the man. DEMETRIUS. O why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. HERMIA. Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, And kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me. Would he have stol’n away From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon This whole earth may be bor’d, and that the moon May through the centre creep and so displease Her brother’s noontide with th’ Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him. So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim. DEMETRIUS. So should the murder’d look, and so should I, Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty. Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. HERMIA. What’s this to my Lysander? Where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? DEMETRIUS. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. HERMIA. Out, dog! Out, cur! Thou driv’st me past the bounds Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never number’d among men! O once tell true; tell true, even for my sake! Durst thou have look’d upon him, being awake, And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. DEMETRIUS. You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood: I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. HERMIA. I pray thee, tell me then that he is well. DEMETRIUS. And if I could, what should I get therefore? HERMIA. A privilege never to see me more. And from thy hated presence part I so: See me no more, whether he be dead or no. [_Exit._] DEMETRIUS. There is no following her in this fierce vein. Here, therefore, for a while I will remain. So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe; Which now in some slight measure it will pay, If for his tender here I make some stay. [_Lies down._] OBERON. What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite, And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight. Of thy misprision must perforce ensue Some true love turn’d, and not a false turn’d true. PUCK. Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. OBERON. About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find. All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear. By some illusion see thou bring her here; I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear. PUCK. I go, I go; look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. [_Exit._] OBERON. Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid’s archery, Sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the sky.— When thou wak’st, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy. Enter Puck. PUCK. Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth mistook by me, Pleading for a lover’s fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! OBERON. Stand aside. The noise they make Will cause Demetrius to awake. PUCK. Then will two at once woo one. That must needs be sport alone; And those things do best please me That befall prepost’rously. Enter Lysander and Helena. LYSANDER. Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true? HELENA. You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia’s: will you give her o’er? Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh: Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, Will even weigh; and both as light as tales. LYSANDER. I had no judgment when to her I swore. HELENA. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er. LYSANDER. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. DEMETRIUS. [_Waking._] O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow, Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow When thou hold’st up thy hand. O, let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss! HELENA. O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent To set against me for your merriment. If you were civil, and knew courtesy, You would not do me thus much injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do, But you must join in souls to mock me too? If you were men, as men you are in show, You would not use a gentle lady so; To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. You both are rivals, and love Hermia; And now both rivals, to mock Helena. A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes With your derision! None of noble sort Would so offend a virgin, and extort A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport. LYSANDER. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so, For you love Hermia; this you know I know. And here, with all good will, with all my heart, In Hermia’s love I yield you up my part; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, Whom I do love and will do till my death. HELENA. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. DEMETRIUS. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none. If e’er I lov’d her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn’d; And now to Helen is it home return’d, There to remain. LYSANDER. Helen, it is not so. DEMETRIUS. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear. Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear. Enter Hermia. HERMIA. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, The ear more quick of apprehension makes; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense. Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so? LYSANDER. Why should he stay whom love doth press to go? HERMIA. What love could press Lysander from my side? LYSANDER. Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide, Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek’st thou me? Could not this make thee know The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so? HERMIA. You speak not as you think; it cannot be. HELENA. Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three To fashion this false sport in spite of me. Injurious Hermia, most ungrateful maid! Have you conspir’d, have you with these contriv’d, To bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d, The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us—O, is all forgot? All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key, As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet a union in partition, Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, Due but to one, and crownèd with one crest. And will you rent our ancient love asunder, To join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, ’tis not maidenly. Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury. HERMIA. I am amazèd at your passionate words: I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me. HELENA. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, To follow me, and praise my eyes and face? And made your other love, Demetrius, Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare, Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this To her he hates? And wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich within his soul, And tender me, forsooth, affection, But by your setting on, by your consent? What though I be not so in grace as you, So hung upon with love, so fortunate, But miserable most, to love unlov’d? This you should pity rather than despise. HERMIA. I understand not what you mean by this. HELENA. Ay, do. Persever, counterfeit sad looks, Make mouths upon me when I turn my back, Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up. This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. If you have any pity, grace, or manners, You would not make me such an argument. But fare ye well. ’Tis partly my own fault, Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy. LYSANDER. Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse; My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena! HELENA. O excellent! HERMIA. Sweet, do not scorn her so. DEMETRIUS. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. LYSANDER. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat; Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers. Helen, I love thee, by my life I do; I swear by that which I will lose for thee To prove him false that says I love thee not. DEMETRIUS. I say I love thee more than he can do. LYSANDER. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. DEMETRIUS. Quick, come. HERMIA. Lysander, whereto tends all this? LYSANDER. Away, you Ethiope! DEMETRIUS. No, no. He will Seem to break loose. Take on as you would follow, But yet come not. You are a tame man, go! LYSANDER. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! Vile thing, let loose, Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent. HERMIA. Why are you grown so rude? What change is this, Sweet love? LYSANDER. Thy love? Out, tawny Tartar, out! Out, loathèd medicine! O hated potion, hence! HERMIA. Do you not jest? HELENA. Yes, sooth, and so do you. LYSANDER. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. DEMETRIUS. I would I had your bond; for I perceive A weak bond holds you; I’ll not trust your word. LYSANDER. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so. HERMIA. What, can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me? Wherefore? O me! what news, my love? Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander? I am as fair now as I was erewhile. Since night you lov’d me; yet since night you left me. Why then, you left me—O, the gods forbid!— In earnest, shall I say? LYSANDER. Ay, by my life; And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; Be certain, nothing truer; ’tis no jest That I do hate thee and love Helena. HERMIA. O me! You juggler! You cankerblossom! You thief of love! What! have you come by night And stol’n my love’s heart from him? HELENA. Fine, i’ faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie, you counterfeit, you puppet, you! HERMIA. Puppet! Why so? Ay, that way goes the game. Now I perceive that she hath made compare Between our statures; she hath urg’d her height; And with her personage, her tall personage, Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him. And are you grown so high in his esteem Because I am so dwarfish and so low? How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak, How low am I? I am not yet so low But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. HELENA. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, Let her not hurt me. I was never curst; I have no gift at all in shrewishness; I am a right maid for my cowardice; Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, Because she is something lower than myself, That I can match her. HERMIA. Lower! Hark, again. HELENA. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you, Hermia, Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you, Save that, in love unto Demetrius, I told him of your stealth unto this wood. He follow’d you; for love I follow’d him; But he hath chid me hence, and threaten’d me To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too: And now, so you will let me quiet go, To Athens will I bear my folly back, And follow you no further. Let me go: You see how simple and how fond I am. HERMIA. Why, get you gone. Who is’t that hinders you? HELENA. A foolish heart that I leave here behind. HERMIA. What! with Lysander? HELENA. With Demetrius. LYSANDER. Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena. DEMETRIUS. No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part. HELENA. O, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd. She was a vixen when she went to school, And though she be but little, she is fierce. HERMIA. Little again! Nothing but low and little? Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her. LYSANDER. Get you gone, you dwarf; You minimus, of hind’ring knot-grass made; You bead, you acorn. DEMETRIUS. You are too officious In her behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone. Speak not of Helena; Take not her part; for if thou dost intend Never so little show of love to her, Thou shalt aby it. LYSANDER. Now she holds me not. Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right, Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. DEMETRIUS. Follow! Nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by jole. [_Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius._] HERMIA. You, mistress, all this coil is long of you. Nay, go not back. HELENA. I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. My legs are longer though, to run away. [_Exit._] HERMIA. I am amaz’d, and know not what to say. [_Exit, pursuing Helena._] OBERON. This is thy negligence: still thou mistak’st, Or else commit’st thy knaveries willfully. PUCK. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyes: And so far am I glad it so did sort, As this their jangling I esteem a sport. OBERON. Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night; The starry welkin cover thou anon With drooping fog, as black as Acheron, And lead these testy rivals so astray As one come not within another’s way. Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; And sometime rail thou like Demetrius. And from each other look thou lead them thus, Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye, Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, To take from thence all error with his might And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision; And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, With league whose date till death shall never end. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I’ll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy; And then I will her charmèd eye release From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace. PUCK. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast; And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger, At whose approach, ghosts wandering here and there Troop home to churchyards. Damnèd spirits all, That in cross-ways and floods have burial, Already to their wormy beds are gone; For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They wilfully themselves exile from light, And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night. OBERON. But we are spirits of another sort: I with the morning’s love have oft made sport; And, like a forester, the groves may tread Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessèd beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams. But, notwithstanding, haste, make no delay. We may effect this business yet ere day. [_Exit Oberon._] PUCK. Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am fear’d in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one. Enter Lysander. LYSANDER. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? Speak thou now. PUCK. Here, villain, drawn and ready. Where art thou? LYSANDER. I will be with thee straight. PUCK. Follow me then to plainer ground. [_Exit Lysander as following the voice._] Enter Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. Lysander, speak again. Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled? Speak. In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head? PUCK. Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars, Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars, And wilt not come? Come, recreant, come, thou child! I’ll whip thee with a rod. He is defil’d That draws a sword on thee. DEMETRIUS. Yea, art thou there? PUCK. Follow my voice; we’ll try no manhood here. [_Exeunt._] Enter Lysander. LYSANDER. He goes before me, and still dares me on; When I come where he calls, then he is gone. The villain is much lighter-heel’d than I: I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly, That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day! [_Lies down._] For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I’ll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [_Sleeps._] Enter Puck and Demetrius. PUCK. Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com’st thou not? DEMETRIUS. Abide me, if thou dar’st; for well I wot Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place, And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou? PUCK. Come hither; I am here. DEMETRIUS. Nay, then, thou mock’st me. Thou shalt buy this dear If ever I thy face by daylight see: Now go thy way. Faintness constraineth me To measure out my length on this cold bed. By day’s approach look to be visited. [_Lies down and sleeps._] Enter Helena. HELENA. O weary night, O long and tedious night, Abate thy hours! Shine, comforts, from the east, That I may back to Athens by daylight, From these that my poor company detest. And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. [_Sleeps._] PUCK. Yet but three? Come one more. Two of both kinds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad Thus to make poor females mad. Enter Hermia. HERMIA. Never so weary, never so in woe, Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers, I can no further crawl, no further go; My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! [_Lies down._] PUCK. On the ground Sleep sound. I’ll apply To your eye, Gentle lover, remedy. [_Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eye._] When thou wak’st, Thou tak’st True delight In the sight Of thy former lady’s eye. And the country proverb known, That every man should take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. [_Exit Puck._] ACT IV SCENE I. The Wood Lysander, Demetrius, Helena and Hermia still asleep. Enter Titania and Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed and other Fairies attending; Oberon behind, unseen. TITANIA. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. BOTTOM. Where’s Peaseblossom? PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. BOTTOM. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where’s Monsieur Cobweb? COBWEB. Ready. BOTTOM. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get you your weapons in your hand and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur; and, good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s Monsieur Mustardseed? MUSTARDSEED. Ready. BOTTOM. Give me your neaf, Monsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. MUSTARDSEED. What’s your will? BOTTOM. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. TITANIA. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love? BOTTOM. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let us have the tongs and the bones. TITANIA. Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. BOTTOM. Truly, a peck of provender; I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. TITANIA. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. BOTTOM. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. TITANIA. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist, the female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee! How I dote on thee! [_They sleep._] Oberon advances. Enter Puck. OBERON. Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight? Her dotage now I do begin to pity. For, meeting her of late behind the wood, Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool, I did upbraid her and fall out with her: For she his hairy temples then had rounded With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers; And that same dew, which sometime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, Stood now within the pretty flouriets’ eyes, Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. When I had at my pleasure taunted her, And she in mild terms begg’d my patience, I then did ask of her her changeling child; Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent To bear him to my bower in fairyland. And now I have the boy, I will undo This hateful imperfection of her eyes. And, gentle Puck, take this transformèd scalp From off the head of this Athenian swain, That he awaking when the other do, May all to Athens back again repair, And think no more of this night’s accidents But as the fierce vexation of a dream. But first I will release the Fairy Queen. [_Touching her eyes with an herb._] Be as thou wast wont to be; See as thou was wont to see. Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower Hath such force and blessed power. Now, my Titania, wake you, my sweet queen. TITANIA. My Oberon, what visions have I seen! Methought I was enamour’d of an ass. OBERON. There lies your love. TITANIA. How came these things to pass? O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now! OBERON. Silence awhile.—Robin, take off this head. Titania, music call; and strike more dead Than common sleep, of all these five the sense. TITANIA. Music, ho, music, such as charmeth sleep. PUCK. Now when thou wak’st, with thine own fool’s eyes peep. OBERON. Sound, music. [_Still music._] Come, my queen, take hands with me, And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. Now thou and I are new in amity, And will tomorrow midnight solemnly Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly, And bless it to all fair prosperity: There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. PUCK. Fairy king, attend and mark. I do hear the morning lark. OBERON. Then, my queen, in silence sad, Trip we after night’s shade. We the globe can compass soon, Swifter than the wand’ring moon. TITANIA. Come, my lord, and in our flight, Tell me how it came this night That I sleeping here was found With these mortals on the ground. [_Exeunt. Horns sound within._] Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus and Train. THESEUS. Go, one of you, find out the forester; For now our observation is perform’d; And since we have the vaward of the day, My love shall hear the music of my hounds. Uncouple in the western valley; let them go. Dispatch I say, and find the forester. [_Exit an Attendant._] We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction. HIPPOLYTA. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear With hounds of Sparta. Never did I hear Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves, The skies, the fountains, every region near Seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. THESEUS. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, So flew’d, so sanded; and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee’d and dewlap’d like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. Judge when you hear.—But, soft, what nymphs are these? EGEUS. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep, And this Lysander; this Demetrius is; This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena: I wonder of their being here together. THESEUS. No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity. But speak, Egeus; is not this the day That Hermia should give answer of her choice? EGEUS. It is, my lord. THESEUS. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns. Horns, and shout within. Demetrius, Lysander, Hermia and Helena wake and start up. Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past. Begin these wood-birds but to couple now? LYSANDER. Pardon, my lord. He and the rest kneel to Theseus. THESEUS. I pray you all, stand up. I know you two are rival enemies. How comes this gentle concord in the world, That hatred is so far from jealousy To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity? LYSANDER. My lord, I shall reply amazedly, Half sleep, half waking; but as yet, I swear, I cannot truly say how I came here. But, as I think (for truly would I speak) And now I do bethink me, so it is: I came with Hermia hither. Our intent Was to be gone from Athens, where we might be Without the peril of the Athenian law. EGEUS. Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough. I beg the law, the law upon his head. They would have stol’n away, they would, Demetrius, Thereby to have defeated you and me: You of your wife, and me of my consent, Of my consent that she should be your wife. DEMETRIUS. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth, Of this their purpose hither to this wood; And I in fury hither follow’d them, Fair Helena in fancy following me. But, my good lord, I wot not by what power, (But by some power it is) my love to Hermia, Melted as the snow, seems to me now As the remembrance of an idle gaud Which in my childhood I did dote upon; And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, The object and the pleasure of mine eye, Is only Helena. To her, my lord, Was I betroth’d ere I saw Hermia. But like a sickness did I loathe this food. But, as in health, come to my natural taste, Now I do wish it, love it, long for it, And will for evermore be true to it. THESEUS. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met. Of this discourse we more will hear anon. Egeus, I will overbear your will; For in the temple, by and by with us, These couples shall eternally be knit. And, for the morning now is something worn, Our purpos’d hunting shall be set aside. Away with us to Athens. Three and three, We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity. Come, Hippolyta. [_Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus and Train._] DEMETRIUS. These things seem small and undistinguishable, Like far-off mountains turnèd into clouds. HERMIA. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When everything seems double. HELENA. So methinks. And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, Mine own, and not mine own. DEMETRIUS. Are you sure That we are awake? It seems to me That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think The Duke was here, and bid us follow him? HERMIA. Yea, and my father. HELENA. And Hippolyta. LYSANDER. And he did bid us follow to the temple. DEMETRIUS. Why, then, we are awake: let’s follow him, And by the way let us recount our dreams. [_Exeunt._] BOTTOM. [_Waking._] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is ‘Most fair Pyramus.’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life! Stol’n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called ‘Bottom’s Dream’, because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Athens. A Room in Quince’s House Enter Quince, Flute, Snout and Starveling. QUINCE. Have you sent to Bottom’s house? Is he come home yet? STARVELING. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported. FLUTE. If he come not, then the play is marred. It goes not forward, doth it? QUINCE. It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. FLUTE. No, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens. QUINCE. Yea, and the best person too, and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice. FLUTE. You must say paragon. A paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught. Enter Snug. SNUG Masters, the Duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married. If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. FLUTE. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have ’scaped sixpence a day. An the Duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I’ll be hanged. He would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing. Enter Bottom. BOTTOM. Where are these lads? Where are these hearts? QUINCE. Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour! BOTTOM. Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out. QUINCE. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. BOTTOM. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the Duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part. For the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisbe have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. And most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlick, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away! Go, away! [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords and Attendants. HIPPOLYTA. ’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. THESEUS. More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination, That if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy. Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear? HIPPOLYTA. But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigur’d so together, More witnesseth than fancy’s images, And grows to something of great constancy; But, howsoever, strange and admirable. Enter lovers: Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia and Helena. THESEUS. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts! LYSANDER. More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! THESEUS. Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bed-time? Where is our usual manager of mirth? What revels are in hand? Is there no play To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? Call Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. Here, mighty Theseus. THESEUS. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? What music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight? PHILOSTRATE. There is a brief how many sports are ripe. Make choice of which your Highness will see first. [_Giving a paper._] THESEUS. [_Reads_] ‘The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.’ We’ll none of that. That have I told my love In glory of my kinsman Hercules. ‘The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage?’ That is an old device, and it was play’d When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. ‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of learning, late deceas’d in beggary.’ That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. ‘A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.’ Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief? That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord? PHILOSTRATE. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as I have known a play; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious. For in all the play There is not one word apt, one player fitted. And tragical, my noble lord, it is. For Pyramus therein doth kill himself, Which, when I saw rehears’d, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed. THESEUS. What are they that do play it? PHILOSTRATE. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour’d in their minds till now; And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories With this same play against your nuptial. THESEUS. And we will hear it. PHILOSTRATE. No, my noble lord, It is not for you: I have heard it over, And it is nothing, nothing in the world; Unless you can find sport in their intents, Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain To do you service. THESEUS. I will hear that play; For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it. Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies. [_Exit Philostrate._] HIPPOLYTA. I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged, And duty in his service perishing. THESEUS. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. HIPPOLYTA. He says they can do nothing in this kind. THESEUS. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake: And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears, And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most to my capacity. Enter Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. So please your grace, the Prologue is address’d. THESEUS. Let him approach. Flourish of trumpets. Enter the Prologue.