PROLOGUE

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisbe is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile wall which did these lovers sunder; And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper, at the which let no man wonder. This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn, Presenteth Moonshine, for, if you will know, By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast (which Lion hight by name) The trusty Thisbe, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright; And as she fled, her mantle she did fall; Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth, and tall, And finds his trusty Thisbe’s mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast; And Thisbe, tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, At large discourse while here they do remain. [_Exeunt Prologue, Pyramus, Thisbe, Lion and Moonshine._] THESEUS. I wonder if the lion be to speak. DEMETRIUS. No wonder, my lord. One lion may, when many asses do. WALL. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall: And such a wall as I would have you think That had in it a crannied hole or chink, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show That I am that same wall; the truth is so: And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. THESEUS. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? DEMETRIUS. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. THESEUS. Pyramus draws near the wall; silence. Enter Pyramus. PYRAMUS. O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not! O night, O night, alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisbe’s promise is forgot! And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine; Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne. [_Wall holds up his fingers._] Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this! But what see I? No Thisbe do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me! THESEUS. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. PYRAMUS. No, in truth, sir, he should not. ‘Deceiving me’ is Thisbe’s cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes. Enter Thisbe. THISBE. O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me. My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. PYRAMUS. I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisbe’s face. Thisbe? THISBE. My love thou art, my love I think. PYRAMUS. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace; And like Limander am I trusty still. THISBE. And I like Helen, till the fates me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBE. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. THISBE. I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway? THISBE. ’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay. WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. [_Exeunt Wall, Pyramus and Thisbe._] THESEUS. Now is the mural down between the two neighbours. DEMETRIUS. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. HIPPOLYTA. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. THESEUS. The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. HIPPOLYTA. It must be your imagination then, and not theirs. THESEUS. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. Enter Lion and Moonshine. LION. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here, When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am A lion fell, nor else no lion’s dam; For if I should as lion come in strife Into this place, ’twere pity on my life. THESEUS. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. DEMETRIUS. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw. LYSANDER. This lion is a very fox for his valour. THESEUS. True; and a goose for his discretion. DEMETRIUS. Not so, my lord, for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. THESEUS. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well; leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present. DEMETRIUS. He should have worn the horns on his head. THESEUS. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present; Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be. THESEUS. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i’ the moon? DEMETRIUS. He dares not come there for the candle, for you see, it is already in snuff. HIPPOLYTA. I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change! THESEUS. It appears by his small light of discretion that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. LYSANDER. Proceed, Moon. MOON. All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I the man i’ the moon; this thorn-bush my thorn-bush; and this dog my dog. DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lantern, for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe. Enter Thisbe. THISBE. This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love? LION. Oh! [_The Lion roars, Thisbe runs off._] DEMETRIUS. Well roared, Lion. THESEUS. Well run, Thisbe. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [_The Lion tears Thisbe’s mantle, and exit._] THESEUS. Well moused, Lion. DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanished. Enter Pyramus. PYRAMUS. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; For, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisbe sight. But stay! O spite! But mark, poor knight, What dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it be? O dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good, What, stained with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell! O Fates, come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, rush, conclude, and quell! THESEUS. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. HIPPOLYTA. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. PYRAMUS. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame, Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear? Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer. Come, tears, confound! Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop: Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light! Moon, take thy flight! Now die, die, die, die, die. [_Dies. Exit Moonshine._] DEMETRIUS. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one. LYSANDER. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he is nothing. THESEUS. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Enter Thisbe. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play. HIPPOLYTA. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief. DEMETRIUS. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better: he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. DEMETRIUS. And thus she means, _videlicet_— THISBE. Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? O Pyramus, arise, Speak, speak. Quite dumb? Dead, dead? A tomb Must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily lips, This cherry nose, These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone! Lovers, make moan; His eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore, Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word: Come, trusty sword, Come, blade, my breast imbrue; And farewell, friends. Thus Thisbe ends. Adieu, adieu, adieu. [_Dies._] THESEUS. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. DEMETRIUS. Ay, and Wall too. BOTTOM. No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company? THESEUS. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy; and so it is, truly; and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone. [_Here a dance of Clowns._] The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn As much as we this night have overwatch’d. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity In nightly revels and new jollity. [_Exeunt._] Enter Puck. PUCK. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide. And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate’s team From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow’d house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Enter Oberon and Titania with their Train. OBERON. Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire. Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier, And this ditty after me, Sing and dance it trippingly. TITANIA. First rehearse your song by rote, To each word a warbling note; Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place. [_Song and Dance._] OBERON. Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, Which by us shall blessèd be; And the issue there create Ever shall be fortunate. So shall all the couples three Ever true in loving be; And the blots of Nature’s hand Shall not in their issue stand: Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, Nor mark prodigious, such as are Despised in nativity, Shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, Every fairy take his gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with sweet peace; And the owner of it blest. Ever shall it in safety rest, Trip away. Make no stay; Meet me all by break of day. [_Exeunt Oberon, Titania and Train._] PUCK. If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearnèd luck Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. [_Exit._] MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING Contents ACT I Scene I. Before Leonato’s House. Scene II. A room in Leonato’s house. Scene III. Another room in Leonato’s house. ACT II Scene I. A hall in Leonato’s house. Scene II. Another room in Leonato’s house. Scene III. Leonato’s Garden. ACT III Scene I. Leonato’s Garden. Scene II. A Room in Leonato’s House. Scene III. A Street. Scene IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Scene V. Another Room in Leonato’s House. ACT IV Scene I. The Inside of a Church. Scene II. A Prison. ACT V Scene I. Before Leonato’s House. Scene II. Leonato’s Garden. Scene III. The Inside of a Church. Scene IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Dramatis Personæ DON PEDRO, Prince of Arragon. DON JOHN, his bastard Brother. CLAUDIO, a young Lord of Florence. BENEDICK, a young Lord of Padua. LEONATO, Governor of Messina. ANTONIO, his Brother. BALTHASAR, Servant to Don Pedro. BORACHIO, follower of Don John. CONRADE, follower of Don John. DOGBERRY, a Constable. VERGES, a Headborough. FRIAR FRANCIS. A Sexton. A Boy. HERO, Daughter to Leonato. BEATRICE, Niece to Leonato. MARGARET, Waiting gentlewoman attending on Hero. URSULA, Waiting gentlewoman attending on Hero. Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c. SCENE. Messina. ACT I SCENE I. Before Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato, Hero, Beatrice and others, with a Messenger. LEONATO. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina. MESSENGER. He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off when I left him. LEONATO. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action? MESSENGER. But few of any sort, and none of name. LEONATO. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio. MESSENGER. Much deserved on his part, and equally remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how. LEONATO. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it. MESSENGER. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness. LEONATO. Did he break out into tears? MESSENGER. In great measure. LEONATO. A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed; how much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping! BEATRICE. I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no? MESSENGER. I know none of that name, lady: there was none such in the army of any sort. LEONATO. What is he that you ask for, niece? HERO. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua. MESSENGER. O! he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was. BEATRICE. He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle’s fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he killed? for, indeed, I promised to eat all of his killing. LEONATO. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not. MESSENGER. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. BEATRICE. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it; he is a very valiant trencher-man; he hath an excellent stomach. MESSENGER. And a good soldier too, lady. BEATRICE. And a good soldier to a lady; but what is he to a lord? MESSENGER. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honourable virtues. BEATRICE. It is so indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man; but for the stuffing,—well, we are all mortal. LEONATO. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her; they never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them. BEATRICE. Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one! so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother. MESSENGER. Is’t possible? BEATRICE. Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block. MESSENGER. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books. BEATRICE. No; and he were, I would burn my study. But I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil? MESSENGER. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. BEATRICE. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! If he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured. MESSENGER. I will hold friends with you, lady. BEATRICE. Do, good friend. LEONATO. You will never run mad, niece. BEATRICE. No, not till a hot January. MESSENGER. Don Pedro is approached. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar and Others. DON PEDRO. Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. LEONATO. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your Grace, for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave. DON PEDRO. You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter. LEONATO. Her mother hath many times told me so. BENEDICK. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her? LEONATO. Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child. DON PEDRO. You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady, for you are like an honourable father. BENEDICK. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is. BEATRICE. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you. BENEDICK. What! my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living? BEATRICE. Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence. BENEDICK. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none. BEATRICE. A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. BENEDICK. God keep your Ladyship still in that mind; so some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate scratched face. BEATRICE. Scratching could not make it worse, and ’twere such a face as yours were. BENEDICK. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. BEATRICE. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours. BENEDICK. I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i’ God’s name; I have done. BEATRICE. You always end with a jade’s trick: I know you of old. DON PEDRO. That is the sum of all, Leonato: Signior Claudio, and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month, and he heartly prays some occasion may detain us longer: I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. LEONATO. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. [To Don John] Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to the Prince your brother, I owe you all duty. DON JOHN. I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank you. LEONATO. Please it your Grace lead on? DON PEDRO. Your hand, Leonato; we will go together. [Exeunt all but Benedick and Claudio.] CLAUDIO. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato? BENEDICK. I noted her not; but I looked on her. CLAUDIO. Is she not a modest young lady? BENEDICK. Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex? CLAUDIO. No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment. BENEDICK. Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise; only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. CLAUDIO. Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her. BENEDICK. Would you buy her, that you enquire after her? CLAUDIO. Can the world buy such a jewel? BENEDICK. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow, or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song? CLAUDIO. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on. BENEDICK. I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter: there’s her cousin and she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you? CLAUDIO. I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn to the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. BENEDICK. Is’t come to this, in faith? Hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Go to, i’ faith; and thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays. Re-enter Don Pedro. Look! Don Pedro is returned to seek you. DON PEDRO. What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato’s? BENEDICK. I would your Grace would constrain me to tell. DON PEDRO. I charge thee on thy allegiance. BENEDICK. You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but on my allegiance mark you this, on my allegiance: he is in love. With who? now that is your Grace’s part. Mark how short his answer is: with Hero, Leonato’s short daughter. CLAUDIO. If this were so, so were it uttered. BENEDICK. Like the old tale, my lord: ‘it is not so, nor ’twas not so; but indeed, God forbid it should be so.’ CLAUDIO. If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise. DON PEDRO. Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy. CLAUDIO. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. DON PEDRO. By my troth, I speak my thought. CLAUDIO. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. BENEDICK. And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine. CLAUDIO. That I love her, I feel. DON PEDRO. That she is worthy, I know. BENEDICK. That I neither feel how she should be loved, nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake. DON PEDRO. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty. CLAUDIO. And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will. BENEDICK. That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks; but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is,—for the which I may go the finer,—I will live a bachelor. DON PEDRO. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love. BENEDICK. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid. DON PEDRO. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. BENEDICK. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam. DON PEDRO. Well, as time shall try: ‘In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.’ BENEDICK. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set them in my forehead; and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, ‘Here is good horse to hire,’ let them signify under my sign ‘Here you may see Benedick the married man.’ CLAUDIO. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad. DON PEDRO. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly. BENEDICK. I look for an earthquake too then. DON PEDRO. Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato’s: commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation. BENEDICK. I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you— CLAUDIO. To the tuition of God: from my house, if I had it,— DON PEDRO. The sixth of July: your loving friend, Benedick. BENEDICK. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience: and so I leave you. [Exit.] CLAUDIO. My liege, your Highness now may do me good. DON PEDRO. My love is thine to teach: teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn Any hard lesson that may do thee good. CLAUDIO. Hath Leonato any son, my lord? DON PEDRO. No child but Hero; she’s his only heir. Dost thou affect her, Claudio? CLAUDIO. O! my lord, When you went onward on this ended action, I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye, That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand Than to drive liking to the name of love; But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughts Have left their places vacant, in their rooms Come thronging soft and delicate desires, All prompting me how fair young Hero is, Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars. DON PEDRO. Thou wilt be like a lover presently, And tire the hearer with a book of words. If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, And I will break with her, and with her father, And thou shalt have her. Was’t not to this end That thou began’st to twist so fine a story? CLAUDIO. How sweetly you do minister to love, That know love’s grief by his complexion! But lest my liking might too sudden seem, I would have salv’d it with a longer treatise. DON PEDRO. What need the bridge much broader than the flood? The fairest grant is the necessity. Look, what will serve is fit: ’tis once, thou lov’st, And I will fit thee with the remedy. I know we shall have revelling tonight: I will assume thy part in some disguise, And tell fair Hero I am Claudio; And in her bosom I’ll unclasp my heart, And take her hearing prisoner with the force And strong encounter of my amorous tale: Then after to her father will I break; And the conclusion is, she shall be thine. In practice let us put it presently. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. A room in Leonato’s house. Enter Leonato and Antonio, meeting. LEONATO. How now, brother? Where is my cousin your son? Hath he provided this music? ANTONIO. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of. LEONATO. Are they good? ANTONIO. As the event stamps them: but they have a good cover; they show well outward. The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the Prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance; and if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it. LEONATO. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this? ANTONIO. A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and question him yourself. LEONATO. No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it. [Several persons cross the stage.] Cousins, you know what you have to do. O! I cry you mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. Another room in Leonato’s house. Enter Don John and Conrade. CONRADE. What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out of measure sad? DON JOHN. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit. CONRADE. You should hear reason. DON JOHN. And when I have heard it, what blessings brings it? CONRADE. If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance. DON JOHN. I wonder that thou (being as thou say’st thou art, born under Saturn) goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man’s jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man’s business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour. CONRADE. Yea; but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta’en you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest. DON JOHN. I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace; and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me. CONRADE. Can you make no use of your discontent? DON JOHN. I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here? Enter Borachio. What news, Borachio? BORACHIO. I came yonder from a great supper: the Prince your brother is royally entertained by Leonato; and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage. DON JOHN. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness? BORACHIO. Marry, it is your brother’s right hand. DON JOHN. Who? the most exquisite Claudio? BORACHIO. Even he. DON JOHN. A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he? BORACHIO. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. DON JOHN. A very forward March-chick! How came you to this? BORACHIO. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the Prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the Prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio. DON JOHN. Come, come; let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me? CONRADE. To the death, my lord. DON JOHN. Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind! Shall we go to prove what’s to be done? BORACHIO. We’ll wait upon your Lordship. [Exeunt.] ACT II SCENE I. A hall in Leonato’s house. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice and others. LEONATO. Was not Count John here at supper? ANTONIO. I saw him not. BEATRICE. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after. HERO. He is of a very melancholy disposition. BEATRICE. He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid-way between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image, and says nothing; and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling. LEONATO. Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signior Benedick’s face— BEATRICE. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world if a’ could get her good will. LEONATO. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. ANTONIO. In faith, she’s too curst. BEATRICE. Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God’s sending that way; for it is said, ‘God sends a curst cow short horns;’ but to a cow too curst he sends none. LEONATO. So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns? BEATRICE. Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen. LEONATO. You may light on a husband that hath no beard. BEATRICE. What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I am not for him: therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell. LEONATO. Well then, go you into hell? BEATRICE. No; but to the gate; and there will the Devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, ‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids.’ So deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens: he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. ANTONIO. [To Hero.] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father. BEATRICE. Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please you:’— but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please me.’ LEONATO. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. BEATRICE. Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. LEONATO. Daughter, remember what I told you: if the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. BEATRICE. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time: if the Prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinquepace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance, and with his bad legs, falls into the cinquepace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. LEONATO. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. BEATRICE. I have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church by daylight. LEONATO. The revellers are entering, brother: make good room. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar, Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula and Others, masked. DON PEDRO. Lady, will you walk about with your friend? HERO. So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away. DON PEDRO. With me in your company? HERO. I may say so, when I please. DON PEDRO. And when please you to say so? HERO. When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case! DON PEDRO. My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house is Jove. HERO. Why, then, your visor should be thatch’d. DON PEDRO. Speak low, if you speak love. [Takes her aside.] BALTHASAR. Well, I would you did like me. MARGARET. So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill qualities. BALTHASAR. Which is one? MARGARET. I say my prayers aloud. BALTHASAR. I love you the better; the hearers may cry Amen. MARGARET. God match me with a good dancer! BALTHASAR. Amen. MARGARET. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk. BALTHASAR. No more words: the clerk is answered. URSULA. I know you well enough: you are Signior Antonio. ANTONIO. At a word, I am not. URSULA. I know you by the waggling of your head. ANTONIO. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. URSULA. You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he. ANTONIO. At a word, I am not. URSULA. Come, come; do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there’s an end. BEATRICE. Will you not tell me who told you so? BENEDICK. No, you shall pardon me. BEATRICE. Nor will you not tell me who you are? BENEDICK. Not now. BEATRICE. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the ‘Hundred Merry Tales.’ Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so. BENEDICK. What’s he? BEATRICE. I am sure you know him well enough. BENEDICK. Not I, believe me. BEATRICE. Did he never make you laugh? BENEDICK. I pray you, what is he? BEATRICE. Why, he is the Prince’s jester: a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders: none but libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villainy; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet: I would he had boarded me! BENEDICK. When I know the gentleman, I’ll tell him what you say. BEATRICE. Do, do: he’ll but break a comparison or two on me; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music within.] We must follow the leaders. BENEDICK. In every good thing. BEATRICE. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. [Dance. Then exeunt all but Don John, Borachio and Claudio.] DON JOHN. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains. BORACHIO. And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing. DON JOHN. Are you not Signior Benedick? CLAUDIO. You know me well; I am he. DON JOHN. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him from her; she is no equal for his birth: you may do the part of an honest man in it. CLAUDIO. How know you he loves her? DON JOHN. I heard him swear his affection. BORACHIO. So did I too; and he swore he would marry her tonight. DON JOHN. Come, let us to the banquet. [Exeunt Don John and Borachio.] CLAUDIO. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. ’Tis certain so; the Prince wooss for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love: Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. This is an accident of hourly proof, Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero! Re-enter Benedick. BENEDICK. Count Claudio? CLAUDIO. Yea, the same. BENEDICK. Come, will you go with me? CLAUDIO. Whither? BENEDICK. Even to the next willow, about your own business, Count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck, like a usurer’s chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero. CLAUDIO. I wish him joy of her. BENEDICK. Why, that’s spoken like an honest drovier: so they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince would have served you thus? CLAUDIO. I pray you, leave me. BENEDICK. Ho! now you strike like the blind man: ’twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat the post. CLAUDIO. If it will not be, I’ll leave you. [Exit.] BENEDICK. Alas! poor hurt fowl. Now will he creep into sedges. But, that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The Prince’s fool! Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it is the base though bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I’ll be revenged as I may. Re-enter Don Pedro. DON PEDRO. Now, signior, where’s the Count? Did you see him? BENEDICK. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him true, that your Grace had got the good will of this young lady; and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped. DON PEDRO. To be whipped! What’s his fault? BENEDICK. The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoy’d with finding a bird’s nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it. DON PEDRO. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer. BENEDICK. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird’s nest. DON PEDRO. I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner. BENEDICK. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly. DON PEDRO. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you. BENEDICK. O! she misused me past the endurance of a block: an oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her: my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me, that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither; so indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follow her. Re-enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero and Leonato. DON PEDRO. Look! here she comes. BENEDICK. Will your Grace command me any service to the world’s end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John’s foot; fetch you a hair off the Great Cham’s beard; do you any embassage to the Pygmies, rather than hold three words’ conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me? DON PEDRO. None, but to desire your good company. BENEDICK. O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not: I cannot endure my Lady Tongue. [Exit.] DON PEDRO. Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick. BEATRICE. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it. DON PEDRO. You have put him down, lady, you have put him down. BEATRICE. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. DON PEDRO. Why, how now, Count! wherefore are you sad? CLAUDIO. Not sad, my lord. DON PEDRO. How then? Sick? CLAUDIO. Neither, my lord. BEATRICE. The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil Count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion. DON PEDRO. I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and, his good will obtained; name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy! LEONATO. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it! BEATRICE. Speak, Count, ’tis your cue. CLAUDIO. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange. BEATRICE. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. DON PEDRO. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. BEATRICE. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. CLAUDIO. And so she doth, cousin. BEATRICE. Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband! DON PEDRO. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. BEATRICE. I would rather have one of your father’s getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them. DON PEDRO. Will you have me, lady? BEATRICE. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days: your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your Grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. DON PEDRO. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy! LEONATO. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of? BEATRICE. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your Grace’s pardon. [Exit.] DON PEDRO. By my troth, a pleasant spirited lady. LEONATO. There’s little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing. DON PEDRO. She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband. LEONATO. O! by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit. DON PEDRO. She were an excellent wife for Benedick. LEONATO. O Lord! my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad. DON PEDRO. Count Claudio, when mean you to go to church? CLAUDIO. Tomorrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites. LEONATO. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind. DON PEDRO. Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules’ labours, which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match; and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction. LEONATO. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights’ watchings. CLAUDIO. And I, my lord. DON PEDRO. And you too, gentle Hero? HERO. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. DON PEDRO. And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. Another room in Leonato’s house. Enter Don John and Borachio. DON JOHN. It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato. BORACHIO. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it. DON JOHN. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage? BORACHIO. Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me. DON JOHN. Show me briefly how. BORACHIO. I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero. DON JOHN. I remember. BORACHIO. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber window. DON JOHN. What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage? BORACHIO. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the Prince your brother; spare not to tell him, that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio,—whose estimation do you mightily hold up,—to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero. DON JOHN. What proof shall I make of that? BORACHIO. Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue? DON JOHN. Only to despite them, I will endeavour anything. BORACHIO. Go then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the Prince and Claudio, as—in love of your brother’s honour, who hath made this match, and his friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid,—that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial: offer them instances, which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber window, hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding: for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent; and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance, and all the preparation overthrown. DON JOHN. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. BORACHIO. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me. DON JOHN. I will presently go learn their day of marriage. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. Leonato’s Garden. Enter Benedick. BENEDICK. Boy! Enter a Boy. BOY. Signior? BENEDICK. In my chamber window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard. BOY. I am here already, sir. BENEDICK. I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again. [Exit Boy.] I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the Prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour. [Withdraws.] Enter Don Pedro, Leonato and Claudio, followed by Balthasar and Musicians. DON PEDRO. Come, shall we hear this music? CLAUDIO. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is, As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony! DON PEDRO. See you where Benedick hath hid himself? CLAUDIO. O! very well, my lord: the music ended, We’ll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth. DON PEDRO. Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again. BALTHASAR. O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once. DON PEDRO. It is the witness still of excellency, To put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. BALTHASAR. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes; Yet will he swear he loves. DON PEDRO. Nay, pray thee come; Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes. BALTHASAR. Note this before my notes; There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting. DON PEDRO. Why these are very crotchets that he speaks; Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music.] BENEDICK. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done. BALTHASAR [sings.] Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no mo Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. DON PEDRO. By my troth, a good song. BALTHASAR. And an ill singer, my lord. DON PEDRO. Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift. BENEDICK. [Aside] And he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it. DON PEDRO. Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for tomorrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber window. BALTHASAR. The best I can, my lord. DON PEDRO. Do so: farewell. [Exeunt Balthasar and Musicians.] Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? CLAUDIO. O! ay:—[Aside to Don Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man. LEONATO. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor. BENEDICK. [Aside] Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner? LEONATO. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection: it is past the infinite of thought. DON PEDRO. Maybe she doth but counterfeit. CLAUDIO. Faith, like enough. LEONATO. O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it. DON PEDRO. Why, what effects of passion shows she? CLAUDIO. [Aside] Bait the hook well: this fish will bite. LEONATO. What effects, my lord? She will sit you; [To Claudio] You heard my daughter tell you how. CLAUDIO. She did, indeed. DON PEDRO. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection. LEONATO. I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick. BENEDICK. [Aside] I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence. CLAUDIO. [Aside] He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up. DON PEDRO. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick? LEONATO. No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment. CLAUDIO. ’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’ LEONATO. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all. CLAUDIO. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of. LEONATO. O! when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet? CLAUDIO. That. LEONATO. O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her: ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.’ CLAUDIO. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’ LEONATO. She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true. DON PEDRO. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it. CLAUDIO. To what end? he would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse. DON PEDRO. And he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. CLAUDIO. And she is exceeding wise. DON PEDRO. In everything but in loving Benedick. LEONATO. O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. DON PEDRO. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me; I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say. LEONATO. Were it good, think you? CLAUDIO. Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. DON PEDRO. She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man,—as you know all,—hath a contemptible spirit. CLAUDIO. He is a very proper man. DON PEDRO. He hath indeed a good outward happiness. CLAUDIO. ’Fore God, and in my mind, very wise. DON PEDRO. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. CLAUDIO. And I take him to be valiant. DON PEDRO. As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear. LEONATO. If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. DON PEDRO. And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love? CLAUDIO. Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel. LEONATO. Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first. DON PEDRO. Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady. LEONATO. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready. CLAUDIO. [Aside] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. DON PEDRO. [Aside] Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio and Leonato.] BENEDICK. [Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me? why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair: ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me: by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No; the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her. Enter Beatrice. BEATRICE. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. BENEDICK. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. BEATRICE. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come. BENEDICK. You take pleasure then in the message? BEATRICE. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well. [Exit.] BENEDICK. Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture. [Exit.] ACT III SCENE I. Leonato’s Garden. Enter Hero, Margaret and Ursula. HERO. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour; There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice Proposing with the Prince and Claudio: Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursala Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us, And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where honey-suckles, ripen’d by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter; like favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her, To listen our propose. This is thy office; Bear thee well in it and leave us alone. MARGARET. I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently. [Exit.] HERO. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedick: When I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to thee must be how Benedick Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, That only wounds by hearsay. Enter Beatrice behind. Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference. URSULA. The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait: So angle we for Beatrice; who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Fear you not my part of the dialogue. HERO. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. [They advance to the bower.] No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock. URSULA. But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely? HERO. So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord. URSULA. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam? HERO. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it. URSULA. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon? HERO. O god of love! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man; But Nature never fram’d a woman’s heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice; Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Values itself so highly, that to her All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endear’d. URSULA. Sure I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. HERO. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d, But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick, Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; If low, an agate very vilely cut; If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. So turns she every man the wrong side out, And never gives to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. URSULA. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. HERO. No; not to be so odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, She would mock me into air: O! she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling. URSULA. Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say. HERO. No; rather I will go to Benedick, And counsel him to fight against his passion. And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with. One doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking. URSULA. O! do not do your cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment,— Having so swift and excellent a wit As she is priz’d to have,—as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. HERO. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio. URSULA. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument and valour, Goes foremost in report through Italy. HERO. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name. URSULA. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. When are you married, madam? HERO. Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, go in: I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel Which is the best to furnish me tomorrow. URSULA. She’s lim’d, I warrant you, We have caught her, madam. HERO. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps: Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. [Exeunt Hero and Ursula.] BEATRICE. [Advancing.] What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit.] SCENE II. A Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick and Leonato. DON PEDRO. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon. CLAUDIO. I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me. DON PEDRO. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage, as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth; he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks. BENEDICK. Gallants, I am not as I have been. LEONATO. So say I: methinks you are sadder. CLAUDIO. I hope he be in love. DON PEDRO. Hang him, truant! there’s no true drop of blood in him to be truly touched with love. If he be sad, he wants money. BENEDICK. I have the tooth-ache. DON PEDRO. Draw it. BENEDICK. Hang it. CLAUDIO. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards. DON PEDRO. What! sigh for the tooth-ache? LEONATO. Where is but a humour or a worm? BENEDICK. Well, everyone can master a grief but he that has it. CLAUDIO. Yet say I, he is in love. DON PEDRO. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as to be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman tomorrow; or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is. CLAUDIO. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs: a’ brushes his hat a mornings; what should that bode? DON PEDRO. Hath any man seen him at the barber’s? CLAUDIO. No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis balls. LEONATO. Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard. DON PEDRO. Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that? CLAUDIO. That’s as much as to say the sweet youth’s in love. DON PEDRO. The greatest note of it is his melancholy. CLAUDIO. And when was he wont to wash his face? DON PEDRO. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him. CLAUDIO. Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute-string, and now governed by stops. DON PEDRO. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude he is in love. CLAUDIO. Nay, but I know who loves him. DON PEDRO. That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not. CLAUDIO. Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him. DON PEDRO. She shall be buried with her face upwards. BENEDICK. Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ache. Old signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. [Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.] DON PEDRO. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice. CLAUDIO. ’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet. Enter Don John. DON JOHN. My lord and brother, God save you! DON PEDRO. Good den, brother. DON JOHN. If your leisure served, I would speak with you. DON PEDRO. In private? DON JOHN. If it please you; yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him. DON PEDRO. What’s the matter? DON JOHN. [To Claudio.] Means your lordship to be married tomorrow? DON PEDRO. You know he does. DON JOHN. I know not that, when he knows what I know. CLAUDIO. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it. DON JOHN. You may think I love you not: let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage; surely suit ill-spent and labour ill bestowed! DON PEDRO. Why, what’s the matter? DON JOHN. I came hither to tell you; and circumstances shortened,—for she has been too long a talking of,—the lady is disloyal. CLAUDIO. Who, Hero? DON JOHN. Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every man’s Hero. CLAUDIO. Disloyal? DON JOHN. The word’s too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say, she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me tonight, you shall see her chamber window entered, even the night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, tomorrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind. CLAUDIO. May this be so? DON PEDRO. I will not think it. DON JOHN. If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly. CLAUDIO. If I see anything tonight why I should not marry her tomorrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her. DON PEDRO. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. DON JOHN. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself. DON PEDRO. O day untowardly turned! CLAUDIO. O mischief strangely thwarting! DON JOHN. O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the sequel. [Exeunt.] Scene III. A Street. Enter Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch. DOGBERRY. Are you good men and true? VERGES. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. DOGBERRY. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince’s watch. VERGES. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. DOGBERRY. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? FIRST WATCH. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. DOGBERRY. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is the gift of Fortune; but to write and read comes by Nature. SECOND WATCH. Both which, Master Constable,— DOGBERRY. You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name. SECOND WATCH. How, if a’ will not stand? DOGBERRY. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. VERGES. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince’s subjects. DOGBERRY. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince’s subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. SECOND WATCH. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch. DOGBERRY. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. SECOND WATCH. How if they will not? DOGBERRY. Why then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for. SECOND WATCH. Well, sir. DOGBERRY. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. SECOND WATCH. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? DOGBERRY. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company. VERGES. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. DOGBERRY. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him. VERGES. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. SECOND WATCH. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us? DOGBERRY. Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats. VERGES. ’Tis very true. DOGBERRY. This is the end of the charge. You constable, are to present the Prince’s own person: if you meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him. VERGES. Nay, by’r lady, that I think, a’ cannot. DOGBERRY. Five shillings to one on’t, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without the Prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. VERGES. By’r lady, I think it be so. DOGBERRY. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour. SECOND WATCH. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church bench till two, and then all to bed. DOGBERRY. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato’s door; for the wedding being there tomorrow, there is a great coil tonight. Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech you. [Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.] Enter Borachio and Conrade. BORACHIO. What, Conrade! WATCH. [Aside] Peace! stir not. BORACHIO. Conrade, I say! CONRADE. Here, man. I am at thy elbow. BORACHIO. Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow. CONRADE. I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy tale. BORACHIO. Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee. WATCH. [Aside] Some treason, masters; yet stand close. BORACHIO. Therefore know, I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats. CONRADE. Is it possible that any villainy should be so dear? BORACHIO. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villainy should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will. CONRADE. I wonder at it. BORACHIO. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man. CONRADE. Yes, it is apparel. BORACHIO. I mean, the fashion. CONRADE. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. BORACHIO. Tush! I may as well say the fool’s the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is? WATCH. [Aside] I know that Deformed; a’ has been a vile thief this seven years; a’ goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name. BORACHIO. Didst thou not hear somebody? CONRADE. No: ’twas the vane on the house. BORACHIO. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometime fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reechy painting; sometime like god Bel’s priests in the old church window; sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club? CONRADE. All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion? BORACHIO. Not so neither; but know, that I have tonight wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman, by the name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress’ chamber window, bids me a thousand times good night,—I tell this tale vilely:—I should first tell thee how the Prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter. CONRADE. And thought they Margaret was Hero? BORACHIO. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my master, knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villainy, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o’er night, and send her home again without a husband. FIRST WATCH. We charge you in the Prince’s name, stand! SECOND WATCH. Call up the right Master Constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth. FIRST WATCH. And one Deformed is one of them: I know him, a’ wears a lock. CONRADE. Masters, masters! SECOND WATCH. You’ll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you. CONRADE. Masters,— FIRST WATCH. Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us. BORACHIO. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men’s bills. CONRADE. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we’ll obey you. [Exeunt.] Scene IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Hero, Margaret and Ursula. HERO. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise. URSULA. I will, lady. HERO. And bid her come hither. URSULA. Well. [Exit.] MARGARET. Troth, I think your other rebato were better. HERO. No, pray thee, good Meg, I’ll wear this. MARGARET. By my troth’s not so good; and I warrant your cousin will say so. HERO. My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another: I’ll wear none but this. MARGARET. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s a most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan’s gown that they praise so. HERO. O! that exceeds, they say. MARGARET. By my troth ’s but a night-gown in respect of yours: cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts round, underborne with a bluish tinsel; but for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on’t. HERO. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy. MARGARET. ’Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man. HERO. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed? MARGARET. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, saving your reverence, ‘a husband:’ an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I’ll offend nobody. Is there any harm in ‘the heavier for a husband’? None, I think, and it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise ’tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes. Enter Beatrice. HERO. Good morrow, coz. BEATRICE. Good morrow, sweet Hero. HERO. Why, how now? do you speak in the sick tune? BEATRICE. I am out of all other tune, methinks. MARGARET. Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love’; that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it. BEATRICE. Ye, light o’ love with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barnes. MARGARET. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels. BEATRICE. ’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho! MARGARET. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband? BEATRICE. For the letter that begins them all, H. MARGARET. Well, and you be not turned Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star. BEATRICE. What means the fool, trow? MARGARET. Nothing I; but God send everyone their heart’s desire! HERO. These gloves the Count sent me; they are an excellent perfume. BEATRICE. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell. MARGARET. A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold. BEATRICE. O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension? MARGARET. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely! BEATRICE. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick. MARGARET. Get you some of this distilled Carduus benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm. HERO. There thou prick’st her with a thistle. BEATRICE. Benedictus! why benedictus? you have some moral in this benedictus. MARGARET. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy thistle. You may think, perchance, that I think you are in love: nay, by’r Lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; nor, indeed, I cannot think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man: he swore he would never marry; and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging: and how you may be converted, I know not; but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do. BEATRICE. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps? MARGARET. Not a false gallop. Re-enter Ursula. URSULA. Madam, withdraw: the Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church. HERO. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula. [Exeunt.] Scene V. Another Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato and Dogberry and Verges. LEONATO. What would you with me, honest neighbour? DOGBERRY. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that decerns you nearly. LEONATO. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me. DOGBERRY. Marry, this it is, sir. VERGES. Yes, in truth it is, sir. LEONATO. What is it, my good friends? DOGBERRY. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. VERGES. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man and no honester than I. DOGBERRY. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges. LEONATO. Neighbours, you are tedious. DOGBERRY. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke’s officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. LEONATO. All thy tediousness on me! ah? DOGBERRY. Yea, and ’twere a thousand pound more than ’tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship, as of any man in the city, and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. VERGES. And so am I. LEONATO. I would fain know what you have to say. VERGES. Marry, sir, our watch tonight, excepting your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. DOGBERRY. A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they say, ‘when the age is in, the wit is out.’ God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i’ faith, neighbour Verges: well, God’s a good man; and two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i’ faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped: all men are not alike; alas! good neighbour. LEONATO. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you. DOGBERRY. Gifts that God gives. LEONATO. I must leave you. DOGBERRY. One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. LEONATO. Take their examination yourself, and bring it me: I am now in great haste, as may appear unto you. DOGBERRY. It shall be suffigance. LEONATO. Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. LEONATO. I’ll wait upon them: I am ready. [Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.] DOGBERRY. Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men. VERGES. And we must do it wisely. DOGBERRY. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here’s that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the gaol. [Exeunt.] ACT IV SCENE I. The Inside of a Church. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Francis, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice &c. LEONATO. Come, Friar Francis, be brief: only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards. FRIAR. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady? CLAUDIO. No. LEONATO. To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her. FRIAR. Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count? HERO. I do. FRIAR. If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it. CLAUDIO. Know you any, Hero? HERO. None, my lord. FRIAR. Know you any, Count? LEONATO. I dare make his answer; none. CLAUDIO. O! what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do! BENEDICK. How now! Interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as ah! ha! he! CLAUDIO. Stand thee by, Friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid, your daughter? LEONATO. As freely, son, as God did give her me. CLAUDIO. And what have I to give you back whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift? DON PEDRO. Nothing, unless you render her again. CLAUDIO. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again: Give not this rotten orange to your friend; She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold! how like a maid she blushes here. O! what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal. Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid, By these exterior shows? But she is none: She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. LEONATO. What do you mean, my lord? CLAUDIO. Not to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. LEONATO. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity,— CLAUDIO. I know what you would say: if I have known her, You will say she did embrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the forehand sin: No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large; But as a brother to his sister show’d Bashful sincerity and comely love. HERO. And seem’d I ever otherwise to you? CLAUDIO. Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it: You seem to me as Dian in her orb, As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals That rage in savage sensuality. HERO. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide? LEONATO. Sweet Prince, why speak not you? DON PEDRO. What should I speak? I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale. LEONATO. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? DON JOHN. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. BENEDICK. This looks not like a nuptial. HERO. True! O God! CLAUDIO. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother? Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own? LEONATO. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? CLAUDIO. Let me but move one question to your daughter, And by that fatherly and kindly power That you have in her, bid her answer truly. LEONATO. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. HERO. O, God defend me! how am I beset! What kind of catechizing call you this? CLAUDIO. To make you answer truly to your name. HERO. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach? CLAUDIO. Marry, that can Hero: Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue. What man was he talk’d with you yesternight Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one? Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. HERO. I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord. DON PEDRO. Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon my honour, Myself, my brother, and this grieved Count, Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night, Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window; Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, Confess’d the vile encounters they have had A thousand times in secret. DON JOHN. Fie, fie! they are not to be nam’d, my lord, Not to be spoke of; There is not chastity enough in language Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. CLAUDIO. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been plac’d About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell, Thou pure impiety, and impious purity! For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love, And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be gracious. LEONATO. Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me? [Hero swoons.] BEATRICE. Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down? DON JOHN. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John and Claudio.] BENEDICK. How doth the lady? BEATRICE. Dead, I think! Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar! LEONATO. O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand: Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish’d for. BEATRICE. How now, cousin Hero? FRIAR. Have comfort, lady. LEONATO. Dost thou look up? FRIAR. Yea; wherefore should she not? LEONATO. Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny The story that is printed in her blood? Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes; For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one? Chid I for that at frugal Nature’s frame? O! one too much by thee. Why had I one? Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes? Why had I not with charitable hand Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates, Who smirched thus, and mir’d with infamy, I might have said, ‘No part of it is mine; This shame derives itself from unknown loins?’ But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d, And mine that I was proud on, mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh. BENEDICK. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder, I know not what to say. BEATRICE. O! on my soul, my cousin is belied! BENEDICK. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? BEATRICE. No, truly, not; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. LEONATO. Confirm’d, confirm’d! O! that is stronger made, Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron. Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie, Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foulness, Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. FRIAR. Hear me a little; For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady: I have mark’d A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness bear away those blushes; And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire, To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust not my reading nor my observations, Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenure of my book; trust not my age, My reverence, calling, nor divinity, If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error. LEONATO. Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that she will not add to her damnation A sin of perjury: she not denies it. Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness? FRIAR. Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of? HERO. They know that do accuse me, I know none; If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy! O, my father! Prove you that any man with me convers’d At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain’d the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. FRIAR. There is some strange misprision in the princes. BENEDICK. Two of them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. LEONATO. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind, Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly. FRIAR. Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the princes left for dead; Let her awhile be secretly kept in, And publish it that she is dead indeed: Maintain a mourning ostentation; And on your family’s old monument Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites That appertain unto a burial. LEONATO. What shall become of this? What will this do? FRIAR. Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf Change slander to remorse; that is some good. But not for that dream I on this strange course, But on this travail look for greater birth. She dying, as it must be so maintain’d, Upon the instant that she was accus’d, Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d Of every hearer; for it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio: When he shall hear she died upon his words, The idea of her life shall sweetly creep Into his study of imagination, And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit, More moving, delicate, and full of life Into the eye and prospect of his soul, Than when she liv’d indeed: then shall he mourn,— If ever love had interest in his liver,— And wish he had not so accused her, No, though he thought his accusation true. Let this be so, and doubt not but success Will fashion the event in better shape Than I can lay it down in likelihood. But if all aim but this be levell’d false, The supposition of the lady’s death Will quench the wonder of her infamy: And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,— As best befits her wounded reputation,— In some reclusive and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. BENEDICK. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you: And though you know my inwardness and love Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this As secretly and justly as your soul Should with your body. LEONATO. Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me. FRIAR. ’Tis well consented: presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and endure. [Exeunt Friar, Hero and Leonato.] BENEDICK. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while? BEATRICE. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. BENEDICK. I will not desire that. BEATRICE. You have no reason; I do it freely. BENEDICK. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. BEATRICE. Ah! how much might the man deserve of me that would right her. BENEDICK. Is there any way to show such friendship? BEATRICE. A very even way, but no such friend. BENEDICK. May a man do it? BEATRICE. It is a man’s office, but not yours. BENEDICK. I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange? BEATRICE. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin. BENEDICK. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. BEATRICE. Do not swear by it, and eat it. BENEDICK. I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. BEATRICE. Will you not eat your word? BENEDICK. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee. BEATRICE. Why then, God forgive me! BENEDICK. What offence, sweet Beatrice? BEATRICE. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you. BENEDICK. And do it with all thy heart. BEATRICE. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. BENEDICK. Come, bid me do anything for thee. BEATRICE. Kill Claudio. BENEDICK. Ha! not for the wide world. BEATRICE. You kill me to deny it. Farewell. BENEDICK. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. BEATRICE. I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go. BENEDICK. Beatrice,— BEATRICE. In faith, I will go. BENEDICK. We’ll be friends first. BEATRICE. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. BENEDICK. Is Claudio thine enemy? BEATRICE. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O! that I were a man. What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. BENEDICK. Hear me, Beatrice,— BEATRICE. Talk with a man out at a window! a proper saying! BENEDICK. Nay, but Beatrice,— BEATRICE. Sweet Hero! she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone. BENEDICK. Beat— BEATRICE. Princes and Counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O! that I were a man for his sake, or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving. BENEDICK. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee. BEATRICE. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it. BENEDICK. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero? BEATRICE. Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul. BENEDICK. Enough! I am engaged, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead; and so, farewell. [Exeunt.] Scene II. A Prison. Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio. DOGBERRY. Is our whole dissembly appeared? VERGES. O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton. SEXTON. Which be the malefactors? DOGBERRY. Marry, that am I and my partner. VERGES. Nay, that’s certain: we have the exhibition to examine. SEXTON. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master Constable. DOGBERRY. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend? BORACHIO. Borachio. DOGBERRY. Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah? CONRADE. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. DOGBERRY. Write down Master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God? BOTH. Yea, sir, we hope. DOGBERRY. Write down that they hope they serve God: and write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves? CONRADE. Marry, sir, we say we are none. DOGBERRY. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. BORACHIO. Sir, I say to you we are none. DOGBERRY. Well, stand aside. Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none? SEXTON. Master Constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. DOGBERRY. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the Prince’s name, accuse these men. FIRST WATCH. This man said, sir, that Don John, the Prince’s brother, was a villain. DOGBERRY. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a Prince’s brother villain. BORACHIO. Master Constable,— DOGBERRY. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise thee. SEXTON. What heard you him say else? SECOND WATCH. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. DOGBERRY. Flat burglary as ever was committed. VERGES. Yea, by the mass, that it is. SEXTON. What else, fellow? FIRST WATCH. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. DOGBERRY. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. SEXTON. What else? SECOND WATCH. This is all. SEXTON. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away: Hero was in this manner accused, in this manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before and show him their examination. [Exit.] DOGBERRY. Come, let them be opinioned. VERGES. Let them be in the hands— CONRADE. Off, coxcomb! DOGBERRY. God’s my life! where’s the sexton? let him write down the Prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet! CONRADE. Away! you are an ass; you are an ass. DOGBERRY. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass! [Exeunt.] ACT V SCENE I. Before Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato and Antonio. ANTONIO. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself. LEONATO. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve: give not me counsel; Nor let no comforter delight mine ear But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine: Bring me a father that so lov’d his child, Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine, And bid him speak of patience; Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, And let it answer every strain for strain, As thus for thus and such a grief for such, In every lineament, branch, shape, and form: If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard; Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem’ when he should groan, Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me, And I of him will gather patience. But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words. No, no; ’tis all men’s office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement. ANTONIO. Therein do men from children nothing differ. LEONATO. I pray thee peace! I will be flesh and blood; For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods And made a push at chance and sufferance. ANTONIO. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself; Make those that do offend you suffer too. LEONATO. There thou speak’st reason: nay, I will do so. My soul doth tell me Hero is belied; And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince, And all of them that thus dishonour her. ANTONIO. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio. DON PEDRO. Good den, good den. CLAUDIO. Good day to both of you. LEONATO. Hear you, my lords,— DON PEDRO. We have some haste, Leonato. LEONATO. Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord: Are you so hasty now?—well, all is one. DON PEDRO. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man. ANTONIO. If he could right himself with quarrelling, Some of us would lie low. CLAUDIO. Who wrongs him? LEONATO. Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou. Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; I fear thee not. CLAUDIO. Marry, beshrew my hand, If it should give your age such cause of fear. In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. LEONATO. Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me: I speak not like a dotard nor a fool, As, under privilege of age, to brag What I have done being young, or what would do, Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head, Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me That I am forc’d to lay my reverence by, And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days, Do challenge thee to trial of a man. I say thou hast belied mine innocent child: Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, And she lies buried with her ancestors; O! in a tomb where never scandal slept, Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villainy! CLAUDIO. My villainy? LEONATO. Thine, Claudio; thine, I say. DON PEDRO. You say not right, old man. LEONATO. My lord, my lord, I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare, Despite his nice fence and his active practice, His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. CLAUDIO. Away! I will not have to do with you. LEONATO. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child; If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. ANTONIO. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed: But that’s no matter; let him kill one first: Win me and wear me; let him answer me. Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me. Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence; Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. LEONATO. Brother,— ANTONIO. Content yourself. God knows I lov’d my niece; And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains, That dare as well answer a man indeed As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops! LEONATO. Brother Anthony,— ANTONIO. Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple, Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, Go antickly, show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all! LEONATO. But, brother Anthony,— ANTONIO. Come, ’tis no matter: Do not you meddle, let me deal in this. DON PEDRO. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience. My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death; But, on my honour, she was charg’d with nothing But what was true and very full of proof. LEONATO. My lord, my lord— DON PEDRO. I will not hear you. LEONATO. No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.— ANTONIO. And shall, or some of us will smart for it. [Exeunt Leonato and Antonio.] Enter Benedick. DON PEDRO. See, see; here comes the man we went to seek. CLAUDIO. Now, signior, what news? BENEDICK. Good day, my lord. DON PEDRO. Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray. CLAUDIO. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth. DON PEDRO. Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. BENEDICK. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both. CLAUDIO. We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit? BENEDICK. It is in my scabbard; shall I draw it? DON PEDRO. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side? CLAUDIO. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us. DON PEDRO. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry? CLAUDIO. What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. BENEDICK. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject. CLAUDIO. Nay then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross. DON PEDRO. By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed. CLAUDIO. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. BENEDICK. Shall I speak a word in your ear? CLAUDIO. God bless me from a challenge! BENEDICK. [Aside to Claudio.] You are a villain, I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you. CLAUDIO. Well I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. DON PEDRO. What, a feast, a feast? CLAUDIO. I’ faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf’s-head and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too? BENEDICK. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily. DON PEDRO. I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit. ‘True,’ says she, ‘a fine little one.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘a great wit.’ ‘Right,’ said she, ‘a great gross one.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘a good wit.’ ‘Just,’ said she, ‘it hurts nobody.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘the gentleman is wise.’ ‘Certain,’ said she, ‘a wise gentleman.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘he hath the tongues.’ ‘That I believe’ said she, ‘for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning: there’s a double tongue; there’s two tongues.’ Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy particular virtues; yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy. CLAUDIO. For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not. DON PEDRO. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man’s daughter told us all. CLAUDIO. All, all; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden. DON PEDRO. But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the sensible Benedick’s head? CLAUDIO. Yea, and text underneath, ‘Here dwells Benedick the married man!’ BENEDICK. Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour; you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company. Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina: you have, among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lack-beard there, he and I shall meet; and till then, peace be with him. [Exit.] DON PEDRO. He is in earnest. CLAUDIO. In most profound earnest; and, I’ll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. DON PEDRO. And hath challenged thee? CLAUDIO. Most sincerely. DON PEDRO. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit! CLAUDIO. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man. DON PEDRO. But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled? Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio. DOGBERRY. Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to. DON PEDRO. How now! two of my brother’s men bound! Borachio, one! CLAUDIO. Hearken after their offence, my lord. DON PEDRO. Officers, what offence have these men done? DOGBERRY. Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves. DON PEDRO. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge? CLAUDIO. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited. DON PEDRO. Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? This learned constable is too cunning to be understood. What’s your offence? BORACHIO. Sweet Prince, let me go no farther to mine answer: do you hear me, and let this Count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light; who, in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero’s garments; how you disgraced her, when you should marry her. My villainy they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master’s false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. DON PEDRO. Runs not this speech like iron through your blood? CLAUDIO. I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it. DON PEDRO. But did my brother set thee on to this? BORACHIO. Yea; and paid me richly for the practice of it. DON PEDRO. He is compos’d and fram’d of treachery: And fled he is upon this villainy. CLAUDIO. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I lov’d it first. DOGBERRY. Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. VERGES. Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too. Re-enter Leonato, Antonio and the Sexton. LEONATO. Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes, That, when I note another man like him, I may avoid him. Which of these is he? BORACHIO. If you would know your wronger, look on me. LEONATO. Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d Mine innocent child? BORACHIO. Yea, even I alone. LEONATO. No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself: Here stand a pair of honourable men; A third is fled, that had a hand in it. I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death: Record it with your high and worthy deeds. ’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it. CLAUDIO. I know not how to pray your patience; Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not But in mistaking. DON PEDRO. By my soul, nor I: And yet, to satisfy this good old man, I would bend under any heavy weight That he’ll enjoin me to. LEONATO. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; That were impossible; but, I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How innocent she died; and if your love Can labour aught in sad invention, Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb, And sing it to her bones: sing it tonight. Tomorrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my son-in-law, Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter, Almost the copy of my child that’s dead, And she alone is heir to both of us: Give her the right you should have given her cousin, And so dies my revenge. CLAUDIO. O noble sir, Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me! I do embrace your offer; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio. LEONATO. Tomorrow then I will expect your coming; Tonight I take my leave. This naughty man Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong, Hir’d to it by your brother. BORACHIO. No, by my soul she was not; Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me; But always hath been just and virtuous In anything that I do know by her. DOGBERRY. Moreover, sir,—which, indeed, is not under white and black,— this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God’s sake. Pray you, examine him upon that point. LEONATO. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. DOGBERRY. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth, and I praise God for you. LEONATO. There’s for thy pains. DOGBERRY. God save the foundation! LEONATO. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. DOGBERRY. I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well; God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour. [Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.] LEONATO. Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell. ANTONIO. Farewell, my lords: we look for you tomorrow. DON PEDRO. We will not fail. CLAUDIO. Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero. [Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.] LEONATO. [To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. Leonato’s Garden. Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting. BENEDICK. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice. MARGARET. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty? BENEDICK. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it. MARGARET. To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs? BENEDICK. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches. MARGARET. And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not. BENEDICK. A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers. MARGARET. Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own. BENEDICK. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids. MARGARET. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. BENEDICK. And therefore will come. [Exit Margaret.] The god of love, That sits above, And knows me, and knows me, How pitiful I deserve,— I mean, in singing: but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rime; I have tried: I can find out no rime to ‘lady’ but ‘baby’, an innocent rime; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn’, a hard rime; for ‘school’, ‘fool’, a babbling rime; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a riming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. Enter Beatrice. Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? BEATRICE. Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me. BENEDICK. O, stay but till then! BEATRICE. ‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio. BENEDICK. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee. BEATRICE. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed. BENEDICK. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me? BEATRICE. For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me? BENEDICK. ‘Suffer love,’ a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will. BEATRICE. In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates. BENEDICK. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. BEATRICE. It appears not in this confession: there’s not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself. BENEDICK. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps. BEATRICE. And how long is that think you? BENEDICK. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise,—if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,—to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin? BEATRICE. Very ill. BENEDICK. And how do you? BEATRICE. Very ill too. BENEDICK. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. Enter Ursula. URSULA. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the Prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently? BEATRICE. Will you go hear this news, signior? BENEDICK. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’s. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. The Inside of a Church. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio and Attendants, with music and tapers. CLAUDIO. Is this the monument of Leonato? A LORD. It is, my lord. CLAUDIO. [Reads from a scroll.] Epitaph. Done to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies: Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, Gives her fame which never dies. So the life that died with shame Lives in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there upon the tomb, Praising her when I am dumb. Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn. Song. Pardon, goddess of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go. Midnight, assist our moan; Help us to sigh and groan, Heavily, heavily: Graves, yawn and yield your dead, Till death be uttered, Heavily, heavily. CLAUDIO. Now, unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I do this rite. DON PEDRO. Good morrow, masters: put your torches out. The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy East with spots of grey. Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well. CLAUDIO. Good morrow, masters: each his several way. DON PEDRO. Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds; And then to Leonato’s we will go. CLAUDIO. And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s, Than this for whom we rend’red up this woe! [Exeunt.] SCENE IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis and Hero. FRIAR. Did I not tell you she was innocent? LEONATO. So are the Prince and Claudio, who accus’d her Upon the error that you heard debated: But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question. ANTONIO. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. BENEDICK. And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. LEONATO. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, And when I send for you, come hither mask’d: The Prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour To visit me. [Exeunt Ladies.] You know your office, brother; You must be father to your brother’s daughter, And give her to young Claudio. ANTONIO. Which I will do with confirm’d countenance. BENEDICK. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think. FRIAR. To do what, signior? BENEDICK. To bind me, or undo me; one of them. Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. LEONATO. That eye my daughter lent her. ’Tis most true. BENEDICK. And I do with an eye of love requite her. LEONATO. The sight whereof I think, you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince. But what’s your will? BENEDICK. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical: But, for my will, my will is your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d In the state of honourable marriage: In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. LEONATO. My heart is with your liking. FRIAR. And my help. Here comes the Prince and Claudio. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, with Attendants. DON PEDRO. Good morrow to this fair assembly. LEONATO. Good morrow, Prince; good morrow, Claudio: We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d Today to marry with my brother’s daughter? CLAUDIO. I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope. LEONATO. Call her forth, brother: here’s the friar ready. [Exit Antonio.] DON PEDRO. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness? CLAUDIO. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. Tush! fear not, man, we’ll tip thy horns with gold, And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Jove, When he would play the noble beast in love. BENEDICK. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low: And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow, And got a calf in that same noble feat, Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. CLAUDIO. For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings. Re-enter Antonio, with the ladies masked. Which is the lady I must seize upon? ANTONIO. This same is she, and I do give you her. CLAUDIO. Why then, she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face. LEONATO. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar, and swear to marry her. CLAUDIO. Give me your hand: before this holy friar, I am your husband, if you like of me. HERO. And when I liv’d, I was your other wife: [Unmasking.] And when you lov’d, you were my other husband. CLAUDIO. Another Hero! HERO. Nothing certainer: One Hero died defil’d, but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid. DON PEDRO. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! LEONATO. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d. FRIAR. All this amazement can I qualify: When after that the holy rites are ended, I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death: Meantime, let wonder seem familiar, And to the chapel let us presently. BENEDICK. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice? BEATRICE. [Unmasking.] I answer to that name. What is your will? BENEDICK. Do not you love me? BEATRICE. Why, no; no more than reason. BENEDICK. Why, then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio Have been deceived; for they swore you did. BEATRICE. Do not you love me? BENEDICK. Troth, no; no more than reason. BEATRICE. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula, Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did. BENEDICK. They swore that you were almost sick for me. BEATRICE. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me. BENEDICK. ’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me? BEATRICE. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. LEONATO. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. CLAUDIO. And I’ll be sworn upon ’t that he loves her; For here’s a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion’d to Beatrice. HERO. And here’s another, Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick. BENEDICK. A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. BEATRICE. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. BENEDICK. Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.] DON PEDRO. How dost thou, Benedick, the married man? BENEDICK. I’ll tell thee what, Prince; a college of witcrackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No; if man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it, for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin. CLAUDIO. I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee. BENEDICK. Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels. LEONATO. We’ll have dancing afterward. BENEDICK. First, of my word; therefore play, music! Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverent than one tipped with horn. Enter Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight, And brought with armed men back to Messina. BENEDICK. Think not on him till tomorrow: I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers! [Dance. Exeunt.] THE TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE Contents ACT I Scene I. Venice. A street Scene II. Venice. Another street Scene III. Venice. A council chamber ACT II Scene I. A seaport in Cyprus. A Platform Scene II. A street Scene III. A Hall in the Castle ACT III Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle Scene III. Cyprus. The Garden of the Castle Scene IV. Cyprus. Before the Castle ACT IV Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle Scene III. Cyprus. Another Room in the Castle ACT V Scene I. Cyprus. A Street Scene II. Cyprus. A Bedchamber in the castle Dramatis Personæ DUKE OF VENICE BRABANTIO, a Senator of Venice and Desdemona’s father Other Senators GRATIANO, Brother to Brabantio LODOVICO, Kinsman to Brabantio OTHELLO, a noble Moor in the service of Venice CASSIO, his Lieutenant IAGO, his Ancient MONTANO, Othello’s predecessor in the government of Cyprus RODERIGO, a Venetian Gentleman CLOWN, Servant to Othello DESDEMONA, Daughter to Brabantio and Wife to Othello EMILIA, Wife to Iago BIANCA, Mistress to Cassio Officers, Gentlemen, Messenger, Musicians, Herald, Sailor, Attendants, &c. SCENE: The First Act in Venice; during the rest of the Play at a Seaport in Cyprus. ACT I SCENE I. Venice. A street. Enter Roderigo and Iago. RODERIGO. Tush, never tell me, I take it much unkindly That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse, As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this. IAGO. ’Sblood, but you will not hear me. If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me. RODERIGO. Thou told’st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate. IAGO. Despise me if I do not. Three great ones of the city, In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, Off-capp’d to him; and by the faith of man, I know my price, I am worth no worse a place. But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, Evades them, with a bombast circumstance, Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war: And in conclusion, Nonsuits my mediators: for “Certes,” says he, “I have already chose my officer.” And what was he? Forsooth, a great arithmetician, One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife, That never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows More than a spinster, unless the bookish theoric, Wherein the toged consuls can propose As masterly as he: mere prattle without practice Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election, And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds, Christian and heathen, must be belee’d and calm’d By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster, He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, And I, God bless the mark, his Moorship’s ancient. RODERIGO. By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman. IAGO. Why, there’s no remedy. ’Tis the curse of service, Preferment goes by letter and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. Now sir, be judge yourself Whether I in any just term am affin’d To love the Moor. RODERIGO. I would not follow him, then. IAGO. O, sir, content you. I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass, For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d. Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are Who, trimm’d in forms, and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves, And throwing but shows of service on their lords, Do well thrive by them, and when they have lin’d their coats, Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul, And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago: In following him, I follow but myself. Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In complement extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am. RODERIGO. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, If he can carry’t thus! IAGO. Call up her father, Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen, And though he in a fertile climate dwell, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, Yet throw such changes of vexation on’t, As it may lose some color. RODERIGO. Here is her father’s house, I’ll call aloud. IAGO. Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities. RODERIGO. What ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho! IAGO. Awake! what ho, Brabantio! Thieves, thieves! Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags! Thieves, thieves! Brabantio appears above at a window. BRABANTIO. What is the reason of this terrible summons? What is the matter there? RODERIGO. Signior, is all your family within? IAGO. Are your doors locked? BRABANTIO. Why, wherefore ask you this? IAGO. Zounds, sir, you’re robb’d, for shame put on your gown, Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul; Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise, Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you: Arise, I say. BRABANTIO. What, have you lost your wits? RODERIGO. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice? BRABANTIO. Not I. What are you? RODERIGO. My name is Roderigo. BRABANTIO. The worser welcome. I have charg’d thee not to haunt about my doors; In honest plainness thou hast heard me say My daughter is not for thee; and now in madness, Being full of supper and distempering draughts, Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come To start my quiet. RODERIGO. Sir, sir, sir,— BRABANTIO. But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee. RODERIGO. Patience, good sir. BRABANTIO. What tell’st thou me of robbing? This is Venice. My house is not a grange. RODERIGO. Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you. IAGO. Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service, and you think we are ruffians, you’ll have your daughter cover’d with a Barbary horse; you’ll have your nephews neigh to you; you’ll have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans. BRABANTIO. What profane wretch art thou? IAGO. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs. BRABANTIO. Thou art a villain. IAGO. You are a senator. BRABANTIO. This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Roderigo. RODERIGO. Sir, I will answer anything. But I beseech you, If ’t be your pleasure, and most wise consent, (As partly I find it is) that your fair daughter, At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night, Transported with no worse nor better guard, But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor: If this be known to you, and your allowance, We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs. But if you know not this, my manners tell me, We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe That from the sense of all civility, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence. Your daughter (if you have not given her leave) I say again, hath made a gross revolt, Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself: If she be in her chamber or your house, Let loose on me the justice of the state For thus deluding you. BRABANTIO. Strike on the tinder, ho! Give me a taper! Call up all my people! This accident is not unlike my dream, Belief of it oppresses me already. Light, I say, light! [_Exit from above._] IAGO. Farewell; for I must leave you: It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place To be produc’d, as if I stay I shall, Against the Moor. For I do know the state, However this may gall him with some check, Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s embark’d With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls, Another of his fathom they have none To lead their business. In which regard, Though I do hate him as I do hell pains, Yet, for necessity of present life, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him, Lead to the Sagittary the raised search, And there will I be with him. So, farewell. [_Exit._] Enter Brabantio with Servants and torches. BRABANTIO. It is too true an evil. Gone she is, And what’s to come of my despised time, Is naught but bitterness. Now Roderigo, Where didst thou see her? (O unhappy girl!) With the Moor, say’st thou? (Who would be a father!) How didst thou know ’twas she? (O, she deceives me Past thought.) What said she to you? Get more tapers, Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you? RODERIGO. Truly I think they are. BRABANTIO. O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood! Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds By what you see them act. Is there not charms By which the property of youth and maidhood May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo, Of some such thing? RODERIGO. Yes, sir, I have indeed. BRABANTIO. Call up my brother. O, would you had had her! Some one way, some another. Do you know Where we may apprehend her and the Moor? RODERIGO. I think I can discover him, if you please To get good guard, and go along with me. BRABANTIO. Pray you lead on. At every house I’ll call, I may command at most. Get weapons, ho! And raise some special officers of night. On, good Roderigo. I will deserve your pains. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Venice. Another street. Enter Othello, Iago and Attendants with torches. IAGO. Though in the trade of war I have slain men, Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ the conscience To do no contriv’d murder; I lack iniquity Sometimes to do me service: nine or ten times I had thought to have yerk’d him here under the ribs. OTHELLO. ’Tis better as it is. IAGO. Nay, but he prated, And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms Against your honour, That with the little godliness I have, I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir, Are you fast married? Be assur’d of this, That the magnifico is much belov’d And hath in his effect a voice potential As double as the duke’s; he will divorce you, Or put upon you what restraint and grievance The law (with all his might to enforce it on) Will give him cable. OTHELLO. Let him do his spite; My services, which I have done the signiory, Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to know,— Which, when I know that boasting is an honour, I shall promulgate,—I fetch my life and being From men of royal siege. And my demerits May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune As this that I have reach’d. For know, Iago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free condition Put into circumscription and confine For the sea’s worth. But look, what lights come yond? IAGO. Those are the raised father and his friends: You were best go in. OTHELLO. Not I; I must be found. My parts, my title, and my perfect soul Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they? IAGO. By Janus, I think no. Enter Cassio and Officers with torches. OTHELLO. The servants of the duke and my lieutenant. The goodness of the night upon you, friends! What is the news? CASSIO. The duke does greet you, general, And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance Even on the instant. OTHELLO. What is the matter, think you? CASSIO. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine. It is a business of some heat. The galleys Have sent a dozen sequent messengers This very night at one another’s heels; And many of the consuls, rais’d and met, Are at the duke’s already. You have been hotly call’d for, When, being not at your lodging to be found, The senate hath sent about three several quests To search you out. OTHELLO. ’Tis well I am found by you. I will but spend a word here in the house, And go with you. [_Exit._] CASSIO. Ancient, what makes he here? IAGO. Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carrack: If it prove lawful prize, he’s made forever. CASSIO. I do not understand. IAGO. He’s married. CASSIO. To who? Enter Othello. IAGO. Marry to—Come, captain, will you go? OTHELLO. Have with you. CASSIO. Here comes another troop to seek for you. Enter Brabantio, Roderigo and Officers with torches and weapons. IAGO. It is Brabantio. General, be advis’d, He comes to bad intent. OTHELLO. Holla, stand there! RODERIGO. Signior, it is the Moor. BRABANTIO. Down with him, thief! [_They draw on both sides._] IAGO. You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you. OTHELLO. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. Good signior, you shall more command with years Than with your weapons. BRABANTIO. O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow’d my daughter? Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her, For I’ll refer me to all things of sense, (If she in chains of magic were not bound) Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, So opposite to marriage, that she shunn’d The wealthy curled darlings of our nation, Would ever have, to incur a general mock, Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom Of such a thing as thou—to fear, not to delight. Judge me the world, if ’tis not gross in sense, That thou hast practis’d on her with foul charms, Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs or minerals That weakens motion. I’ll have’t disputed on; ’Tis probable, and palpable to thinking. I therefore apprehend and do attach thee For an abuser of the world, a practiser Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.— Lay hold upon him, if he do resist, Subdue him at his peril. OTHELLO. Hold your hands, Both you of my inclining and the rest: Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter. Where will you that I go To answer this your charge? BRABANTIO. To prison, till fit time Of law and course of direct session Call thee to answer. OTHELLO. What if I do obey? How may the duke be therewith satisfied, Whose messengers are here about my side, Upon some present business of the state, To bring me to him? OFFICER. ’Tis true, most worthy signior, The duke’s in council, and your noble self, I am sure is sent for. BRABANTIO. How? The duke in council? In this time of the night? Bring him away; Mine’s not an idle cause. The duke himself, Or any of my brothers of the state, Cannot but feel this wrong as ’twere their own. For if such actions may have passage free, Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Venice. A council chamber. The Duke and Senators sitting at a table; Officers attending. DUKE. There is no composition in these news That gives them credit. FIRST SENATOR. Indeed, they are disproportion’d; My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. DUKE. And mine a hundred and forty. SECOND SENATOR And mine two hundred: But though they jump not on a just account, (As in these cases, where the aim reports, ’Tis oft with difference,) yet do they all confirm A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus. DUKE. Nay, it is possible enough to judgement: I do not so secure me in the error, But the main article I do approve In fearful sense. SAILOR. [_Within._] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho! OFFICER. A messenger from the galleys. Enter Sailor. DUKE. Now,—what’s the business? SAILOR. The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes, So was I bid report here to the state By Signior Angelo. DUKE. How say you by this change? FIRST SENATOR. This cannot be By no assay of reason. ’Tis a pageant To keep us in false gaze. When we consider The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk; And let ourselves again but understand That, as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes, So may he with more facile question bear it, For that it stands not in such warlike brace, But altogether lacks the abilities That Rhodes is dress’d in. If we make thought of this, We must not think the Turk is so unskilful To leave that latest which concerns him first, Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain, To wake and wage a danger profitless. DUKE. Nay, in all confidence, he’s not for Rhodes. OFFICER. Here is more news. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious, Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes, Have there injointed them with an after fleet. FIRST SENATOR. Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess? MESSENGER. Of thirty sail, and now they do re-stem Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano, Your trusty and most valiant servitor, With his free duty recommends you thus, And prays you to believe him. DUKE. ’Tis certain, then, for Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town? FIRST SENATOR. He’s now in Florence. DUKE. Write from us to him; post-post-haste dispatch. FIRST SENATOR. Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor. Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo and Officers. DUKE. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you Against the general enemy Ottoman. [_To Brabantio._] I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior, We lack’d your counsel and your help tonight. BRABANTIO. So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me. Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business Hath rais’d me from my bed, nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. DUKE. Why, what’s the matter? BRABANTIO. My daughter! O, my daughter! DUKE and SENATORS. Dead? BRABANTIO. Ay, to me. She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks; For nature so preposterously to err, Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans witchcraft could not. DUKE. Whoe’er he be, that in this foul proceeding, Hath thus beguil’d your daughter of herself, And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter, After your own sense, yea, though our proper son Stood in your action. BRABANTIO. Humbly I thank your grace. Here is the man, this Moor, whom now it seems Your special mandate for the state affairs Hath hither brought. ALL. We are very sorry for ’t. DUKE. [_To Othello._] What, in your own part, can you say to this? BRABANTIO. Nothing, but this is so. OTHELLO. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approv’d good masters: That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her. The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us’d Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, (For such proceeding I am charged withal) I won his daughter. BRABANTIO. A maiden never bold: Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blush’d at herself; and she, in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, everything, To fall in love with what she fear’d to look on! It is judgement maim’d and most imperfect That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of nature, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell, Why this should be. I therefore vouch again, That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood, Or with some dram conjur’d to this effect, He wrought upon her. DUKE. To vouch this is no proof; Without more wider and more overt test Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him. FIRST SENATOR. But, Othello, speak: Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections? Or came it by request, and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth? OTHELLO. I do beseech you, Send for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father. If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life. DUKE. Fetch Desdemona hither. OTHELLO. Ancient, conduct them, you best know the place. [_Exeunt Iago and Attendants._] And till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I’ll present How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love, And she in mine. DUKE. Say it, Othello. OTHELLO. Her father lov’d me, oft invited me, Still question’d me the story of my life, From year to year—the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass’d. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it, Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hair-breadth scapes i’ th’ imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence, And portance in my traveler’s history, Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak,—such was the process; And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline. But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She’d come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer’d. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. She swore, in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful. She wish’d she had not heard it, yet she wish’d That heaven had made her such a man: she thank’d me, And bade me, if I had a friend that lov’d her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake: She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d, And I lov’d her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have us’d. Here comes the lady. Let her witness it. Enter Desdemona, Iago and Attendants. DUKE. I think this tale would win my daughter too. Good Brabantio, Take up this mangled matter at the best. Men do their broken weapons rather use Than their bare hands. BRABANTIO. I pray you hear her speak. If she confess that she was half the wooer, Destruction on my head, if my bad blame Light on the man!—Come hither, gentle mistress: Do you perceive in all this noble company Where most you owe obedience? DESDEMONA. My noble father, I do perceive here a divided duty: To you I am bound for life and education. My life and education both do learn me How to respect you. You are the lord of duty, I am hitherto your daughter: but here’s my husband. And so much duty as my mother show’d To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor my lord. BRABANTIO. God be with you! I have done. Please it your grace, on to the state affairs. I had rather to adopt a child than get it.— Come hither, Moor: I here do give thee that with all my heart Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee.—For your sake, jewel, I am glad at soul I have no other child, For thy escape would teach me tyranny, To hang clogs on them.—I have done, my lord. DUKE. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence, Which as a grise or step may help these lovers Into your favour. When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb’d that smiles steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. BRABANTIO. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile, We lose it not so long as we can smile; He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears But the free comfort which from thence he hears; But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. These sentences to sugar or to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal: But words are words; I never yet did hear That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the ear. I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. DUKE. The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you. And though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you: you must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition. OTHELLO. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnize A natural and prompt alacrity I find in hardness, and do undertake This present wars against the Ottomites. Most humbly, therefore, bending to your state, I crave fit disposition for my wife, Due reference of place and exhibition, With such accommodation and besort As levels with her breeding. DUKE. If you please, Be’t at her father’s. BRABANTIO. I’ll not have it so. OTHELLO. Nor I. DESDEMONA. Nor I. I would not there reside, To put my father in impatient thoughts, By being in his eye. Most gracious duke, To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear, And let me find a charter in your voice T’ assist my simpleness. DUKE. What would you, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world: my heart’s subdued Even to the very quality of my lord. I saw Othello’s visage in his mind, And to his honours and his valiant parts Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence. Let me go with him. OTHELLO. Let her have your voice. Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite, Nor to comply with heat, the young affects In me defunct, and proper satisfaction, But to be free and bounteous to her mind. And heaven defend your good souls that you think I will your serious and great business scant For she is with me. No, when light-wing’d toys Of feather’d Cupid seel with wanton dullness My speculative and offic’d instruments, That my disports corrupt and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation. DUKE. Be it as you shall privately determine, Either for her stay or going. The affair cries haste, And speed must answer it. FIRST SENATOR. You must away tonight. OTHELLO. With all my heart. DUKE. At nine i’ the morning here we’ll meet again. Othello, leave some officer behind, And he shall our commission bring to you, With such things else of quality and respect As doth import you. OTHELLO. So please your grace, my ancient, A man he is of honesty and trust, To his conveyance I assign my wife, With what else needful your good grace shall think To be sent after me. DUKE. Let it be so. Good night to everyone. [_To Brabantio._] And, noble signior, If virtue no delighted beauty lack, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. FIRST SENATOR. Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well. BRABANTIO. Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see: She has deceiv’d her father, and may thee. [_Exeunt Duke, Senators, Officers, &c._] OTHELLO. My life upon her faith! Honest Iago, My Desdemona must I leave to thee. I prithee, let thy wife attend on her, And bring them after in the best advantage.— Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of love, of worldly matters, and direction, To spend with thee. We must obey the time. [_Exeunt Othello and Desdemona._] RODERIGO. Iago— IAGO. What sayst thou, noble heart? RODERIGO. What will I do, thinkest thou? IAGO. Why, go to bed and sleep. RODERIGO. I will incontinently drown myself. IAGO. If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman! RODERIGO. It is silliness to live, when to live is torment; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. IAGO. O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. RODERIGO. What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it. IAGO. Virtue! a fig! ’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners. So that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions. But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect, or scion. RODERIGO. It cannot be. IAGO. It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favour with an usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor,—put money in thy purse,—nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration—put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills. Fill thy purse with money. The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts shall be to him shortly as acerb as the coloquintida. She must change for youth. When she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must. Therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! It is clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her. RODERIGO. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes if I depend on the issue? IAGO. Thou art sure of me. Go, make money. I have told thee often, and I retell thee again and again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money. We will have more of this tomorrow. Adieu. RODERIGO. Where shall we meet i’ the morning? IAGO. At my lodging. RODERIGO. I’ll be with thee betimes. IAGO. Go to, farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo? RODERIGO. What say you? IAGO. No more of drowning, do you hear? RODERIGO. I am changed. I’ll sell all my land. [_Exit._] IAGO. Thus do I ever make my fool my purse. For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane If I would time expend with such a snipe But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor, And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets He has done my office. I know not if ’t be true, But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do as if for surety. He holds me well, The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio’s a proper man. Let me see now, To get his place, and to plume up my will In double knavery. How, how? Let’s see. After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose, To be suspected, fram’d to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open nature That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are. I have’t. It is engender’d. Hell and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light. [_Exit._] ACT II SCENE I. A seaport in Cyprus. A Platform. Enter Montano and two Gentlemen. MONTANO. What from the cape can you discern at sea? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Nothing at all, it is a high-wrought flood. I cannot ’twixt the heaven and the main Descry a sail. MONTANO. Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land. A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements. If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this? SECOND GENTLEMAN. A segregation of the Turkish fleet. For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds, The wind-shak’d surge, with high and monstrous main, Seems to cast water on the burning Bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole; I never did like molestation view On the enchafed flood. MONTANO. If that the Turkish fleet Be not enshelter’d, and embay’d, they are drown’d. It is impossible to bear it out. Enter a third Gentleman. THIRD GENTLEMAN. News, lads! Our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so bang’d the Turks That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet. MONTANO. How? Is this true? THIRD GENTLEMAN. The ship is here put in, A Veronessa; Michael Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, Is come on shore; the Moor himself at sea, And is in full commission here for Cyprus. MONTANO. I am glad on’t. ’Tis a worthy governor. THIRD GENTLEMAN. But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly, And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted With foul and violent tempest. MONTANO. Pray heavens he be; For I have serv’d him, and the man commands Like a full soldier. Let’s to the sea-side, ho! As well to see the vessel that’s come in As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, Even till we make the main and the aerial blue An indistinct regard. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Come, let’s do so; For every minute is expectancy Of more arrivance. Enter Cassio. CASSIO. Thanks you, the valiant of this warlike isle, That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens Give him defence against the elements, For I have lost him on a dangerous sea. MONTANO. Is he well shipp’d? CASSIO. His bark is stoutly timber’d, and his pilot Of very expert and approv’d allowance; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure. [_Within._] A sail, a sail, a sail! Enter a Messenger. CASSIO. What noise? MESSENGER. The town is empty; on the brow o’ the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry “A sail!” CASSIO. My hopes do shape him for the governor. [_A shot._] SECOND GENTLEMAN. They do discharge their shot of courtesy. Our friends at least. CASSIO. I pray you, sir, go forth, And give us truth who ’tis that is arriv’d. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I shall. [_Exit._] MONTANO. But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv’d? CASSIO. Most fortunately: he hath achiev’d a maid That paragons description and wild fame, One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And in the essential vesture of creation Does tire the ingener. Enter second Gentleman. How now? Who has put in? SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis one Iago, ancient to the general. CASSIO. He has had most favourable and happy speed: Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, The gutter’d rocks, and congregated sands, Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel, As having sense of beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona. MONTANO. What is she? CASSIO. She that I spake of, our great captain’s captain, Left in the conduct of the bold Iago; Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts A se’nnight’s speed. Great Jove, Othello guard, And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath, That he may bless this bay with his tall ship, Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms, Give renew’d fire to our extincted spirits, And bring all Cyprus comfort! Enter Desdemona, Iago, Roderigo, and Emilia. O, behold, The riches of the ship is come on shore! Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee, and on every hand, Enwheel thee round! DESDEMONA. I thank you, valiant Cassio. What tidings can you tell me of my lord? CASSIO. He is not yet arrived, nor know I aught But that he’s well, and will be shortly here. DESDEMONA. O, but I fear—How lost you company? [_Within._] A sail, a sail! CASSIO. The great contention of the sea and skies Parted our fellowship. But, hark! a sail. [_Guns within._] SECOND GENTLEMAN. They give their greeting to the citadel. This likewise is a friend. CASSIO. See for the news. [_Exit Gentleman._] Good ancient, you are welcome. [_To Emilia._] Welcome, mistress. Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, That I extend my manners; ’tis my breeding That gives me this bold show of courtesy. [_Kissing her._] IAGO. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, You would have enough. DESDEMONA. Alas, she has no speech. IAGO. In faith, too much. I find it still when I have list to sleep. Marry, before your ladyship, I grant, She puts her tongue a little in her heart, And chides with thinking. EMILIA. You have little cause to say so. IAGO. Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlours, wild-cats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds. DESDEMONA. O, fie upon thee, slanderer! IAGO. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk. You rise to play, and go to bed to work. EMILIA. You shall not write my praise. IAGO. No, let me not. DESDEMONA. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me? IAGO. O gentle lady, do not put me to’t, For I am nothing if not critical. DESDEMONA. Come on, assay.—There’s one gone to the harbour? IAGO. Ay, madam. DESDEMONA. I am not merry, but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.— Come, how wouldst thou praise me? IAGO. I am about it, but indeed, my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze, It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours, And thus she is deliver’d. If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one’s for use, the other useth it. DESDEMONA. Well prais’d! How if she be black and witty? IAGO. If she be black, and thereto have a wit, She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit. DESDEMONA. Worse and worse. EMILIA. How if fair and foolish? IAGO. She never yet was foolish that was fair, For even her folly help’d her to an heir. DESDEMONA. These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that’s foul and foolish? IAGO. There’s none so foul and foolish thereunto, But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do. DESDEMONA. O heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself? IAGO. She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, Never lack’d gold and yet went never gay, Fled from her wish, and yet said, “Now I may”; She that, being anger’d, her revenge being nigh, Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly; She that in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail; She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind, See suitors following and not look behind; She was a wight, if ever such wight were— DESDEMONA. To do what? IAGO. To suckle fools and chronicle small beer. DESDEMONA. O most lame and impotent conclusion!—Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband.—How say you, Cassio? is he not a most profane and liberal counsellor? CASSIO. He speaks home, madam. You may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar. IAGO. [_Aside._] He takes her by the palm. Ay, well said, whisper. With as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do. I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true, ’tis so, indeed. If such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in. Very good; well kissed, an excellent courtesy! ’Tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? Would they were clyster-pipes for your sake! [_Trumpets within._] The Moor! I know his trumpet. CASSIO. ’Tis truly so. DESDEMONA. Let’s meet him, and receive him. CASSIO. Lo, where he comes! Enter Othello and Attendants. OTHELLO. O my fair warrior! DESDEMONA. My dear Othello! OTHELLO. It gives me wonder great as my content To see you here before me. O my soul’s joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken’d death! And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high, and duck again as low As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die, ’Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate. DESDEMONA. The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow! OTHELLO. Amen to that, sweet powers! I cannot speak enough of this content. It stops me here; it is too much of joy: And this, and this, the greatest discords be [_They kiss._] That e’er our hearts shall make! IAGO. [_Aside._] O, you are well tun’d now, But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music, As honest as I am. OTHELLO. Come, let us to the castle.— News, friends, our wars are done, the Turks are drown’d. How does my old acquaintance of this isle? Honey, you shall be well desir’d in Cyprus; I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet, I prattle out of fashion, and I dote In mine own comforts.—I prithee, good Iago, Go to the bay and disembark my coffers. Bring thou the master to the citadel; He is a good one, and his worthiness Does challenge much respect.—Come, Desdemona, Once more well met at Cyprus. [_Exeunt Othello, Desdemona and Attendants._] IAGO. Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. Come hither. If thou be’st valiant—as, they say, base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them—list me. The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard: first, I must tell thee this: Desdemona is directly in love with him. RODERIGO. With him? Why, ’tis not possible. IAGO. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging, and telling her fantastical lies. And will she love him still for prating? Let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed. And what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be, again to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour, sympathy in years, manners, and beauties; all which the Moor is defective in: now, for want of these required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor, very nature will instruct her in it, and compel her to some second choice. Now sir, this granted (as it is a most pregnant and unforced position) who stands so eminently in the degree of this fortune as Cassio does? a knave very voluble; no further conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compassing of his salt and most hidden loose affection? Why, none, why, none! A slipper and subtle knave, a finder out of occasions; that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself: a devilish knave! Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after. A pestilent complete knave, and the woman hath found him already. RODERIGO. I cannot believe that in her, she is full of most blessed condition. IAGO. Blest fig’s end! the wine she drinks is made of grapes: if she had been blessed, she would never have loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? Didst not mark that? RODERIGO. Yes, that I did. But that was but courtesy. IAGO. Lechery, by this hand. An index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths embrac’d together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo! When these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, the incorporate conclusion. Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me. I have brought you from Venice. Watch you tonight. For the command, I’ll lay’t upon you. Cassio knows you not. I’ll not be far from you. Do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline, or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favourably minister. RODERIGO. Well. IAGO. Sir, he is rash, and very sudden in choler, and haply with his truncheon may strike at you: provoke him that he may, for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them, and the impediment most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity. RODERIGO. I will do this, if I can bring it to any opportunity. IAGO. I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel: I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell. RODERIGO. Adieu. [_Exit._] IAGO. That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it; That she loves him, ’tis apt, and of great credit: The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature; And, I dare think, he’ll prove to Desdemona A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too, Not out of absolute lust (though peradventure I stand accountant for as great a sin) But partly led to diet my revenge, For that I do suspect the lusty Moor Hath leap’d into my seat. The thought whereof Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards, And nothing can or shall content my soul Till I am even’d with him, wife for wife, Or, failing so, yet that I put the Moor At least into a jealousy so strong That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do, If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip, Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb (For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too) Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me For making him egregiously an ass And practicing upon his peace and quiet Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confus’d. Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A street. Enter Othello’s Herald with a proclamation. HERALD. It is Othello’s pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that upon certain tidings now arrived, importing the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet, every man put himself into triumph: some to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels his addition leads him. For besides these beneficial news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the isle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello! [_Exit._] SCENE III. A Hall in the Castle. Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio and Attendants. OTHELLO. Good Michael, look you to the guard tonight. Let’s teach ourselves that honourable stop, Not to outsport discretion. CASSIO. Iago hath direction what to do. But notwithstanding with my personal eye Will I look to’t. OTHELLO. Iago is most honest. Michael, good night. Tomorrow with your earliest Let me have speech with you. [_To Desdemona._] Come, my dear love, The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue; That profit’s yet to come ’tween me and you.— Good night. [_Exeunt Othello, Desdemona and Attendants._] Enter Iago. CASSIO. Welcome, Iago. We must to the watch. IAGO. Not this hour, lieutenant. ’Tis not yet ten o’ th’ clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame: he hath not yet made wanton the night with her; and she is sport for Jove. CASSIO. She’s a most exquisite lady. IAGO. And, I’ll warrant her, full of game. CASSIO. Indeed, she is a most fresh and delicate creature. IAGO. What an eye she has! methinks it sounds a parley to provocation. CASSIO. An inviting eye, and yet methinks right modest. IAGO. And when she speaks, is it not an alarm to love? CASSIO. She is indeed perfection. IAGO. Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stoup of wine; and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black Othello. CASSIO. Not tonight, good Iago. I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. IAGO. O, they are our friends; but one cup: I’ll drink for you. CASSIO. I have drunk but one cup tonight, and that was craftily qualified too, and behold, what innovation it makes here: I am unfortunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my weakness with any more. IAGO. What, man! ’Tis a night of revels. The gallants desire it. CASSIO. Where are they? IAGO. Here at the door. I pray you, call them in. CASSIO. I’ll do’t; but it dislikes me. [_Exit._] IAGO. If I can fasten but one cup upon him, With that which he hath drunk tonight already, He’ll be as full of quarrel and offence As my young mistress’ dog. Now my sick fool Roderigo, Whom love hath turn’d almost the wrong side out, To Desdemona hath tonight carous’d Potations pottle-deep; and he’s to watch: Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honours in a wary distance, The very elements of this warlike isle, Have I tonight fluster’d with flowing cups, And they watch too. Now, ’mongst this flock of drunkards, Am I to put our Cassio in some action That may offend the isle. But here they come: If consequence do but approve my dream, My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream. Enter Cassio, Montano and Gentlemen; followed by Servant with wine. CASSIO. ’Fore God, they have given me a rouse already. MONTANO. Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a soldier. IAGO. Some wine, ho! [_Sings._] _And let me the cannikin clink, clink, And let me the cannikin clink, clink: A soldier’s a man, O, man’s life’s but a span, Why then let a soldier drink._ Some wine, boys! CASSIO. ’Fore God, an excellent song. IAGO. I learned it in England, where indeed they are most potent in potting: your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander,—drink, ho!—are nothing to your English. CASSIO. Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking? IAGO. Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit ere the next pottle can be filled. CASSIO. To the health of our general! MONTANO. I am for it, lieutenant; and I’ll do you justice. IAGO. O sweet England! [_Sings._] _King Stephen was a worthy peer, His breeches cost him but a crown; He held them sixpence all too dear, With that he call’d the tailor lown. He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree: ’Tis pride that pulls the country down, Then take thine auld cloak about thee._ Some wine, ho! CASSIO. ’Fore God, this is a more exquisite song than the other. IAGO. Will you hear ’t again? CASSIO. No, for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God’s above all, and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. IAGO. It’s true, good lieutenant. CASSIO. For mine own part, no offence to the general, nor any man of quality, I hope to be saved. IAGO. And so do I too, lieutenant. CASSIO. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let’s have no more of this; let’s to our affairs. Forgive us our sins! Gentlemen, let’s look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk. This is my ancient, this is my right hand, and this is my left. I am not drunk now. I can stand well enough, and I speak well enough. ALL. Excellent well. CASSIO. Why, very well then. You must not think, then, that I am drunk. [_Exit._] MONTANO. To the platform, masters. Come, let’s set the watch. IAGO. You see this fellow that is gone before, He is a soldier fit to stand by Cæsar And give direction: and do but see his vice, ’Tis to his virtue a just equinox, The one as long as th’ other. ’Tis pity of him. I fear the trust Othello puts him in, On some odd time of his infirmity, Will shake this island. MONTANO. But is he often thus? IAGO. ’Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep: He’ll watch the horologe a double set If drink rock not his cradle. MONTANO. It were well The general were put in mind of it. Perhaps he sees it not, or his good nature Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio, And looks not on his evils: is not this true? Enter Roderigo. IAGO. [_Aside to him._] How now, Roderigo? I pray you, after the lieutenant; go. [_Exit Roderigo._] MONTANO. And ’tis great pity that the noble Moor Should hazard such a place as his own second With one of an ingraft infirmity: It were an honest action to say so To the Moor. IAGO. Not I, for this fair island. I do love Cassio well and would do much To cure him of this evil. But, hark! What noise? [_Cry within_: “Help! help!”] Enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo. CASSIO. Zounds, you rogue, you rascal! MONTANO. What’s the matter, lieutenant? CASSIO. A knave teach me my duty! I’ll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. RODERIGO. Beat me? CASSIO. Dost thou prate, rogue? [_Striking Roderigo._] MONTANO. Nay, good lieutenant; I pray you, sir, hold your hand. CASSIO. Let me go, sir, Or I’ll knock you o’er the mazard. MONTANO. Come, come, you’re drunk. CASSIO. Drunk? [_They fight._] IAGO. [_Aside to Roderigo._] Away, I say! Go out and cry a mutiny. [_Exit Roderigo._] Nay, good lieutenant, God’s will, gentlemen. Help, ho!—Lieutenant,—sir,—Montano,—sir:— Help, masters! Here’s a goodly watch indeed! [_A bell rings._] Who’s that which rings the bell?—Diablo, ho! The town will rise. God’s will, lieutenant, hold, You will be sham’d forever. Enter Othello and Attendants. OTHELLO. What is the matter here? MONTANO. Zounds, I bleed still, I am hurt to the death. OTHELLO. Hold, for your lives! IAGO. Hold, ho! lieutenant,—sir,—Montano,—gentlemen,— Have you forgot all place of sense and duty? Hold! The general speaks to you; hold, hold, for shame! OTHELLO. Why, how now, ho! From whence ariseth this? Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites? For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl: He that stirs next to carve for his own rage Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion. Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle From her propriety. What is the matter, masters? Honest Iago, that looks dead with grieving, Speak, who began this? On thy love, I charge thee. IAGO. I do not know. Friends all but now, even now, In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom Devesting them for bed; and then, but now, As if some planet had unwitted men, Swords out, and tilting one at other’s breast, In opposition bloody. I cannot speak Any beginning to this peevish odds; And would in action glorious I had lost Those legs that brought me to a part of it! OTHELLO. How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot? CASSIO. I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak. OTHELLO. Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil. The gravity and stillness of your youth The world hath noted, and your name is great In mouths of wisest censure: what’s the matter, That you unlace your reputation thus, And spend your rich opinion for the name Of a night-brawler? Give me answer to it. MONTANO. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger. Your officer, Iago, can inform you, While I spare speech, which something now offends me, Of all that I do know; nor know I aught By me that’s said or done amiss this night, Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, And to defend ourselves it be a sin When violence assails us. OTHELLO. Now, by heaven, My blood begins my safer guides to rule, And passion, having my best judgement collied, Assays to lead the way. Zounds, if I stir, Or do but lift this arm, the best of you Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know How this foul rout began, who set it on, And he that is approv’d in this offence, Though he had twinn’d with me, both at a birth, Shall lose me. What! in a town of war, Yet wild, the people’s hearts brimful of fear, To manage private and domestic quarrel, In night, and on the court and guard of safety? ’Tis monstrous. Iago, who began’t? MONTANO. If partially affin’d, or leagu’d in office, Thou dost deliver more or less than truth, Thou art no soldier. IAGO. Touch me not so near. I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio. Yet I persuade myself, to speak the truth Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general: Montano and myself being in speech, There comes a fellow crying out for help, And Cassio following him with determin’d sword, To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman Steps in to Cassio and entreats his pause. Myself the crying fellow did pursue, Lest by his clamour (as it so fell out) The town might fall in fright: he, swift of foot, Outran my purpose: and I return’d the rather For that I heard the clink and fall of swords, And Cassio high in oath, which till tonight I ne’er might say before. When I came back, (For this was brief) I found them close together, At blow and thrust, even as again they were When you yourself did part them. More of this matter cannot I report. But men are men; the best sometimes forget; Though Cassio did some little wrong to him, As men in rage strike those that wish them best, Yet surely Cassio, I believe, receiv’d From him that fled some strange indignity, Which patience could not pass. OTHELLO. I know, Iago, Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee, But never more be officer of mine. Enter Desdemona, attended. Look, if my gentle love be not rais’d up! I’ll make thee an example. DESDEMONA. What’s the matter? OTHELLO. All’s well now, sweeting; come away to bed. Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon. Lead him off. [_Montano is led off._] Iago, look with care about the town, And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted. Come, Desdemona: ’tis the soldiers’ life To have their balmy slumbers wak’d with strife. [_Exeunt all but Iago and Cassio._] IAGO. What, are you hurt, lieutenant? CASSIO. Ay, past all surgery. IAGO. Marry, Heaven forbid! CASSIO. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation! IAGO. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man, there are ways to recover the general again: you are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice, even so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: sue to him again, and he’s yours. CASSIO. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one’s own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil! IAGO. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you? CASSIO. I know not. IAGO. Is’t possible? CASSIO. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! That we should with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! IAGO. Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus recovered? CASSIO. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath. One unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. IAGO. Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good. CASSIO. I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unbless’d, and the ingredient is a devil. IAGO. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used. Exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you. CASSIO. I have well approved it, sir.—I drunk! IAGO. You, or any man living, may be drunk at a time, man. I’ll tell you what you shall do. Our general’s wife is now the general; I may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces. Confess yourself freely to her. Importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter, and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before. CASSIO. You advise me well. IAGO. I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness. CASSIO. I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me; I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me here. IAGO. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant, I must to the watch. CASSIO. Good night, honest Iago. [_Exit._] IAGO. And what’s he then, that says I play the villain? When this advice is free I give and honest, Probal to thinking, and indeed the course To win the Moor again? For ’tis most easy The inclining Desdemona to subdue In any honest suit. She’s fram’d as fruitful As the free elements. And then for her To win the Moor, were’t to renounce his baptism, All seals and symbols of redeemed sin, His soul is so enfetter’d to her love That she may make, unmake, do what she list, Even as her appetite shall play the god With his weak function. How am I then, a villain To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, Directly to his good? Divinity of hell! When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, As I do now: for whiles this honest fool Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear, That she repeals him for her body’s lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all. Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo? RODERIGO. I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent, I have been tonight exceedingly well cudgelled; and I think the issue will be, I shall have so much experience for my pains, and so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice. IAGO. How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Thou know’st we work by wit, and not by witchcraft, And wit depends on dilatory time. Does’t not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee, And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier’d Cassio; Though other things grow fair against the sun, Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe. Content thyself awhile. By the mass, ’tis morning; Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Retire thee; go where thou art billeted. Away, I say, thou shalt know more hereafter. Nay, get thee gone. [_Exit Roderigo._] Two things are to be done, My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress. I’ll set her on; Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, And bring him jump when he may Cassio find Soliciting his wife. Ay, that’s the way. Dull not device by coldness and delay. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. Cyprus. Before the Castle. Enter Cassio and some Musicians. CASSIO. Masters, play here, I will content your pains, Something that’s brief; and bid “Good morrow, general.” [_Music._] Enter Clown. CLOWN. Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’ the nose thus? FIRST MUSICIAN. How, sir, how? CLOWN. Are these, I pray you, wind instruments? FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, marry, are they, sir. CLOWN. O, thereby hangs a tail. FIRST MUSICIAN. Whereby hangs a tale, sir? CLOWN. Marry, sir, by many a wind instrument that I know. But, masters, here’s money for you: and the general so likes your music, that he desires you, for love’s sake, to make no more noise with it. FIRST MUSICIAN. Well, sir, we will not. CLOWN. If you have any music that may not be heard, to’t again. But, as they say, to hear music the general does not greatly care. FIRST MUSICIAN. We have none such, sir. CLOWN. Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I’ll away. Go, vanish into air, away! [_Exeunt Musicians._] CASSIO. Dost thou hear, mine honest friend? CLOWN. No, I hear not your honest friend. I hear you. CASSIO. Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There’s a poor piece of gold for thee: if the gentlewoman that attends the general’s wife be stirring, tell her there’s one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech. Wilt thou do this? CLOWN. She is stirring, sir; if she will stir hither, I shall seem to notify unto her. CASSIO. Do, good my friend. [_Exit Clown._] Enter Iago. In happy time, Iago. IAGO. You have not been a-bed, then? CASSIO. Why, no. The day had broke Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago, To send in to your wife. My suit to her Is, that she will to virtuous Desdemona Procure me some access. IAGO. I’ll send her to you presently, And I’ll devise a mean to draw the Moor Out of the way, that your converse and business May be more free. CASSIO. I humbly thank you for’t. [_Exit Iago._] I never knew A Florentine more kind and honest. Enter Emilia. EMILIA. Good morrow, good lieutenant; I am sorry For your displeasure, but all will sure be well. The general and his wife are talking of it, And she speaks for you stoutly: the Moor replies That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus And great affinity, and that in wholesome wisdom He might not but refuse you; but he protests he loves you And needs no other suitor but his likings To take the safest occasion by the front To bring you in again. CASSIO. Yet, I beseech you, If you think fit, or that it may be done, Give me advantage of some brief discourse With Desdemona alone. EMILIA. Pray you, come in. I will bestow you where you shall have time To speak your bosom freely. CASSIO. I am much bound to you. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle. Enter Othello, Iago and Gentlemen. OTHELLO. These letters give, Iago, to the pilot, And by him do my duties to the senate. That done, I will be walking on the works, Repair there to me. IAGO. Well, my good lord, I’ll do’t. OTHELLO. This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see’t? GENTLEMEN. We’ll wait upon your lordship. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Cyprus. The Garden of the Castle. Enter Desdemona, Cassio and Emilia. DESDEMONA. Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do All my abilities in thy behalf. EMILIA. Good madam, do. I warrant it grieves my husband As if the cause were his. DESDEMONA. O, that’s an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio, But I will have my lord and you again As friendly as you were. CASSIO. Bounteous madam, Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, He’s never anything but your true servant. DESDEMONA. I know’t. I thank you. You do love my lord. You have known him long; and be you well assur’d He shall in strangeness stand no farther off Than in a politic distance. CASSIO. Ay, but, lady, That policy may either last so long, Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet, Or breed itself so out of circumstance, That, I being absent, and my place supplied, My general will forget my love and service. DESDEMONA. Do not doubt that. Before Emilia here I give thee warrant of thy place. Assure thee, If I do vow a friendship, I’ll perform it To the last article. My lord shall never rest, I’ll watch him tame, and talk him out of patience; His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; I’ll intermingle everything he does With Cassio’s suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio, For thy solicitor shall rather die Than give thy cause away. Enter Othello and Iago. EMILIA. Madam, here comes my lord. CASSIO. Madam, I’ll take my leave. DESDEMONA. Why, stay, and hear me speak. CASSIO. Madam, not now. I am very ill at ease, Unfit for mine own purposes. DESDEMONA. Well, do your discretion. [_Exit Cassio._] IAGO. Ha, I like not that. OTHELLO. What dost thou say? IAGO. Nothing, my lord; or if—I know not what. OTHELLO. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife? IAGO. Cassio, my lord? No, sure, I cannot think it, That he would steal away so guilty-like, Seeing you coming. OTHELLO. I do believe ’twas he. DESDEMONA. How now, my lord? I have been talking with a suitor here, A man that languishes in your displeasure. OTHELLO. Who is’t you mean? DESDEMONA. Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord, If I have any grace or power to move you, His present reconciliation take; For if he be not one that truly loves you, That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, I have no judgement in an honest face. I prithee call him back. OTHELLO. Went he hence now? DESDEMONA. Ay, sooth; so humbled That he hath left part of his grief with me To suffer with him. Good love, call him back. OTHELLO. Not now, sweet Desdemon, some other time. DESDEMONA. But shall’t be shortly? OTHELLO. The sooner, sweet, for you. DESDEMONA. Shall’t be tonight at supper? OTHELLO. No, not tonight. DESDEMONA. Tomorrow dinner then? OTHELLO. I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains at the citadel. DESDEMONA. Why then tomorrow night, or Tuesday morn, On Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn. I prithee name the time, but let it not Exceed three days. In faith, he’s penitent; And yet his trespass, in our common reason, (Save that, they say, the wars must make examples Out of their best) is not almost a fault To incur a private check. When shall he come? Tell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul, What you would ask me, that I should deny, Or stand so mammering on. What? Michael Cassio, That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time, When I have spoke of you dispraisingly, Hath ta’en your part, to have so much to do To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much. OTHELLO. Prithee no more. Let him come when he will; I will deny thee nothing. DESDEMONA. Why, this is not a boon; ’Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves, Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit To your own person: nay, when I have a suit Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, It shall be full of poise and difficult weight, And fearful to be granted. OTHELLO. I will deny thee nothing. Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself. DESDEMONA. Shall I deny you? No, farewell, my lord. OTHELLO. Farewell, my Desdemona. I’ll come to thee straight. DESDEMONA. Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you. Whate’er you be, I am obedient. [_Exit with Emilia._] OTHELLO. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! And when I love thee not, Chaos is come again. IAGO. My noble lord,— OTHELLO. What dost thou say, Iago? IAGO. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady, Know of your love? OTHELLO. He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask? IAGO. But for a satisfaction of my thought. No further harm. OTHELLO. Why of thy thought, Iago? IAGO. I did not think he had been acquainted with her. OTHELLO. O yes, and went between us very oft. IAGO. Indeed? OTHELLO. Indeed? Ay, indeed. Discern’st thou aught in that? Is he not honest? IAGO. Honest, my lord? OTHELLO. Honest? ay, honest. IAGO. My lord, for aught I know. OTHELLO. What dost thou think? IAGO. Think, my lord? OTHELLO. Think, my lord? By heaven, he echoes me, As if there were some monster in his thought Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something. I heard thee say even now, thou lik’st not that, When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like? And when I told thee he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, “Indeed?” And didst contract and purse thy brow together, As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain Some horrible conceit: if thou dost love me, Show me thy thought. IAGO. My lord, you know I love you. OTHELLO. I think thou dost; And for I know thou’rt full of love and honesty And weigh’st thy words before thou giv’st them breath, Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more: For such things in a false disloyal knave Are tricks of custom; but in a man that’s just, They’re close dilations, working from the heart, That passion cannot rule. IAGO. For Michael Cassio, I dare be sworn I think that he is honest. OTHELLO. I think so too. IAGO. Men should be what they seem; Or those that be not, would they might seem none! OTHELLO. Certain, men should be what they seem. IAGO. Why then, I think Cassio’s an honest man. OTHELLO. Nay, yet there’s more in this: I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words. IAGO. Good my lord, pardon me. Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false: As where’s that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? Who has a breast so pure But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days, and in session sit With meditations lawful? OTHELLO. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think’st him wrong’d and mak’st his ear A stranger to thy thoughts. IAGO. I do beseech you, Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague To spy into abuses, and of my jealousy Shapes faults that are not,—that your wisdom From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice; nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let you know my thoughts. OTHELLO. What dost thou mean? IAGO. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash. ’Tis something, nothing; ’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands. But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. OTHELLO. By heaven, I’ll know thy thoughts. IAGO. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand, Nor shall not, whilst ’tis in my custody. OTHELLO. Ha? IAGO. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damned minutes tells he o’er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves! OTHELLO. O misery! IAGO. Poor and content is rich, and rich enough; But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he shall be poor. Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy! OTHELLO. Why, why is this? Think’st thou I’d make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No. To be once in doubt Is once to be resolv’d: exchange me for a goat When I shall turn the business of my soul To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, Matching thy inference. ’Tis not to make me jealous, To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well; Where virtue is, these are more virtuous: Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt, For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago, I’ll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; And on the proof, there is no more but this: Away at once with love or jealousy! IAGO. I am glad of it, for now I shall have reason To show the love and duty that I bear you With franker spirit: therefore, as I am bound, Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio; Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure. I would not have your free and noble nature, Out of self-bounty, be abus’d. Look to’t. I know our country disposition well; In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks They dare not show their husbands. Their best conscience Is not to leave undone, but keep unknown. OTHELLO. Dost thou say so? IAGO. She did deceive her father, marrying you; And when she seem’d to shake and fear your looks, She loved them most. OTHELLO. And so she did. IAGO. Why, go to then. She that so young could give out such a seeming, To seal her father’s eyes up close as oak, He thought ’twas witchcraft. But I am much to blame. I humbly do beseech you of your pardon For too much loving you. OTHELLO. I am bound to thee for ever. IAGO. I see this hath a little dash’d your spirits. OTHELLO. Not a jot, not a jot. IAGO. Trust me, I fear it has. I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see you’re mov’d. I am to pray you not to strain my speech To grosser issues nor to larger reach Than to suspicion. OTHELLO. I will not. IAGO. Should you do so, my lord, My speech should fall into such vile success Which my thoughts aim’d not. Cassio’s my worthy friend. My lord, I see you’re mov’d. OTHELLO. No, not much mov’d. I do not think but Desdemona’s honest. IAGO. Long live she so! And long live you to think so! OTHELLO. And yet, how nature erring from itself— IAGO. Ay, there’s the point. As, to be bold with you, Not to affect many proposed matches, Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, Whereto we see in all things nature tends; Foh! One may smell in such a will most rank, Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural. But pardon me: I do not in position Distinctly speak of her, though I may fear Her will, recoiling to her better judgement, May fall to match you with her country forms, And happily repent. OTHELLO. Farewell, farewell: If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago. IAGO. [_Going._] My lord, I take my leave. OTHELLO. Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. IAGO. [_Returning._] My lord, I would I might entreat your honour To scan this thing no further. Leave it to time: Though it be fit that Cassio have his place, For sure he fills it up with great ability, Yet if you please to hold him off awhile, You shall by that perceive him and his means. Note if your lady strain his entertainment With any strong or vehement importunity, Much will be seen in that. In the meantime, Let me be thought too busy in my fears (As worthy cause I have to fear I am) And hold her free, I do beseech your honour. OTHELLO. Fear not my government. IAGO. I once more take my leave. [_Exit._] OTHELLO. This fellow’s of exceeding honesty, And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings, I’d whistle her off, and let her down the wind To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have, or for I am declin’d Into the vale of years,—yet that’s not much— She’s gone, I am abus’d, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet, ’tis the plague of great ones, Prerogativ’d are they less than the base, ’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death: Even then this forked plague is fated to us When we do quicken. Desdemona comes. If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I’ll not believe’t. Enter Desdemona and Emilia. DESDEMONA. How now, my dear Othello? Your dinner, and the generous islanders By you invited, do attend your presence. OTHELLO. I am to blame. DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so faintly? Are you not well? OTHELLO. I have a pain upon my forehead here. DESDEMONA. Faith, that’s with watching, ’twill away again; Let me but bind it hard, within this hour It will be well. OTHELLO. Your napkin is too little; [_He puts the handkerchief from him, and she drops it._] Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you. DESDEMONA. I am very sorry that you are not well. [_Exeunt Othello and Desdemona._] EMILIA. I am glad I have found this napkin; This was her first remembrance from the Moor. My wayward husband hath a hundred times Woo’d me to steal it. But she so loves the token, For he conjur’d her she should ever keep it, That she reserves it evermore about her To kiss and talk to. I’ll have the work ta’en out, And give’t Iago. What he will do with it Heaven knows, not I, I nothing but to please his fantasy. Enter Iago. IAGO. How now? What do you here alone? EMILIA. Do not you chide. I have a thing for you. IAGO. A thing for me? It is a common thing— EMILIA. Ha? IAGO. To have a foolish wife. EMILIA. O, is that all? What will you give me now For that same handkerchief? IAGO. What handkerchief? EMILIA. What handkerchief? Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona, That which so often you did bid me steal. IAGO. Hast stol’n it from her? EMILIA. No, faith, she let it drop by negligence, And, to the advantage, I being here, took ’t up. Look, here it is. IAGO. A good wench, give it me. EMILIA. What will you do with’t, that you have been so earnest To have me filch it? IAGO. [_Snatching it._] Why, what’s that to you? EMILIA. If it be not for some purpose of import, Give ’t me again. Poor lady, she’ll run mad When she shall lack it. IAGO. Be not acknown on’t, I have use for it. Go, leave me. [_Exit Emilia._] I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin, And let him find it. Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ. This may do something. The Moor already changes with my poison: Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons, Which at the first are scarce found to distaste, But with a little act upon the blood Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so. Enter Othello. Look, where he comes. Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow’dst yesterday. OTHELLO. Ha! ha! false to me? IAGO. Why, how now, general? No more of that. OTHELLO. Avaunt! be gone! Thou hast set me on the rack. I swear ’tis better to be much abus’d Than but to know’t a little. IAGO. How now, my lord? OTHELLO. What sense had I of her stol’n hours of lust? I saw’t not, thought it not, it harm’d not me. I slept the next night well, was free and merry; I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips. He that is robb’d, not wanting what is stol’n, Let him not know’t, and he’s not robb’d at all. IAGO. I am sorry to hear this. OTHELLO. I had been happy if the general camp, Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body, So I had nothing known. O, now, for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell, Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone! IAGO. Is’t possible, my lord? OTHELLO. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore; Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof, Or, by the worth of man’s eternal soul, Thou hadst been better have been born a dog Than answer my wak’d wrath. IAGO. Is’t come to this? OTHELLO. Make me to see’t, or at the least so prove it, That the probation bear no hinge nor loop To hang a doubt on, or woe upon thy life! IAGO. My noble lord,— OTHELLO. If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more. Abandon all remorse; On horror’s head horrors accumulate; Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amaz’d; For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than that. IAGO. O grace! O heaven defend me! Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense? God be wi’ you. Take mine office.—O wretched fool, That liv’st to make thine honesty a vice! O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe. I thank you for this profit, and from hence I’ll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence. OTHELLO. Nay, stay. Thou shouldst be honest. IAGO. I should be wise; for honesty’s a fool, And loses that it works for. OTHELLO. By the world, I think my wife be honest, and think she is not. I think that thou art just, and think thou art not. I’ll have some proof: her name, that was as fresh As Dian’s visage, is now begrim’d and black As mine own face. If there be cords or knives, Poison or fire, or suffocating streams, I’ll not endure ’t. Would I were satisfied! IAGO. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion. I do repent me that I put it to you. You would be satisfied? OTHELLO. Would? Nay, I will. IAGO. And may; but how? How satisfied, my lord? Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on, Behold her topp’d? OTHELLO. Death and damnation! O! IAGO. It were a tedious difficulty, I think, To bring them to that prospect. Damn them then, If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster More than their own! What then? How then? What shall I say? Where’s satisfaction? It is impossible you should see this, Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys, As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross As ignorance made drunk. But yet I say, If imputation and strong circumstances, Which lead directly to the door of truth, Will give you satisfaction, you may have’t. OTHELLO. Give me a living reason she’s disloyal. IAGO. I do not like the office, But sith I am enter’d in this cause so far, Prick’d to ’t by foolish honesty and love, I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately, And being troubled with a raging tooth, I could not sleep. There are a kind of men so loose of soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs. One of this kind is Cassio: In sleep I heard him say, “Sweet Desdemona, Let us be wary, let us hide our loves;” And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand, Cry “O sweet creature!” and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck’d up kisses by the roots, That grew upon my lips, then laid his leg Over my thigh, and sigh’d and kiss’d, and then Cried “Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!” OTHELLO. O monstrous! monstrous! IAGO. Nay, this was but his dream. OTHELLO. But this denoted a foregone conclusion. ’Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream. IAGO. And this may help to thicken other proofs That do demonstrate thinly. OTHELLO. I’ll tear her all to pieces. IAGO. Nay, but be wise. Yet we see nothing done, She may be honest yet. Tell me but this, Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief Spotted with strawberries in your wife’s hand? OTHELLO. I gave her such a one, ’twas my first gift. IAGO. I know not that: but such a handkerchief (I am sure it was your wife’s) did I today See Cassio wipe his beard with. OTHELLO. If it be that,— IAGO. If it be that, or any that was hers, It speaks against her with the other proofs. OTHELLO. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge! Now do I see ’tis true. Look here, Iago; All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. ’Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow hell! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For ’tis of aspics’ tongues! IAGO. Yet be content. OTHELLO. O, blood, Iago, blood! IAGO. Patience, I say. Your mind perhaps may change. OTHELLO. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont; Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up. Now by yond marble heaven, In the due reverence of a sacred vow [_Kneels._] I here engage my words. IAGO. Do not rise yet. [_Kneels._] Witness, you ever-burning lights above, You elements that clip us round about, Witness that here Iago doth give up The execution of his wit, hands, heart, To wrong’d Othello’s service! Let him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody business ever. [_They rise._] OTHELLO. I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous, And will upon the instant put thee to ’t. Within these three days let me hear thee say That Cassio’s not alive. IAGO. My friend is dead. ’Tis done at your request. But let her live. OTHELLO. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her, damn her! Come, go with me apart, I will withdraw To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. IAGO. I am your own for ever. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Cyprus. Before the Castle. Enter Desdemona, Emilia and Clown. DESDEMONA. Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies? CLOWN. I dare not say he lies anywhere. DESDEMONA. Why, man? CLOWN. He’s a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies is stabbing. DESDEMONA. Go to. Where lodges he? CLOWN. To tell you where he lodges is to tell you where I lie. DESDEMONA. Can anything be made of this? CLOWN. I know not where he lodges; and for me to devise a lodging, and say he lies here, or he lies there, were to lie in mine own throat. DESDEMONA. Can you inquire him out, and be edified by report? CLOWN. I will catechize the world for him, that is, make questions and by them answer. DESDEMONA. Seek him, bid him come hither. Tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well. CLOWN. To do this is within the compass of man’s wit, and therefore I will attempt the doing it. [_Exit._] DESDEMONA. Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia? EMILIA. I know not, madam. DESDEMONA. Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse Full of crusadoes. And but my noble Moor Is true of mind and made of no such baseness As jealous creatures are, it were enough To put him to ill thinking. EMILIA. Is he not jealous? DESDEMONA. Who, he? I think the sun where he was born Drew all such humours from him. EMILIA. Look, where he comes. Enter Othello. DESDEMONA. I will not leave him now till Cassio Be call’d to him. How is’t with you, my lord? OTHELLO. Well, my good lady. [_Aside._] O, hardness to dissemble! How do you, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. Well, my good lord. OTHELLO. Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my lady. DESDEMONA. It yet hath felt no age nor known no sorrow. OTHELLO. This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart. Hot, hot, and moist. This hand of yours requires A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer, Much castigation, exercise devout; For here’s a young and sweating devil here That commonly rebels. ’Tis a good hand, A frank one. DESDEMONA. You may indeed say so, For ’twas that hand that gave away my heart. OTHELLO. A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave hands, But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts. DESDEMONA. I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise. OTHELLO. What promise, chuck? DESDEMONA. I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you. OTHELLO. I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me. Lend me thy handkerchief. DESDEMONA. Here, my lord. OTHELLO. That which I gave you. DESDEMONA. I have it not about me. OTHELLO. Not? DESDEMONA. No, faith, my lord. OTHELLO. That is a fault. That handkerchief Did an Egyptian to my mother give. She was a charmer, and could almost read The thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it, ’Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love. But if she lost it, Or made a gift of it, my father’s eye Should hold her loathed, and his spirits should hunt After new fancies: she, dying, gave it me, And bid me, when my fate would have me wive, To give it her. I did so; and take heed on’t, Make it a darling like your precious eye. To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition As nothing else could match. DESDEMONA. Is’t possible? OTHELLO. ’Tis true. There’s magic in the web of it. A sibyl, that had number’d in the world The sun to course two hundred compasses, In her prophetic fury sew’d the work; The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk, And it was dyed in mummy, which the skillful Conserv’d of maiden’s hearts. DESDEMONA. Indeed? Is’t true? OTHELLO. Most veritable, therefore look to ’t well. DESDEMONA. Then would to God that I had never seen ’t! OTHELLO. Ha? wherefore? DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so startingly and rash? OTHELLO. Is’t lost? is’t gone? speak, is it out of the way? DESDEMONA. Heaven bless us! OTHELLO. Say you? DESDEMONA. It is not lost, but what and if it were? OTHELLO. How? DESDEMONA. I say it is not lost. OTHELLO. Fetch’t, let me see ’t. DESDEMONA. Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now. This is a trick to put me from my suit. Pray you, let Cassio be receiv’d again. OTHELLO. Fetch me the handkerchief! My mind misgives. DESDEMONA. Come, come. You’ll never meet a more sufficient man. OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. I pray, talk me of Cassio. OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. A man that all his time Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, Shar’d dangers with you,— OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. In sooth, you are to blame. OTHELLO. Away! [_Exit._] EMILIA. Is not this man jealous? DESDEMONA. I ne’er saw this before. Sure there’s some wonder in this handkerchief, I am most unhappy in the loss of it. EMILIA. ’Tis not a year or two shows us a man: They are all but stomachs and we all but food; They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, They belch us. Enter Cassio and Iago. Look you, Cassio and my husband. IAGO. There is no other way; ’tis she must do ’t, And, lo, the happiness! Go and importune her. DESDEMONA. How now, good Cassio, what’s the news with you? CASSIO. Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you That by your virtuous means I may again Exist, and be a member of his love, Whom I, with all the office of my heart, Entirely honour. I would not be delay’d. If my offence be of such mortal kind That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, Nor purpos’d merit in futurity, Can ransom me into his love again, But to know so must be my benefit; So shall I clothe me in a forc’d content, And shut myself up in some other course To fortune’s alms. DESDEMONA. Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio, My advocation is not now in tune; My lord is not my lord; nor should I know him Were he in favour as in humour alter’d. So help me every spirit sanctified, As I have spoken for you all my best, And stood within the blank of his displeasure For my free speech! You must awhile be patient. What I can do I will; and more I will Than for myself I dare. Let that suffice you. IAGO. Is my lord angry? EMILIA. He went hence but now, And certainly in strange unquietness. IAGO. Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon, When it hath blown his ranks into the air And, like the devil, from his very arm Puff’d his own brother, and can he be angry? Something of moment then. I will go meet him. There’s matter in’t indeed if he be angry. DESDEMONA. I prithee do so. [_Exit Iago._] Something sure of state, Either from Venice, or some unhatch’d practice Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, Hath puddled his clear spirit, and in such cases Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things, Though great ones are their object. ’Tis even so. For let our finger ache, and it indues Our other healthful members even to that sense Of pain. Nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such observancy As fits the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia, I was (unhandsome warrior as I am) Arraigning his unkindness with my soul; But now I find I had suborn’d the witness, And he’s indicted falsely. EMILIA. Pray heaven it be state matters, as you think, And no conception nor no jealous toy Concerning you. DESDEMONA. Alas the day, I never gave him cause! EMILIA. But jealous souls will not be answer’d so; They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they are jealous: ’tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself. DESDEMONA. Heaven keep that monster from Othello’s mind! EMILIA. Lady, amen. DESDEMONA. I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout: If I do find him fit, I’ll move your suit, And seek to effect it to my uttermost. CASSIO. I humbly thank your ladyship. [_Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia._] Enter Bianca. BIANCA. Save you, friend Cassio! CASSIO. What make you from home? How is it with you, my most fair Bianca? I’ faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house. BIANCA. And I was going to your lodging, Cassio. What, keep a week away? Seven days and nights? Eight score eight hours, and lovers’ absent hours, More tedious than the dial eight score times? O weary reckoning! CASSIO. Pardon me, Bianca. I have this while with leaden thoughts been press’d, But I shall in a more continuate time Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca, [_Giving her Desdemona’s handkerchief._] Take me this work out. BIANCA. O Cassio, whence came this? This is some token from a newer friend. To the felt absence now I feel a cause. Is’t come to this? Well, well. CASSIO. Go to, woman! Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth, From whence you have them. You are jealous now That this is from some mistress, some remembrance. No, in good troth, Bianca. BIANCA. Why, whose is it? CASSIO. I know not neither. I found it in my chamber. I like the work well. Ere it be demanded, As like enough it will, I’d have it copied. Take it, and do ’t, and leave me for this time. BIANCA. Leave you, wherefore? CASSIO. I do attend here on the general, And think it no addition, nor my wish, To have him see me woman’d. BIANCA. Why, I pray you? CASSIO. Not that I love you not. BIANCA. But that you do not love me. I pray you bring me on the way a little, And say if I shall see you soon at night. CASSIO. ’Tis but a little way that I can bring you, For I attend here. But I’ll see you soon. BIANCA. ’Tis very good; I must be circumstanc’d. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Cyprus. Before the Castle. Enter Othello and Iago. IAGO. Will you think so? OTHELLO. Think so, Iago? IAGO. What, To kiss in private? OTHELLO. An unauthoriz’d kiss. IAGO. Or to be naked with her friend in bed An hour or more, not meaning any harm? OTHELLO. Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm? It is hypocrisy against the devil: They that mean virtuously and yet do so, The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven. IAGO. So they do nothing, ’tis a venial slip. But if I give my wife a handkerchief— OTHELLO. What then? IAGO. Why then, ’tis hers, my lord, and being hers, She may, I think, bestow’t on any man. OTHELLO. She is protectress of her honour too. May she give that? IAGO. Her honour is an essence that’s not seen; They have it very oft that have it not: But for the handkerchief— OTHELLO. By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it. Thou said’st (O, it comes o’er my memory, As doth the raven o’er the infected house, Boding to all) he had my handkerchief. IAGO. Ay, what of that? OTHELLO. That’s not so good now. IAGO. What If I had said I had seen him do you wrong? Or heard him say (as knaves be such abroad, Who having, by their own importunate suit, Or voluntary dotage of some mistress, Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose But they must blab.) OTHELLO. Hath he said anything? IAGO. He hath, my lord, but be you well assur’d, No more than he’ll unswear. OTHELLO. What hath he said? IAGO. Faith, that he did—I know not what he did. OTHELLO. What? What? IAGO. Lie. OTHELLO. With her? IAGO. With her, on her, what you will. OTHELLO. Lie with her! lie on her!—We say lie on her when they belie her.—Lie with her! that’s fulsome. Handkerchief—confessions—handkerchief! To confess, and be hanged for his labour. First, to be hanged, and then to confess. I tremble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. Is’t possible?—Confess?—handkerchief?—O devil!— [_Falls in a trance._] IAGO. Work on, My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught, And many worthy and chaste dames even thus, All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord! My lord, I say! Othello! Enter Cassio. How now, Cassio! CASSIO. What’s the matter? IAGO. My lord is fallen into an epilepsy. This is his second fit. He had one yesterday. CASSIO. Rub him about the temples. IAGO. No, forbear; The lethargy must have his quiet course. If not, he foams at mouth, and by and by Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs: Do you withdraw yourself a little while, He will recover straight. When he is gone, I would on great occasion speak with you. [_Exit Cassio._] How is it, general? Have you not hurt your head? OTHELLO. Dost thou mock me? IAGO. I mock you? No, by heaven. Would you would bear your fortune like a man! OTHELLO. A horned man’s a monster and a beast. IAGO. There’s many a beast, then, in a populous city, And many a civil monster. OTHELLO. Did he confess it? IAGO. Good sir, be a man. Think every bearded fellow that’s but yok’d May draw with you. There’s millions now alive That nightly lie in those unproper beds Which they dare swear peculiar: your case is better. O, ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock, To lip a wanton in a secure couch, And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know, And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be. OTHELLO. O, thou art wise, ’tis certain. IAGO. Stand you awhile apart, Confine yourself but in a patient list. Whilst you were here o’erwhelmed with your grief, (A passion most unsuiting such a man) Cassio came hither. I shifted him away, And laid good ’scuse upon your ecstasy, Bade him anon return, and here speak with me, The which he promis’d. Do but encave yourself, And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns, That dwell in every region of his face; For I will make him tell the tale anew, Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when He hath, and is again to cope your wife: I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience, Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen, And nothing of a man. OTHELLO. Dost thou hear, Iago? I will be found most cunning in my patience; But,—dost thou hear?—most bloody. IAGO. That’s not amiss. But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw? [_Othello withdraws._] Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, A housewife that by selling her desires Buys herself bread and clothes: it is a creature That dotes on Cassio, (as ’tis the strumpet’s plague To beguile many and be beguil’d by one.) He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain From the excess of laughter. Here he comes. Enter Cassio. As he shall smile Othello shall go mad, And his unbookish jealousy must construe Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures, and light behaviour Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant? CASSIO. The worser that you give me the addition Whose want even kills me. IAGO. Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on’t. [_Speaking lower._] Now, if this suit lay in Bianca’s power, How quickly should you speed! CASSIO. Alas, poor caitiff! OTHELLO. [_Aside._] Look how he laughs already! IAGO. I never knew a woman love man so. CASSIO. Alas, poor rogue! I think, i’ faith, she loves me. OTHELLO. [_Aside._] Now he denies it faintly and laughs it out. IAGO. Do you hear, Cassio? OTHELLO. Now he importunes him To tell it o’er. Go to, well said, well said. IAGO. She gives it out that you shall marry her. Do you intend it? CASSIO. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Do you triumph, Roman? Do you triumph? CASSIO. I marry her? What? A customer? I prithee, bear some charity to my wit, do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. So, so, so, so. They laugh that wins. IAGO. Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her. CASSIO. Prithee say true. IAGO. I am a very villain else. OTHELLO. Have you scored me? Well. CASSIO. This is the monkey’s own giving out. She is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise. OTHELLO. Iago beckons me. Now he begins the story. CASSIO. She was here even now. She haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea-bank with certain Venetians, and thither comes the bauble, and falls thus about my neck. OTHELLO. Crying, “O dear Cassio!” as it were: his gesture imports it. CASSIO. So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon me; so hales and pulls me. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O, I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall throw it to. CASSIO. Well, I must leave her company. IAGO. Before me! look where she comes. Enter Bianca. CASSIO. ’Tis such another fitchew! Marry, a perfum’d one. What do you mean by this haunting of me? BIANCA. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the work? A likely piece of work, that you should find it in your chamber and not know who left it there! This is some minx’s token, and I must take out the work? There, give it your hobby-horse. Wheresoever you had it, I’ll take out no work on’t. CASSIO. How now, my sweet Bianca? How now, how now? OTHELLO. By heaven, that should be my handkerchief! BIANCA. If you’ll come to supper tonight, you may. If you will not, come when you are next prepared for. [_Exit._] IAGO. After her, after her. CASSIO. Faith, I must; she’ll rail in the street else. IAGO. Will you sup there? CASSIO. Faith, I intend so. IAGO. Well, I may chance to see you, for I would very fain speak with you. CASSIO. Prithee come, will you? IAGO. Go to; say no more. [_Exit Cassio._] OTHELLO. [_Coming forward._] How shall I murder him, Iago? IAGO. Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice? OTHELLO. O Iago! IAGO. And did you see the handkerchief? OTHELLO. Was that mine? IAGO. Yours, by this hand: and to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! she gave it him, and he hath given it his whore. OTHELLO. I would have him nine years a-killing. A fine woman, a fair woman, a sweet woman! IAGO. Nay, you must forget that. OTHELLO. Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned tonight, for she shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the world hath not a sweeter creature. She might lie by an emperor’s side, and command him tasks. IAGO. Nay, that’s not your way. OTHELLO. Hang her, I do but say what she is. So delicate with her needle, an admirable musician! O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear! Of so high and plenteous wit and invention! IAGO. She’s the worse for all this. OTHELLO. O, a thousand, a thousand times: and then of so gentle a condition! IAGO. Ay, too gentle. OTHELLO. Nay, that’s certain. But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! IAGO. If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend, for if it touch not you, it comes near nobody. OTHELLO. I will chop her into messes. Cuckold me! IAGO. O, ’tis foul in her. OTHELLO. With mine officer! IAGO. That’s fouler. OTHELLO. Get me some poison, Iago; this night. I’ll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind again. This night, Iago. IAGO. Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated. OTHELLO. Good, good. The justice of it pleases. Very good. IAGO. And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker. You shall hear more by midnight. OTHELLO. Excellent good. [_A trumpet within._] What trumpet is that same? Enter Lodovico, Desdemona and Attendant. IAGO. Something from Venice, sure. ’Tis Lodovico Come from the duke. See, your wife is with him. LODOVICO. Save you, worthy general! OTHELLO. With all my heart, sir. LODOVICO. The duke and senators of Venice greet you. [_Gives him a packet._] OTHELLO. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. [_Opens the packet and reads._] DESDEMONA. And what’s the news, good cousin Lodovico? IAGO. I am very glad to see you, signior. Welcome to Cyprus. LODOVICO. I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio? IAGO. Lives, sir. DESDEMONA. Cousin, there’s fall’n between him and my lord An unkind breach, but you shall make all well. OTHELLO. Are you sure of that? DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. [_Reads._] “This fail you not to do, as you will—” LODOVICO. He did not call; he’s busy in the paper. Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio? DESDEMONA. A most unhappy one. I would do much To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. OTHELLO. Fire and brimstone! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. Are you wise? DESDEMONA. What, is he angry? LODOVICO. May be the letter mov’d him; For, as I think, they do command him home, Deputing Cassio in his government. DESDEMONA. Trust me, I am glad on’t. OTHELLO. Indeed! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. I am glad to see you mad. DESDEMONA. Why, sweet Othello? OTHELLO. Devil! [_Striking her._] DESDEMONA. I have not deserv’d this. LODOVICO. My lord, this would not be believ’d in Venice, Though I should swear I saw’t: ’tis very much. Make her amends. She weeps. OTHELLO. O devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight! DESDEMONA. I will not stay to offend you. [_Going._] LODOVICO. Truly, an obedient lady. I do beseech your lordship, call her back. OTHELLO. Mistress! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. What would you with her, sir? LODOVICO. Who, I, my lord? OTHELLO. Ay, you did wish that I would make her turn. Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on, And turn again. And she can weep, sir, weep; And she’s obedient, as you say, obedient, Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears. Concerning this, sir,—O well-painted passion! I am commanded home.—Get you away; I’ll send for you anon.—Sir, I obey the mandate, And will return to Venice.—Hence, avaunt! [_Exit Desdemona._] Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight, I do entreat that we may sup together. You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys! [_Exit._] LODOVICO. Is this the noble Moor, whom our full senate Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue The shot of accident nor dart of chance Could neither graze nor pierce? IAGO. He is much chang’d. LODOVICO. Are his wits safe? Is he not light of brain? IAGO. He’s that he is. I may not breathe my censure What he might be. If what he might he is not, I would to heaven he were! LODOVICO. What, strike his wife? IAGO. Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew That stroke would prove the worst! LODOVICO. Is it his use? Or did the letters work upon his blood, And new-create this fault? IAGO. Alas, alas! It is not honesty in me to speak What I have seen and known. You shall observe him, And his own courses will denote him so That I may save my speech: do but go after, And mark how he continues. LODOVICO. I am sorry that I am deceiv’d in him. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle. Enter Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. You have seen nothing, then? EMILIA. Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect. OTHELLO. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together. EMILIA. But then I saw no harm, and then I heard Each syllable that breath made up between them. OTHELLO. What, did they never whisper? EMILIA. Never, my lord. OTHELLO. Nor send you out o’ the way? EMILIA. Never. OTHELLO. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing? EMILIA. Never, my lord. OTHELLO. That’s strange. EMILIA. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other, Remove your thought, it doth abuse your bosom. If any wretch have put this in your head, Let heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse, For if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There’s no man happy. The purest of their wives Is foul as slander. OTHELLO. Bid her come hither. Go. [_Exit Emilia._] She says enough. Yet she’s a simple bawd That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, A closet lock and key of villainous secrets. And yet she’ll kneel and pray. I have seen her do ’t. Enter Desdemona and Emilia. DESDEMONA. My lord, what is your will? OTHELLO. Pray, chuck, come hither. DESDEMONA. What is your pleasure? OTHELLO. Let me see your eyes. Look in my face. DESDEMONA. What horrible fancy’s this? OTHELLO. [_To Emilia._] Some of your function, mistress, Leave procreants alone, and shut the door. Cough, or cry hem, if anybody come. Your mystery, your mystery. Nay, dispatch. [_Exit Emilia._] DESDEMONA. Upon my knees, what doth your speech import? I understand a fury in your words, But not the words. OTHELLO. Why, what art thou? DESDEMONA. Your wife, my lord, your true and loyal wife. OTHELLO. Come, swear it, damn thyself, Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves Should fear to seize thee. Therefore be double-damn’d. Swear thou art honest. DESDEMONA. Heaven doth truly know it. OTHELLO. Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell. DESDEMONA. To whom, my lord? With whom? How am I false? OTHELLO. O Desdemona, away! away! away! DESDEMONA. Alas the heavy day, why do you weep? Am I the motive of these tears, my lord? If haply you my father do suspect An instrument of this your calling back, Lay not your blame on me. If you have lost him, Why, I have lost him too. OTHELLO. Had it pleas’d heaven To try me with affliction, had they rain’d All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head, Steep’d me in poverty to the very lips, Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience. But, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at. Yet could I bear that too, well, very well: But there, where I have garner’d up my heart, Where either I must live or bear no life, The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up, to be discarded thence, Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads To knot and gender in!—turn thy complexion there, Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin, Ay, there, look grim as hell! DESDEMONA. I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. OTHELLO. O, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell’st so sweet, That the sense aches at thee, Would thou hadst ne’er been born! DESDEMONA. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? OTHELLO. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write “whore” upon? What committed? Committed! O thou public commoner! I should make very forges of my cheeks, That would to cinders burn up modesty, Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed! Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks; The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets, Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth, And will not hear it. What committed! Impudent strumpet! DESDEMONA. By heaven, you do me wrong. OTHELLO. Are not you a strumpet? DESDEMONA. No, as I am a Christian: If to preserve this vessel for my lord From any other foul unlawful touch Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. OTHELLO. What, not a whore? DESDEMONA. No, as I shall be sav’d. OTHELLO. Is’t possible? DESDEMONA. O, heaven forgive us! OTHELLO. I cry you mercy then. I took you for that cunning whore of Venice That married with Othello.—You, mistress, Enter Emilia. That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keeps the gate of hell. You, you, ay, you! We have done our course; there’s money for your pains. I pray you turn the key, and keep our counsel. [_Exit._] EMILIA. Alas, what does this gentleman conceive? How do you, madam? How do you, my good lady? DESDEMONA. Faith, half asleep. EMILIA. Good madam, what’s the matter with my lord? DESDEMONA. With who? EMILIA. Why, with my lord, madam. DESDEMONA. Who is thy lord? EMILIA. He that is yours, sweet lady. DESDEMONA. I have none. Do not talk to me, Emilia, I cannot weep, nor answer have I none But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight Lay on my bed my wedding sheets, remember, And call thy husband hither. EMILIA. Here’s a change indeed! [_Exit._] DESDEMONA. ’Tis meet I should be us’d so, very meet. How have I been behav’d, that he might stick The small’st opinion on my least misuse? Enter Iago and Emilia. IAGO. What is your pleasure, madam? How is’t with you? DESDEMONA. I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks. He might have chid me so, for, in good faith, I am a child to chiding. IAGO. What’s the matter, lady? EMILIA. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhor’d her, Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, As true hearts cannot bear. DESDEMONA. Am I that name, Iago? IAGO. What name, fair lady? DESDEMONA. Such as she says my lord did say I was. EMILIA. He call’d her whore: a beggar in his drink Could not have laid such terms upon his callet. IAGO. Why did he so? DESDEMONA. I do not know. I am sure I am none such. IAGO. Do not weep, do not weep: alas the day! EMILIA. Hath she forsook so many noble matches, Her father, and her country, and her friends, To be call’d whore? would it not make one weep? DESDEMONA. It is my wretched fortune. IAGO. Beshrew him for’t! How comes this trick upon him? DESDEMONA. Nay, heaven doth know. EMILIA. I will be hang’d, if some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, Have not devis’d this slander. I’ll be hang’d else. IAGO. Fie, there is no such man. It is impossible. DESDEMONA. If any such there be, heaven pardon him! EMILIA. A halter pardon him, and hell gnaw his bones! Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company? What place? what time? what form? what likelihood? The Moor’s abused by some most villainous knave, Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. O heaven, that such companions thou’dst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the rascals naked through the world Even from the east to the west! IAGO. Speak within door. EMILIA. O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was That turn’d your wit the seamy side without, And made you to suspect me with the Moor. IAGO. You are a fool. Go to. DESDEMONA. Alas, Iago, What shall I do to win my lord again? Good friend, go to him. For by this light of heaven, I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel. If e’er my will did trespass ’gainst his love, Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form, Or that I do not yet, and ever did, And ever will, (though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement) love him dearly, Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much; And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. I cannot say “whore,” It does abhor me now I speak the word; To do the act that might the addition earn Not the world’s mass of vanity could make me. IAGO. I pray you, be content. ’Tis but his humour. The business of the state does him offence, And he does chide with you. DESDEMONA. If ’twere no other,— IAGO. ’Tis but so, I warrant. [_Trumpets within._] Hark, how these instruments summon to supper. The messengers of Venice stay the meat. Go in, and weep not. All things shall be well. [_Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia._] Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo? RODERIGO. I do not find that thou dealest justly with me. IAGO. What in the contrary? RODERIGO. Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago, and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it. Nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered. IAGO. Will you hear me, Roderigo? RODERIGO. Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and performances are no kin together. IAGO. You charge me most unjustly. RODERIGO. With naught but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist: you have told me she hath received them, and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance, but I find none. IAGO. Well, go to, very well. RODERIGO. Very well, go to, I cannot go to, man, nor ’tis not very well. Nay, I say ’tis very scurvy, and begin to find myself fopped in it. IAGO. Very well. RODERIGO. I tell you ’tis not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona. If she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation. If not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you. IAGO. You have said now. RODERIGO. Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing. IAGO. Why, now I see there’s mettle in thee, and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo. Thou hast taken against me a most just exception, but yet I protest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair. RODERIGO. It hath not appeared. IAGO. I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgement. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than ever,—I mean purpose, courage, and valour,—this night show it. If thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery and devise engines for my life. RODERIGO. Well, what is it? Is it within reason and compass? IAGO. Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello’s place. RODERIGO. Is that true? Why then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice. IAGO. O, no; he goes into Mauritania, and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be lingered here by some accident: wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio. RODERIGO. How do you mean “removing” of him? IAGO. Why, by making him uncapable of Othello’s place: knocking out his brains. RODERIGO. And that you would have me to do? IAGO. Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He sups tonight with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him. He knows not yet of his honourable fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which I will fashion to fall out between twelve and one, you may take him at your pleasure: I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me. I will show you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste. About it. RODERIGO. I will hear further reason for this. IAGO. And you shall be satisfied. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Cyprus. Another Room in the Castle. Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia and Attendants. LODOVICO. I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further. OTHELLO. O, pardon me; ’twill do me good to walk. LODOVICO. Madam, good night. I humbly thank your ladyship. DESDEMONA. Your honour is most welcome. OTHELLO. Will you walk, sir?— O, Desdemona,— DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. Get you to bed on th’ instant, I will be return’d forthwith. Dismiss your attendant there. Look ’t be done. DESDEMONA. I will, my lord. [_Exeunt Othello, Lodovico and Attendants._] EMILIA. How goes it now? He looks gentler than he did. DESDEMONA. He says he will return incontinent, He hath commanded me to go to bed, And bade me to dismiss you. EMILIA. Dismiss me? DESDEMONA. It was his bidding. Therefore, good Emilia, Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu. We must not now displease him. EMILIA. I would you had never seen him! DESDEMONA. So would not I. My love doth so approve him, That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns,— Prithee, unpin me,—have grace and favour in them. EMILIA. I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed. DESDEMONA. All’s one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds! If I do die before thee, prithee, shroud me In one of those same sheets. EMILIA. Come, come, you talk. DESDEMONA. My mother had a maid call’d Barbary, She was in love, and he she lov’d prov’d mad And did forsake her. She had a song of “willow”, An old thing ’twas, but it express’d her fortune, And she died singing it. That song tonight Will not go from my mind. I have much to do But to go hang my head all at one side And sing it like poor Barbary. Prithee dispatch. EMILIA. Shall I go fetch your night-gown? DESDEMONA. No, unpin me here. This Lodovico is a proper man. EMILIA. A very handsome man. DESDEMONA. He speaks well. EMILIA. I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip. DESDEMONA. [_Singing._] _The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow. Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow. The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans, Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d the stones;—_ Lay by these:— [_Sings._] _Sing willow, willow, willow._ Prithee hie thee. He’ll come anon. [_Sings._] _Sing all a green willow must be my garland. Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve,—_ Nay, that’s not next. Hark! who is’t that knocks? EMILIA. It’s the wind. DESDEMONA. [_Sings._] _I call’d my love false love; but what said he then? Sing willow, willow, willow: If I court mo women, you’ll couch with mo men._ So get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch; Doth that bode weeping? EMILIA. ’Tis neither here nor there. DESDEMONA. I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think,—tell me, Emilia,— That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind? EMILIA. There be some such, no question. DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? EMILIA. Why, would not you? DESDEMONA. No, by this heavenly light! EMILIA. Nor I neither by this heavenly light, I might do’t as well i’ the dark. DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? EMILIA. The world’s a huge thing. It is a great price For a small vice. DESDEMONA. In troth, I think thou wouldst not. EMILIA. In troth, I think I should, and undo’t when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition; but, for the whole world—why, who would not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for ’t. DESDEMONA. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong for the whole world. EMILIA. Why, the wrong is but a wrong i’ the world; and having the world for your labour, ’tis a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right. DESDEMONA. I do not think there is any such woman. EMILIA. Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage as would store the world they played for. But I do think it is their husbands’ faults If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties, And pour our treasures into foreign laps; Or else break out in peevish jealousies, Throwing restraint upon us. Or say they strike us, Or scant our former having in despite. Why, we have galls; and though we have some grace, Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them: they see, and smell And have their palates both for sweet and sour, As husbands have. What is it that they do When they change us for others? Is it sport? I think it is. And doth affection breed it? I think it doth. Is’t frailty that thus errs? It is so too. And have not we affections, Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have? Then let them use us well: else let them know, The ills we do, their ills instruct us so. DESDEMONA. Good night, good night. Heaven me such usage send, Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend! [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Cyprus. A Street. Enter Iago and Roderigo. IAGO. Here, stand behind this bulk. Straight will he come. Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home. Quick, quick, fear nothing; I’ll be at thy elbow. It makes us, or it mars us, think on that, And fix most firm thy resolution. RODERIGO. Be near at hand, I may miscarry in ’t. IAGO. Here, at thy hand. Be bold, and take thy stand. [_Retires to a little distance._] RODERIGO. I have no great devotion to the deed; And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons. ’Tis but a man gone. Forth, my sword; he dies. [_Goes to his stand._] IAGO. I have rubb’d this young quat almost to the sense, And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio, Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other, Every way makes my gain. Live Roderigo, He calls me to a restitution large Of gold and jewels that I bobb’d from him, As gifts to Desdemona. It must not be. If Cassio do remain, He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly. And besides, the Moor May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril. No, he must die. But so, I hear him coming. Enter Cassio. RODERIGO. I know his gait; ’tis he. Villain, thou diest! [_Rushes out, and makes a pass at Cassio._] CASSIO. That thrust had been mine enemy indeed, But that my coat is better than thou know’st. I will make proof of thine. [_Draws, and wounds Roderigo._] RODERIGO. O, I am slain! [_Iago rushes from his post, cuts Cassio behind in the leg, and exit._] CASSIO. I am maim’d forever. Help, ho! murder, murder! [_Falls._] Enter Othello. OTHELLO. The voice of Cassio. Iago keeps his word. RODERIGO. O, villain that I am! OTHELLO. It is even so. CASSIO. O, help, ho! light! a surgeon! OTHELLO. ’Tis he. O brave Iago, honest and just, That hast such noble sense of thy friend’s wrong! Thou teachest me,—minion, your dear lies dead, And your unbless’d fate hies. Strumpet, I come! Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted; Thy bed, lust-stain’d, shall with lust’s blood be spotted. [_Exit._] Enter Lodovico and Gratiano. CASSIO. What, ho! No watch? No passage? murder, murder! GRATIANO. ’Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful. CASSIO. O, help! LODOVICO. Hark! RODERIGO. O wretched villain! LODOVICO. Two or three groan. It is a heavy night. These may be counterfeits. Let’s think’t unsafe To come in to the cry without more help. RODERIGO. Nobody come? Then shall I bleed to death. Enter Iago with a light. LODOVICO. Hark! GRATIANO. Here’s one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons. IAGO. Who’s there? Whose noise is this that cries on murder? LODOVICO. We do not know. IAGO. Did not you hear a cry? CASSIO. Here, here! for heaven’s sake, help me! IAGO. What’s the matter? GRATIANO. This is Othello’s ancient, as I take it. LODOVICO. The same indeed, a very valiant fellow. IAGO. What are you here that cry so grievously? CASSIO. Iago? O, I am spoil’d, undone by villains! Give me some help. IAGO. O me, lieutenant! What villains have done this? CASSIO. I think that one of them is hereabout, And cannot make away. IAGO. O treacherous villains! [_To Lodovico and Gratiano._] What are you there? Come in and give some help. RODERIGO. O, help me here! CASSIO. That’s one of them. IAGO. O murderous slave! O villain! [_Stabs Roderigo._] RODERIGO. O damn’d Iago! O inhuman dog! IAGO. Kill men i’ the dark! Where be these bloody thieves? How silent is this town! Ho! murder! murder! What may you be? Are you of good or evil? LODOVICO. As you shall prove us, praise us. IAGO. Signior Lodovico? LODOVICO. He, sir. IAGO. I cry you mercy. Here’s Cassio hurt by villains. GRATIANO. Cassio! IAGO. How is’t, brother? CASSIO. My leg is cut in two. IAGO. Marry, heaven forbid! Light, gentlemen, I’ll bind it with my shirt. Enter Bianca. BIANCA. What is the matter, ho? Who is’t that cried? IAGO. Who is’t that cried? BIANCA. O my dear Cassio, my sweet Cassio! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! IAGO. O notable strumpet! Cassio, may you suspect Who they should be that have thus mangled you? CASSIO. No. GRATIANO. I am sorry to find you thus; I have been to seek you. IAGO. Lend me a garter. So.—O, for a chair, To bear him easily hence! BIANCA. Alas, he faints! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! IAGO. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash To be a party in this injury. Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come; Lend me a light. Know we this face or no? Alas, my friend and my dear countryman Roderigo? No. Yes, sure; O heaven! Roderigo. GRATIANO. What, of Venice? IAGO. Even he, sir. Did you know him? GRATIANO. Know him? Ay. IAGO. Signior Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon. These bloody accidents must excuse my manners, That so neglected you. GRATIANO. I am glad to see you. IAGO. How do you, Cassio? O, a chair, a chair! GRATIANO. Roderigo! IAGO. He, he, ’tis he. [_A chair brought in._] O, that’s well said; the chair. Some good man bear him carefully from hence, I’ll fetch the general’s surgeon. [_To Bianca_] For you, mistress, Save you your labour. He that lies slain here, Cassio, Was my dear friend. What malice was between you? CASSIO. None in the world. Nor do I know the man. IAGO. [_To Bianca._] What, look you pale?—O, bear him out o’ the air. [_Cassio and Roderigo are borne off._] Stay you, good gentlemen.—Look you pale, mistress? Do you perceive the gastness of her eye? Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon. Behold her well. I pray you, look upon her. Do you see, gentlemen? Nay, guiltiness will speak Though tongues were out of use. Enter Emilia. EMILIA. ’Las, what’s the matter? What’s the matter, husband? IAGO. Cassio hath here been set on in the dark By Roderigo, and fellows that are ’scap’d. He’s almost slain, and Roderigo dead. EMILIA. Alas, good gentleman! alas, good Cassio! IAGO. This is the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia, Go know of Cassio where he supp’d tonight. What, do you shake at that? BIANCA. He supp’d at my house, but I therefore shake not. IAGO. O, did he so? I charge you go with me. EMILIA. Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet! BIANCA. I am no strumpet, but of life as honest As you that thus abuse me. EMILIA. As I? Foh! fie upon thee! IAGO. Kind gentlemen, let’s go see poor Cassio dress’d. Come, mistress, you must tell’s another tale. Emilia, run you to the citadel, And tell my lord and lady what hath happ’d. Will you go on afore? [_Aside._] This is the night That either makes me or fordoes me quite. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Cyprus. A Bedchamber in the castle. Desdemona in bed asleep; a light burning. Enter Othello. OTHELLO. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the light: If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me. But once put out thy light, Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume. When I have pluck’d thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It must needs wither. I’ll smell it on the tree. [_Kissing her._] O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one more. Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after. One more, and this the last. So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep, But they are cruel tears. This sorrow’s heavenly, It strikes where it doth love. She wakes. DESDEMONA. Who’s there? Othello? OTHELLO. Ay, Desdemona. DESDEMONA. Will you come to bed, my lord? OTHELLO. Have you pray’d tonight, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. Ay, my lord. OTHELLO. If you bethink yourself of any crime Unreconcil’d as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. DESDEMONA. Alack, my lord, what may you mean by that? OTHELLO. Well, do it, and be brief, I will walk by. I would not kill thy unprepared spirit, No, heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul. DESDEMONA. Talk you of killing? OTHELLO. Ay, I do. DESDEMONA. Then heaven have mercy on me! OTHELLO. Amen, with all my heart! DESDEMONA. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. OTHELLO. Hum! DESDEMONA. And yet I fear you, for you are fatal then When your eyes roll so: why I should fear I know not, Since guiltiness I know not, but yet I feel I fear. OTHELLO. Think on thy sins. DESDEMONA. They are loves I bear to you. OTHELLO. Ay, and for that thou diest. DESDEMONA. That death’s unnatural that kills for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip? Some bloody passion shakes your very frame. These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do not point on me. OTHELLO. Peace, and be still! DESDEMONA. I will so. What’s the matter? OTHELLO. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee, Thou gav’st to Cassio. DESDEMONA. No, by my life and soul! Send for the man and ask him. OTHELLO. Sweet soul, take heed, take heed of perjury, Thou’rt on thy death-bed. DESDEMONA. Ay, but not yet to die. OTHELLO. Yes, presently: Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin. For to deny each article with oath Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. DESDEMONA. Then, Lord have mercy on me! OTHELLO. I say, amen. DESDEMONA. And have you mercy too! I never did Offend you in my life, never lov’d Cassio But with such general warranty of heaven As I might love. I never gave him token. OTHELLO. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in ’s hand. O perjur’d woman, thou dost stone my heart, And mak’st me call what I intend to do A murder, which I thought a sacrifice. I saw the handkerchief. DESDEMONA. He found it then. I never gave it him. Send for him hither. Let him confess a truth. OTHELLO. He hath confess’d. DESDEMONA. What, my lord? OTHELLO. That he hath us’d thee. DESDEMONA. How? Unlawfully? OTHELLO. Ay. DESDEMONA. He will not say so. OTHELLO. No, his mouth is stopp’d. Honest Iago hath ta’en order for ’t. DESDEMONA. O, my fear interprets! What, is he dead? OTHELLO. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. DESDEMONA. Alas, he is betray’d, and I undone! OTHELLO. Out, strumpet! Weep’st thou for him to my face? DESDEMONA. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not! OTHELLO. Down, strumpet! DESDEMONA. Kill me tomorrow, let me live tonight! OTHELLO. Nay, if you strive,— DESDEMONA. But half an hour! OTHELLO. Being done, there is no pause. DESDEMONA. But while I say one prayer! OTHELLO. It is too late. [_Smothers her._] EMILIA. [_Within._] My lord, my lord! what, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. What noise is this? Not dead? Not yet quite dead? I that am cruel am yet merciful, I would not have thee linger in thy pain. So, so. EMILIA. [_Within._] What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. Who’s there? EMILIA. [_Within._] O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you! OTHELLO. Yes. ’Tis Emilia, by and by. She’s dead. ’Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death; The noise was high.—Ha! no more moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? Were’t good? I think she stirs again; no. What’s best to do? If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife. My wife! my wife! what wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O heavy hour! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration. EMILIA. [_Within._] I do beseech you That I may speak with you, O, good my lord! OTHELLO. I had forgot thee: O, come in, Emilia. Soft, by and by; let me the curtains draw. Where art thou? [_Unlocks the door._] Enter Emilia. What’s the matter with thee now? EMILIA. O, my good lord, yonder’s foul murders done! OTHELLO. What, now? EMILIA. But now, my lord. OTHELLO. It is the very error of the moon, She comes more nearer earth than she was wont And makes men mad. EMILIA. Cassio, my lord, hath kill’d a young Venetian Call’d Roderigo. OTHELLO. Roderigo kill’d? And Cassio kill’d? EMILIA. No, Cassio is not kill’d. OTHELLO. Not Cassio kill’d! Then murder’s out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh. DESDEMONA. O, falsely, falsely murder’d! EMILIA. Alas, what cry is that? OTHELLO. That? What? EMILIA. Out, and alas! That was my lady’s voice. Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again, Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak! DESDEMONA. A guiltless death I die. EMILIA. O, who hath done this deed? DESDEMONA. Nobody; I myself. Farewell. Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! [_She dies._] OTHELLO. Why, how should she be murder’d? EMILIA. Alas, who knows? OTHELLO. You heard her say herself, it was not I. EMILIA. She said so. I must needs report the truth. OTHELLO. She’s like a liar, gone to burning hell. ’Twas I that kill’d her. EMILIA. O, the more angel she, And you the blacker devil! OTHELLO. She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore. EMILIA. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. OTHELLO. She was false as water. EMILIA. Thou art rash as fire, to say That she was false: O, she was heavenly true! OTHELLO. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else. O, I were damn’d beneath all depth in hell, But that I did proceed upon just grounds To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Thy husband. EMILIA. That she was false to wedlock? OTHELLO. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I’d not have sold her for it. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Ay, ’twas he that told me first. An honest man he is, and hates the slime That sticks on filthy deeds. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. What needs this iterance, woman? I say thy husband. EMILIA. O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love! My husband say that she was false? OTHELLO. He, woman; I say thy husband: dost understand the word? My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago. EMILIA. If he say so, may his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day! he lies to the heart. She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. OTHELLO. Ha! EMILIA. Do thy worst: This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her. OTHELLO. Peace, you were best. EMILIA. Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed (I care not for thy sword) I’ll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help! The Moor hath kill’d my mistress! Murder, murder! Enter Montano, Gratiano and Iago. MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general? EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago? You have done well, That men must lay their murders on your neck. GRATIANO. What is the matter? EMILIA. Disprove this villain, if thou be’st a man. He says thou told’st him that his wife was false. I know thou didst not, thou’rt not such a villain. Speak, for my heart is full. IAGO. I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. EMILIA. But did you ever tell him she was false? IAGO. I did. EMILIA. You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie; a wicked lie. She false with Cassio? Did you say with Cassio? IAGO. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. EMILIA. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak. My mistress here lies murder’d in her bed. ALL. O heavens forfend! EMILIA. And your reports have set the murder on. OTHELLO. Nay, stare not, masters, it is true indeed. GRATIANO. ’Tis a strange truth. MONTANO. O monstrous act! EMILIA. Villany, villany, villany! I think upon’t, I think I smell’t; O villany! I thought so then. I’ll kill myself for grief. O villany, villany! IAGO. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. EMILIA. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak. ’Tis proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, Iago, I will ne’er go home. OTHELLO. O! O! O! [_Hanging over his wife._] EMILIA. Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill’d the sweetest innocent That e’er did lift up eye. OTHELLO. [_Rising._] O, she was foul! I scarce did know you, uncle, there lies your niece, Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopp’d. I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO. Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father’s dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobance. OTHELLO. ’Tis pitiful. But yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath the act of shame A thousand times committed; Cassio confess’d it, And she did gratify his amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love Which I first gave her; I saw it in his hand. It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father gave my mother. EMILIA. O heaven! O heavenly powers! IAGO. Come, hold your peace. EMILIA. ’Twill out, ’twill out. I peace? No, I will speak as liberal as the north. Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I’ll speak. IAGO. Be wise, and get you home. EMILIA. I will not. [_Iago offers to stab his wife._] GRATIANO. Fie! Your sword upon a woman? EMILIA. O thou dull Moor, that handkerchief thou speak’st of I found by fortune and did give my husband; For often with a solemn earnestness, More than indeed belong’d to such a trifle, He begg’d of me to steal it. IAGO. Villanous whore! EMILIA. She give it Cassio! no, alas, I found it, And I did give’t my husband. IAGO. Filth, thou liest! EMILIA. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen. O murderous coxcomb! What should such a fool Do with so good a wife? OTHELLO Are there not stones in heaven But what serve for thunder? Precious villain! [_Iago stabs Emilia and then runs out._] GRATIANO. The woman falls. Sure, he hath kill’d his wife. EMILIA. Ay, ay. O, lay me by my mistress’ side. GRATIANO. He’s gone, but his wife’s kill’d. MONTANO. ’Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon, Which I have here recover’d from the Moor. Come, guard the door without, let him not pass, But kill him rather. I’ll after that same villain, For ’tis a damned slave. [_Exit Montano and Gratiano._] OTHELLO. I am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword. But why should honour outlive honesty? Let it go all. EMILIA. What did thy song bode, lady? Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan, And die in music. [_Sings._] _Willow, willow, willow._ Moor, she was chaste. She lov’d thee, cruel Moor, So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. [_She dies._] OTHELLO. I have another weapon in this chamber, It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook’s temper. O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. GRATIANO. [_Within._] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear; Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. OTHELLO. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. Enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. What is the matter? OTHELLO. Behold, I have a weapon. A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier’s thigh: I have seen the day That with this little arm and this good sword I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, O vain boast! Who can control his fate? ’Tis not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d. Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt, And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismay’d? ’Tis a lost fear. Man but a rush against Othello’s breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr’d wench, Pale as thy smock, when we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl! Even like thy chastity. O cursed, cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight! Blow me about in winds, roast me in sulphur, Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! O Desdemon! Dead, Desdemon! dead! Oh, oh! Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and Officers with Iago prisoner. LODOVICO. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man? OTHELLO. That’s he that was Othello. Here I am. LODOVICO. Where is that viper? Bring the villain forth. OTHELLO. I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable. If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee. [_Wounds Iago._] LODOVICO. Wrench his sword from him. IAGO. I bleed, sir, but not kill’d. OTHELLO. I am not sorry neither. I’d have thee live, For in my sense ’tis happiness to die. LODOVICO. O thou Othello, that wert once so good, Fall’n in the practice of a damned slave, What shall be said to thee? OTHELLO. Why, anything; An honourable murderer, if you will. For naught did I in hate, but all in honour. LODOVICO. This wretch hath part confess’d his villany. Did you and he consent in Cassio’s death? OTHELLO. Ay. CASSIO. Dear general, I never gave you cause. OTHELLO. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon. Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil Why he hath thus ensnar’d my soul and body? IAGO. Demand me nothing. What you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word. LODOVICO. What, not to pray? GRATIANO. Torments will ope your lips. OTHELLO. Well, thou dost best. LODOVICO. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall’n, Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo, And here another. The one of them imports The death of Cassio, to be undertook By Roderigo. OTHELLO. O villain! CASSIO. Most heathenish and most gross! LODOVICO. Now here’s another discontented paper, Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems, Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain, But that, belike, Iago in the interim Came in and satisfied him. OTHELLO. O the pernicious caitiff! How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief That was my wife’s? CASSIO. I found it in my chamber. And he himself confess’d but even now, That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose Which wrought to his desire. OTHELLO. O fool! fool! fool! CASSIO. There is besides in Roderigo’s letter, How he upbraids Iago, that he made him Brave me upon the watch, whereon it came That I was cast. And even but now he spake, After long seeming dead, Iago hurt him, Iago set him on. LODOVICO. You must forsake this room, and go with us. Your power and your command is taken off, And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him much and hold him long, It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, Till that the nature of your fault be known To the Venetian state. Come, bring away. OTHELLO. Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know’t. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely, but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplex’d in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdu’d eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal gum. Set you down this. And say besides, that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, And smote him, thus. [_Stabs himself._] LODOVICO. O bloody period! GRATIANO. All that’s spoke is marr’d. OTHELLO. I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. [_Falling upon Desdemona._] CASSIO. This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon, For he was great of heart. LODOVICO. [_To Iago._] O Spartan dog, More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea, Look on the tragic loading of this bed. This is thy work. The object poisons sight, Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house, And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, For they succeed on you. To you, lord governor, Remains the censure of this hellish villain. The time, the place, the torture, O, enforce it! Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. [_Exeunt._] PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE Contents ACT I Chorus. Before the palace of Antioch Scene I. Antioch. A room in the palace Scene II. Tyre. A room in the palace Scene III. Tyre. An ante-chamber in the Palace Scene IV. Tarsus. A room in the Governor’s house ACT II Chorus. Chorus Scene I. Pentapolis. An open place by the seaside Scene II. The same. A public way, or platform leading to the lists Scene III. The same. A hall of state: a banquet prepared Scene IV. Tyre. A room in the Governor’s house Scene V. Pentapolis. A room in the palace ACT III Chorus. Chorus Scene I. On shipboard Scene II. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house Scene III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house Scene IV. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house ACT IV Chorus. Chorus Scene I. Tarsus. An open place near the seashore Scene II. Mytilene. A room in a brothel Scene III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house Scene IV. Before the monument of Marina at Tarsus Scene V. Mytilene. A street before the brothel Scene VI. The same. A room in the brothel ACT V Chorus. Chorus Scene I. On board Pericles’ ship, off Mytilene Scene II. Before the temple of Diana at Ephesus Scene III. The temple of Diana at Ephesus Dramatis Personæ ANTIOCHUS, king of Antioch. PERICLES, prince of Tyre. HELICANUS, ESCANES, two lords of Tyre. SIMONIDES, king of Pentapolis. CLEON, governor of Tarsus. LYSIMACHUS, governor of Mytilene. CERIMON, a lord of Ephesus. THALIARD, a lord of Antioch. PHILEMON, servant to Cerimon. LEONINE, servant to Dionyza. Marshal. A Pandar. BOULT, his servant. The Daughter of Antiochus. DIONYZA, wife to Cleon. THAISA, daughter to Simonides. MARINA, daughter to Pericles and Thaisa. LYCHORIDA, nurse to Marina. A Bawd. Lords, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers. DIANA. GOWER, as Chorus. SCENE: Dispersedly in various countries. ACT I Enter Gower. Before the palace of Antioch. To sing a song that old was sung, From ashes ancient Gower is come; Assuming man’s infirmities, To glad your ear, and please your eyes. It hath been sung at festivals, On ember-eves and holy-ales; And lords and ladies in their lives Have read it for restoratives: The purchase is to make men glorious, _Et bonum quo antiquius eo melius._ If you, born in these latter times, When wit’s more ripe, accept my rhymes, And that to hear an old man sing May to your wishes pleasure bring, I life would wish, and that I might Waste it for you, like taper-light. This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat; The fairest in all Syria. I tell you what mine authors say: This king unto him took a fere, Who died and left a female heir, So buxom, blithe, and full of face, As heaven had lent her all his grace; With whom the father liking took, And her to incest did provoke. Bad child; worse father! to entice his own To evil should be done by none: But custom what they did begin Was with long use account’d no sin. The beauty of this sinful dame Made many princes thither frame, To seek her as a bedfellow, In marriage pleasures playfellow: Which to prevent he made a law, To keep her still, and men in awe, That whoso ask’d her for his wife, His riddle told not, lost his life: So for her many a wight did die, As yon grim looks do testify. What now ensues, to the judgement your eye I give, my cause who best can justify. [_Exit._] SCENE I. Antioch. A room in the palace. Enter Antiochus, Prince Pericles and followers. ANTIOCHUS. Young prince of Tyre, you have at large received The danger of the task you undertake. PERICLES. I have, Antiochus, and, with a soul Emboldened with the glory of her praise, Think death no hazard in this enterprise. ANTIOCHUS. Music! Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride, For the embracements even of Jove himself; At whose conception, till Lucina reigned, Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence, The senate house of planets all did sit, To knit in her their best perfections. Music. Enter the Daughter of Antiochus. PERICLES. See where she comes, apparell’d like the spring, Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king Of every virtue gives renown to men! Her face the book of praises, where is read Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence Sorrow were ever razed, and testy wrath Could never be her mild companion. You gods that made me man, and sway in love, That have inflamed desire in my breast To taste the fruit of yon celestial tree, Or die in the adventure, be my helps, As I am son and servant to your will, To compass such a boundless happiness! ANTIOCHUS. Prince Pericles,— PERICLES. That would be son to great Antiochus. ANTIOCHUS. Before thee stands this fair Hesperides, With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch’d; For death-like dragons here affright thee hard: Her face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view Her countless glory, which desert must gain; And which, without desert, because thine eye Presumes to reach, all the whole heap must die. Yon sometimes famous princes, like thyself, Drawn by report, adventurous by desire, Tell thee, with speechless tongues and semblance pale, That without covering, save yon field of stars, Here they stand Martyrs, slain in Cupid’s wars; And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist For going on death’s net, whom none resist. PERICLES. Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught My frail mortality to know itself, And by those fearful objects to prepare This body, like to them, to what I must; For death remember’d should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error. I’ll make my will then, and, as sick men do Who know the world, see heaven, but, feeling woe, Gripe not at earthly joys as erst they did; So I bequeath a happy peace to you And all good men, as every prince should do; My riches to the earth from whence they came; [_To the daughter of Antiochus._] But my unspotted fire of love to you. Thus ready for the way of life or death, I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus. ANTIOCHUS. Scorning advice, read the conclusion, then: Which read and not expounded, ’tis decreed, As these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed. DAUGHTER. Of all ’ssayed yet, mayst thou prove prosperous! Of all ’ssayed yet, I wish thee happiness! PERICLES Like a bold champion, I assume the lists, Nor ask advice of any other thought But faithfulness and courage. [_He reads the riddle._] _I am no viper, yet I feed On mother’s flesh which did me breed. I sought a husband, in which labour I found that kindness in a father: He’s father, son, and husband mild; I mother, wife, and yet his child. How they may be, and yet in two, As you will live resolve it you._ Sharp physic is the last: but, O you powers That give heaven countless eyes to view men’s acts, Why cloud they not their sights perpetually, If this be true, which makes me pale to read it? Fair glass of light, I loved you, and could still, [_Takes hold of the hand of the Princess._] Were not this glorious casket stored with ill: But I must tell you, now my thoughts revolt; For he’s no man on whom perfections wait That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate, You are a fair viol, and your sense the strings; Who, finger’d to make man his lawful music, Would draw heaven down, and all the gods to hearken; But being play’d upon before your time, Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime. Good sooth, I care not for you. ANTIOCHUS. Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life, For that’s an article within our law, As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expired: Either expound now, or receive your sentence. PERICLES. Great king, Few love to hear the sins they love to act; ’Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it. Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He’s more secure to keep it shut than shown: For vice repeated is like the wandering wind, Blows dust in others’ eyes, to spread itself; And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear. To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts Copp’d hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng’d By man’s oppression; and the poor worm doth die for’t. Kind are earth’s gods; in vice their law’s their will; And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill? It is enough you know; and it is fit, What being more known grows worse, to smother it. All love the womb that their first bred, Then give my tongue like leave to love my head. ANTIOCHUS. [_Aside_] Heaven, that I had thy head! He has found the meaning: But I will gloze with him.—Young prince of Tyre. Though by the tenour of our strict edict, Your exposition misinterpreting, We might proceed to cancel of your days; Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise: Forty days longer we do respite you; If by which time our secret be undone, This mercy shows we’ll joy in such a son: And until then your entertain shall be As doth befit our honour and your worth. [_Exeunt all but Pericles._] PERICLES. How courtesy would seem to cover sin, When what is done is like an hypocrite, The which is good in nothing but in sight! If it be true that I interpret false, Then were it certain you were not so bad As with foul incest to abuse your soul; Where now you’re both a father and a son, By your untimely claspings with your child, Which pleasures fits a husband, not a father; And she an eater of her mother’s flesh, By the defiling of her parent’s bed; And both like serpents are, who though they feed On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed. Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men Blush not in actions blacker than the night, Will ’schew no course to keep them from the light. One sin, I know, another doth provoke; Murder’s as near to lust as flame to smoke: Poison and treason are the hands of sin, Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame: Then, lest my life be cropp’d to keep you clear, By flight I’ll shun the danger which I fear. [_Exit._] Re-enter Antiochus. ANTIOCHUS. He hath found the meaning, For which we mean to have his head. He must not live to trumpet forth my infamy, Nor tell the world Antiochus doth sin In such a loathed manner; And therefore instantly this prince must die; For by his fall my honour must keep high. Who attends us there? Enter Thaliard. THALIARD. Doth your highness call? ANTIOCHUS. Thaliard, you are of our chamber, And our mind partakes her private actions To your secrecy; and for your faithfulness We will advance you. Thaliard, Behold, here’s poison, and here’s gold; We hate the prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him: It fits thee not to ask the reason why, Because we bid it. Say, is it done? THALIARD. My lord, ’tis done. ANTIOCHUS. Enough. Enter a Messenger. Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste. MESSENGER. My lord, Prince Pericles is fled. [_Exit._] ANTIOCHUS. As thou wilt live, fly after: and like an arrow shot From a well-experienced archer hits the mark His eye doth level at, so thou ne’er return Unless thou say ‘Prince Pericles is dead.’ THALIARD. My lord, if I can get him within my pistol’s length, I’ll make him sure enough: so, farewell to your highness. ANTIOCHUS. Thaliard! adieu! [_Exit Thaliard._] Till Pericles be dead, My heart can lend no succour to my head. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Tyre. A room in the palace. Enter Pericles with his Lords. PERICLES. [_To Lords without._] Let none disturb us.—Why should this change of thoughts, The sad companion, dull-eyed melancholy, Be my so used a guest as not an hour In the day’s glorious walk or peaceful night, The tomb where grief should sleep, can breed me quiet? Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun them, And danger, which I fear’d, is at Antioch, Whose arm seems far too short to hit me here: Yet neither pleasure’s art can joy my spirits, Nor yet the other’s distance comfort me. Then it is thus: the passions of the mind, That have their first conception by misdread, Have after-nourishment and life by care; And what was first but fear what might be done, Grows elder now and cares it be not done. And so with me: the great Antiochus, ’Gainst whom I am too little to contend, Since he’s so great can make his will his act, Will think me speaking, though I swear to silence; Nor boots it me to say I honour him. If he suspect I may dishonour him: And what may make him blush in being known, He’ll stop the course by which it might be known; With hostile forces he’ll o’erspread the land, And with the ostent of war will look so huge, Amazement shall drive courage from the state; Our men be vanquish’d ere they do resist, And subjects punish’d that ne’er thought offence: Which care of them, not pity of myself, Who am no more but as the tops of trees, Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them, Makes both my body pine and soul to languish, And punish that before that he would punish. Enter Helicanus with other Lords. FIRST LORD. Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast! SECOND LORD. And keep your mind, till you return to us, Peaceful and comfortable! HELICANUS. Peace, peace, and give experience tongue. They do abuse the king that flatter him: For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flatter’d, but a spark, To which that spark gives heat and stronger glowing: Whereas reproof, obedient and in order, Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err. When Signior Sooth here does proclaim peace, He flatters you, makes war upon your life. Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please; I cannot be much lower than my knees. PERICLES. All leave us else, but let your cares o’erlook What shipping and what lading’s in our haven, And then return to us. [_Exeunt Lords._] Helicanus, thou Hast moved us: what seest thou in our looks? HELICANUS. An angry brow, dread lord. PERICLES. If there be such a dart in princes’ frowns, How durst thy tongue move anger to our face? HELICANUS. How dares the plants look up to heaven, from whence They have their nourishment? PERICLES. Thou know’st I have power To take thy life from thee. HELICANUS. [_Kneeling._] I have ground the axe myself; Do but you strike the blow. PERICLES. Rise, prithee, rise. Sit down: thou art no flatterer: I thank thee for it; and heaven forbid That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid! Fit counsellor and servant for a prince, Who by thy wisdom makest a prince thy servant, What wouldst thou have me do? HELICANUS. To bear with patience Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself. PERICLES. Thou speak’st like a physician, Helicanus, That ministers a potion unto me That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself. Attend me, then: I went to Antioch, Where, as thou know’st, against the face of death, I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty, From whence an issue I might propagate, Are arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects. Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder; The rest—hark in thine ear—as black as incest, Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father Seem’d not to strike, but smooth: but thou know’st this, ’Tis time to fear when tyrants seems to kiss. Which fear so grew in me I hither fled, Under the covering of a careful night, Who seem’d my good protector; and, being here, Bethought me what was past, what might succeed. I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants’ fears Decrease not, but grow faster than the years: And should he doubt, as no doubt he doth, That I should open to the listening air How many worthy princes’ bloods were shed, To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope, To lop that doubt, he’ll fill this land with arms, And make pretence of wrong that I have done him; When all, for mine, if I may call offence, Must feel war’s blow, who spares not innocence: Which love to all, of which thyself art one, Who now reprovest me for it,— HELICANUS. Alas, sir! PERICLES. Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my cheeks, Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts How I might stop this tempest ere it came; And finding little comfort to relieve them, I thought it princely charity to grieve them. HELICANUS. Well, my lord, since you have given me leave to speak, Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear, And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant, Who either by public war or private treason Will take away your life. Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while, Till that his rage and anger be forgot, Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life. Your rule direct to any; if to me, Day serves not light more faithful than I’ll be. PERICLES. I do not doubt thy faith; But should he wrong my liberties in my absence? HELCANUS. We’ll mingle our bloods together in the earth, From whence we had our being and our birth. PERICLES. Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus Intend my travel, where I’ll hear from thee; And by whose letters I’ll dispose myself. The care I had and have of subjects’ good On thee I lay, whose wisdom’s strength can bear it. I’ll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath: Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both: But in our orbs we’ll live so round and safe, That time of both this truth shall ne’er convince, Thou show’dst a subject’s shine, I a true prince. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Tyre. An ante-chamber in the Palace. Enter Thaliard. THALIARD. So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I kill King Pericles; and if I do it not, I am sure to be hanged at home: ’tis dangerous. Well, I perceive he was a wise fellow, and had good discretion, that, being bid to ask what he would of the king, desired he might know none of his secrets: now do I see he had some reason for’t; for if a king bid a man be a villain, he’s bound by the indenture of his oath to be one. Husht, here come the lords of Tyre. Enter Helicanus and Escanes with other Lords of Tyre. HELICANUS. You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre, Further to question me of your king’s departure: His seal’d commission, left in trust with me, Doth speak sufficiently he’s gone to travel. THALIARD. [_Aside._] How? the king gone? HELICANUS. If further yet you will be satisfied, Why, as it were unlicensed of your loves, He would depart, I’ll give some light unto you. Being at Antioch— THALIARD. [_Aside._] What from Antioch? HELICANUS. Royal Antiochus—on what cause I know not Took some displeasure at him; at least he judged so: And doubting lest that he had err’d or sinn’d, To show his sorrow, he’d correct himself; So puts himself unto the shipman’s toil, With whom each minute threatens life or death. THALIARD. [_Aside._] Well, I perceive I shall not be hang’d now, although I would; But since he’s gone, the king’s seas must please He ’scaped the land, to perish at the sea. I’ll present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre! HELICANUS. Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome. THALIARD. From him I come With message unto princely Pericles; But since my landing I have understood Your lord has betook himself to unknown travels, My message must return from whence it came. HELICANUS. We have no reason to desire it, Commended to our master, not to us: Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire, As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Tarsus. A room in the Governor’s house. Enter Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, with Dionyza and others. CLEON. My Dionyza, shall we rest us here, And by relating tales of others’ griefs, See if ’twill teach us to forget our own? DIONYZA. That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it; For who digs hills because they do aspire Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher. O my distressed lord, even such our griefs are; Here they’re but felt, and seen with mischief’s eyes, But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher rise. CLEON. O Dionyza, Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it, Or can conceal his hunger till he famish? Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep Our woes into the air; our eyes do weep, Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them louder; That, if heaven slumber while their creatures want, They may awake their helps to comfort them. I’ll then discourse our woes, felt several years, And wanting breath to speak, help me with tears. DIONYZA. I’ll do my best, sir. CLEON. This Tarsus, o’er which I have the government, A city on whom plenty held full hand, For riches strew’d herself even in the streets; Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss’d the clouds, And strangers ne’er beheld but wonder’d at; Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn’d, Like one another’s glass to trim them by: Their tables were stored full to glad the sight, And not so much to feed on as delight; All poverty was scorn’d, and pride so great, The name of help grew odious to repeat. DIONYZA. O, ’tis too true. CLEON. But see what heaven can do! By this our change, These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air, Were all too little to content and please, Although they gave their creatures in abundance, As houses are defiled for want of use, They are now starved for want of exercise: Those palates who, not yet two summers younger, Must have inventions to delight the taste, Would now be glad of bread and beg for it: Those mothers who, to nousle up their babes, Thought nought too curious, are ready now To eat those little darlings whom they loved. So sharp are hunger’s teeth, that man and wife Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life: Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping; Here many sink, yet those which see them fall Have scarce strength left to give them burial. Is not this true? DIONYZA. Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it. CLEON. O, let those cities that of plenty’s cup And her prosperities so largely taste, With their superflous riots, hear these tears! The misery of Tarsus may be theirs. Enter a Lord. LORD. Where’s the lord governor? CLEON. Here. Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring’st in haste, For comfort is too far for us to expect. LORD. We have descried, upon our neighbouring shore, A portly sail of ships make hitherward. CLEON. I thought as much. One sorrow never comes but brings an heir, That may succeed as his inheritor; And so in ours: some neighbouring nation, Taking advantage of our misery, That stuff’d the hollow vessels with their power, To beat us down, the which are down already; And make a conquest of unhappy me, Whereas no glory’s got to overcome. LORD. That’s the least fear; for, by the semblance Of their white flags display’d, they bring us peace, And come to us as favourers, not as foes. CLEON. Thou speak’st like him’s untutor’d to repeat: Who makes the fairest show means most deceit. But bring they what they will and what they can, What need we fear? The ground’s the lowest, and we are half way there. Go tell their general we attend him here, To know for what he comes, and whence he comes, And what he craves. LORD. I go, my lord. [_Exit._] CLEON. Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist; If wars, we are unable to resist. Enter Pericles with Attendants. PERICLES. Lord governor, for so we hear you are, Let not our ships and number of our men Be like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes. We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre, And seen the desolation of your streets: Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears, But to relieve them of their heavy load; And these our ships, you happily may think Are like the Trojan horse was stuff’d within With bloody veins, expecting overthrow, Are stored with corn to make your needy bread, And give them life whom hunger starved half dead. ALL. The gods of Greece protect you! And we’ll pray for you. PERICLES. Arise, I pray you, rise: We do not look for reverence, but for love, And harbourage for ourself, our ships and men. CLEON. The which when any shall not gratify, Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought, Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves, The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils! Till when,—the which I hope shall ne’er be seen,— Your grace is welcome to our town and us. PERICLES. Which welcome we’ll accept; feast here awhile, Until our stars that frown lend us a smile. [_Exeunt._] ACT II Enter Gower. GOWER. Here have you seen a mighty king His child, iwis, to incest bring; A better prince and benign lord, That will prove awful both in deed and word. Be quiet then as men should be, Till he hath pass’d necessity. I’ll show you those in troubles reign, Losing a mite, a mountain gain. The good in conversation, To whom I give my benison, Is still at Tarsus, where each man Thinks all is writ he speken can; And to remember what he does, Build his statue to make him glorious: But tidings to the contrary Are brought your eyes; what need speak I? Dumb-show. Enter at one door Pericles talking with Cleon; all the train with them. Enter at another door a Gentleman with a letter to Pericles; Pericles shows the letter to Cleon; gives the Messenger a reward, and knights him. Exit Pericles at one door, and Cleon at another. Good Helicane, that stay’d at home. Not to eat honey like a drone From others’ labours; for though he strive To killen bad, keep good alive; And to fulfil his prince’ desire, Sends word of all that haps in Tyre: How Thaliard came full bent with sin And had intent to murder him; And that in Tarsus was not best Longer for him to make his rest. He, doing so, put forth to seas, Where when men been, there’s seldom ease; For now the wind begins to blow; Thunder above and deeps below Make such unquiet, that the ship Should house him safe is wreck’d and split; And he, good prince, having all lost, By waves from coast to coast is tost: All perishen of man, of pelf, Ne aught escapen but himself; Till Fortune, tired with doing bad, Threw him ashore, to give him glad: And here he comes. What shall be next, Pardon old Gower,—this longs the text. [_Exit._] SCENE I. Pentapolis. An open place by the seaside. Enter Pericles, wet. PERICLES. Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven! Wind, rain, and thunder, remember earthly man Is but a substance that must yield to you; And I, as fits my nature, do obey you: Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks, Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath Nothing to think on but ensuing death: Let it suffice the greatness of your powers To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes; And having thrown him from your watery grave, Here to have death in peace is all he’ll crave. Enter three Fishermen. FIRST FISHERMAN. What, ho, Pilch! SECOND FISHERMAN. Ha, come and bring away the nets! FIRST FISHERMAN. What, Patch-breech, I say! THIRD FISHERMAN. What say you, master? FIRST FISHERMAN. Look how thou stirrest now! Come away, or I’ll fetch thee with a wanion. THIRD FISHERMAN. Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before us even now. FIRST FISHERMAN. Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves. THIRD FISHERMAN. Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tumbled? They say they’re half fish, half flesh: a plague on them, they ne’er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones: I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a’ plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful. Such whales have I heard on o’ the land, who never leave gaping till they swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells and all. PERICLES. [_Aside._] A pretty moral. THIRD FISHERMAN. But, master, if I had been the sexton, I would have been that day in the belfry. SECOND FISHERMAN. Why, man? THIRD FISHERMAN. Because he should have swallowed me too; and when I had been in his belly, I would have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, church and parish up again. But if the good King Simonides were of my mind,— PERICLES. [_Aside._] Simonides? THIRD FISHERMAN. We would purge the land of these drones, that rob the bee of her honey. PERICLES. [_Aside._] How from the finny subject of the sea These fishers tell the infirmities of men; And from their watery empire recollect All that may men approve or men detect! Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen. SECOND FISHERMAN. Honest! good fellow, what’s that? If it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, and nobody look after it. PERICLES. May see the sea hath cast upon your coast. SECOND FISHERMAN. What a drunken knave was the sea to cast thee in our way! PERICLES. A man whom both the waters and the wind, In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball For them to play upon, entreats you pity him; He asks of you, that never used to beg. FIRST FISHERMAN. No, friend, cannot you beg? Here’s them in our country of Greece gets more with begging than we can do with working. SECOND FISHERMAN. Canst thou catch any fishes, then? PERICLES. I never practised it. SECOND FISHERMAN. Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here’s nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for’t. PERICLES. What I have been I have forgot to know; But what I am, want teaches me to think on: A man throng’d up with cold: my veins are chill, And have no more of life than may suffice To give my tongue that heat to ask your help; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, For that I am a man, pray see me buried. FIRST FISHERMAN. Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid’t, and I have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou shalt go home, and we’ll have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and moreo’er puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome. PERICLES. I thank you, sir. SECOND FISHERMAN. Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg? PERICLES. I did but crave. SECOND FISHERMAN. But crave! Then I’ll turn craver too, and so I shall ’scape whipping. PERICLES. Why, are your beggars whipped, then? SECOND FISHERMAN. O, not all, my friend, not all; for if all your beggars were whipped, I would wish no better office than to be beadle. But, master, I’ll go draw up the net. [_Exit with Third Fisherman._] PERICLES. [_Aside._] How well this honest mirth becomes their labour! FIRST FISHERMAN. Hark you, sir, do you know where ye are? PERICLES. Not well. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, I’ll tell you: this is called Pentapolis, and our King, the good Simonides. PERICLES. The good Simonides, do you call him? FIRST FISHERMAN. Ay, sir; and he deserves so to be called for his peaceable reign and good government. PERICLES. He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects the name of good government. How far is his court distant from this shore? FIRST FISHERMAN. Marry sir, half a day’s journey: and I’ll tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and tomorrow is her birth-day; and there are princes and knights come from all parts of the world to joust and tourney for her love. PERICLES. Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could wish to make one there. FIRST FISHERMAN. O, sir, things must be as they may; and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal for—his wife’s soul. Re-enter Second and Third Fishermen, drawing up a net. SECOND FISHERMAN. Help, master, help! here’s a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man’s right in the law; ’twill hardly come out. Ha! bots on’t, ’tis come at last, and ’tis turned to a rusty armour. PERICLES. An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it. Thanks, Fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses, Thou givest me somewhat to repair myself, And though it was mine own, part of my heritage, Which my dead father did bequeath to me, With this strict charge, even as he left his life. ‘Keep it, my Pericles; it hath been a shield ’Twixt me and death;’—and pointed to this brace;— ‘For that it saved me, keep it; in like necessity— The which the gods protect thee from!—may defend thee.’ It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it; Till the rough seas, that spares not any man, Took it in rage, though calm’d have given’t again: I thank thee for’t: my shipwreck now’s no ill, Since I have here my father gave in his will. FIRST FISHERMAN. What mean you sir? PERICLES. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth, For it was sometime target to a king; I know it by this mark. He loved me dearly, And for his sake I wish the having of it; And that you’d guide me to your sovereign court, Where with it I may appear a gentleman; And if that ever my low fortune’s better, I’ll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady? PERICLES. I’ll show the virtue I have borne in arms. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, d’ye take it, and the gods give thee good on’t! SECOND FISHERMAN. Ay, but hark you, my friend; ’twas we that made up this garment through the rough seams of the waters: there are certain condolements, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you’ll remember from whence you had them. PERICLES. Believe’t I will. By your furtherance I am clothed in steel; And spite of all the rapture of the sea, This jewel holds his building on my arm: Unto thy value I will mount myself Upon a courser, whose delightful steps Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread. Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided Of a pair of bases. SECOND FISHERMAN. We’ll sure provide: thou shalt have my best gown to make thee a pair; and I’ll bring thee to the court myself. PERICLES. Then honour be but a goal to my will, This day I’ll rise, or else add ill to ill. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A public way, or platform leading to the lists. A pavilion by the side of it for the reception of the King, Princess, Lords, etc. Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords and Attendants. SIMONIDES. Are the knights ready to begin the triumph? FIRST LORD. They are, my liege; And stay your coming to present themselves. SIMONIDES. Return them, we are ready; and our daughter, In honour of whose birth these triumphs are, Sits here, like beauty’s child, whom Nature gat For men to see, and seeing wonder at. [_Exit a Lord._] THAISA. It pleaseth you, my royal father, to express My commendations great, whose merit’s less. SIMONIDES. It’s fit it should be so; for princes are A model, which heaven makes like to itself: As jewels lose their glory if neglected, So princes their renowns if not respected. ’Tis now your honour, daughter, to entertain The labour of each knight in his device. THAISA. Which, to preserve mine honour, I’ll perform. The first Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. Who is the first that doth prefer himself? THAISA. A knight of Sparta, my renowned father; And the device he bears upon his shield Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sun: The word, _Lux tua vita mihi._ SIMONIDES. He loves you well that holds his life of you. The second Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. Who is the second that presents himself? THAISA. A prince of Macedon, my royal father; And the device he bears upon his shield Is an arm’d knight that’s conquer’d by a lady; The motto thus, in Spanish, _Piu por dulzura que por forza._ The third Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. And what’s the third? THAISA. The third of Antioch; And his device, a wreath of chivalry; The word, _Me pompae provexit apex._ The fourth Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. What is the fourth? THAISA. A burning torch that’s turned upside down; The word, _Quod me alit me extinguit._ SIMONIDES. Which shows that beauty hath his power and will, Which can as well inflame as it can kill. The fifth Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. THAISA. The fifth, an hand environed with clouds, Holding out gold that’s by the touchstone tried; The motto thus, _Sic spectanda fides._ The sixth Knight, Pericles, passes in rusty armour with bases, and unaccompanied. He presents his device directly to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. And what’s the sixth and last, the which the knight himself With such a graceful courtesy deliver’d? THAISA. He seems to be a stranger; but his present is A wither’d branch, that’s only green at top; The motto, _In hac spe vivo._ SIMONIDES. A pretty moral; From the dejected state wherein he is, He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish. FIRST LORD. He had need mean better than his outward show Can any way speak in his just commend; For by his rusty outside he appears To have practised more the whipstock than the lance. SECOND LORD. He well may be a stranger, for he comes To an honour’d triumph strangely furnished. THIRD LORD. And on set purpose let his armour rust Until this day, to scour it in the dust. SIMONIDES. Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man. But stay, the knights are coming. We will withdraw into the gallery. [_Exeunt. Great shouts within, and all cry_ ‘The mean Knight!’] SCENE III. The same. A hall of state: a banquet prepared. Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, Attendants and Knights, from tilting. SIMONIDES. Knights, To say you’re welcome were superfluous. To place upon the volume of your deeds, As in a title-page, your worth in arms, Were more than you expect, or more than’s fit, Since every worth in show commends itself. Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast: You are princes and my guests. THAISA. But you, my knight and guest; To whom this wreath of victory I give, And crown you king of this day’s happiness. PERICLES. ’Tis more by fortune, lady, than by merit. SIMONIDES. Call it by what you will, the day is yours; And here, I hope, is none that envies it. In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed, To make some good, but others to exceed; And you are her labour’d scholar. Come queen of the feast,— For, daughter, so you are,—here take your place: Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace. KNIGHTS. We are honour’d much by good Simonides. SIMONIDES. Your presence glads our days; honour we love; For who hates honour hates the gods above. MARSHALL. Sir, yonder is your place. PERICLES. Some other is more fit. FIRST KNIGHT. Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen Have neither in our hearts nor outward eyes Envied the great, nor shall the low despise. PERICLES. You are right courteous knights. SIMONIDES. Sit, sir, sit. By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts, These cates resist me, he but thought upon. THAISA. By Juno, that is queen of marriage, All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury, Wishing him my meat. Sure, he’s a gallant gentleman. SIMONIDES. He’s but a country gentleman; Has done no more than other knights have done; Has broken a staff or so; so let it pass. THAISA. To me he seems like diamond to glass. PERICLES. Yon king’s to me like to my father’s picture, Which tells me in that glory once he was; Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne, And he the sun, for them to reverence; None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights, Did vail their crowns to his supremacy: Where now his son’s like a glow-worm in the night, The which hath fire in darkness, none in light: Whereby I see that time’s the king of men, He’s both their parent, and he is their grave, And gives them what he will, not what they crave. SIMONIDES. What, are you merry, knights? KNIGHTS. Who can be other in this royal presence? SIMONIDES. Here, with a cup that’s stored unto the brim,— As you do love, fill to your mistress’ lips,— We drink this health to you. KNIGHTS. We thank your grace. SIMONIDES. Yet pause awhile. Yon knight doth sit too melancholy, As if the entertainment in our court Had not a show might countervail his worth. Note it not you, Thaisa? THAISA. What is’t to me, my father? SIMONIDES. O attend, my daughter: Princes in this should live like gods above, Who freely give to everyone that comes to honour them: And princes not doing so are like to gnats, Which make a sound, but kill’d are wonder’d at. Therefore to make his entrance more sweet, Here, say we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him. THAISA. Alas, my father, it befits not me Unto a stranger knight to be so bold: He may my proffer take for an offence, Since men take women’s gifts for impudence. SIMONIDES. How? Do as I bid you, or you’ll move me else. THAISA. [_Aside._] Now, by the gods, he could not please me better. SIMONIDES. And furthermore tell him, we desire to know of him, Of whence he is, his name and parentage. THAISA. The king my father, sir, has drunk to you. PERICLES. I thank him. THAISA. Wishing it so much blood unto your life. PERICLES. I thank both him and you, and pledge him freely. THAISA. And further he desires to know of you, Of whence you are, your name and parentage. PERICLES. A gentleman of Tyre; my name, Pericles; My education been in arts and arms; Who, looking for adventures in the world, Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men, And after shipwreck driven upon this shore. THAISA. He thanks your grace; names himself Pericles, A gentleman of Tyre, Who only by misfortune of the seas Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore. SIMONIDES. Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune, And will awake him from his melancholy. Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles, And waste the time, which looks for other revels. Even in your armours, as you are address’d, Will well become a soldier’s dance. I will not have excuse, with saying this, ‘Loud music is too harsh for ladies’ heads’ Since they love men in arms as well as beds. [_The Knights dance._] So, this was well ask’d, ’twas so well perform’d. Come, sir; here is a lady which wants breathing too: And I have heard you knights of Tyre Are excellent in making ladies trip; And that their measures are as excellent. PERICLES. In those that practise them they are, my lord. SIMONIDES. O, that’s as much as you would be denied Of your fair courtesy. [_The Knights and Ladies dance._] Unclasp, unclasp: Thanks gentlemen, to all; all have done well. [_To Pericles._] But you the best. Pages and lights to conduct These knights unto their several lodgings. [_To Pericles._] Yours, sir, we have given order to be next our own. PERICLES. I am at your grace’s pleasure. SIMONIDES. Princes, it is too late to talk of love; And that’s the mark I know you level at: Therefore each one betake him to his rest; Tomorrow all for speeding do their best. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Tyre. A room in the Governor’s house. Enter Helicanus and Escanes. HELICANUS. No, Escanes, know this of me, Antiochus from incest lived not free: For which the most high gods not minding longer To withhold the vengeance that they had in store Due to this heinous capital offence, Even in the height and pride of all his glory, When he was seated in a chariot Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with him, A fire from heaven came and shrivell’d up Their bodies, even to loathing, for they so stunk, That all those eyes adored them ere their fall Scorn now their hand should give them burial. ESCANES. ’Twas very strange HELICANUS. And yet but justice; for though this king were great; His greatness was no guard to bar heaven’s shaft, But sin had his reward. ESCANES. ’Tis very true. Enter two or three Lords. FIRST LORD. See, not a man in private conference Or council has respect with him but he. SECOND LORD. It shall no longer grieve without reproof. THIRD LORD. And cursed be he that will not second it. FIRST LORD. Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a word. HELICANUS. With me? and welcome: happy day, my lords. FIRST LORD. Know that our griefs are risen to the top, And now at length they overflow their banks. HELICANUS. Your griefs! for what? Wrong not your prince you love. FIRST LORD. Wrong not yourself, then, noble Helicane; But if the prince do live, let us salute him. Or know what ground’s made happy by his breath. If in the world he live, we’ll seek him out; If in his grave he rest, we’ll find him there. We’ll be resolved he lives to govern us, Or dead, give’s cause to mourn his funeral, And leave us to our free election. SECOND LORD. Whose death’s indeed the strongest in our censure: And knowing this kingdom is without a head,— Like goodly buildings left without a roof Soon fall to ruin,—your noble self, That best know how to rule and how to reign, We thus submit unto,—our sovereign. ALL. Live, noble Helicane! HELICANUS. For honour’s cause, forbear your suffrages: If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear. Take I your wish, I leap into the seas, Where’s hourly trouble for a minute’s ease. A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you To forbear the absence of your king; If in which time expired, he not return, I shall with aged patience bear your yoke. But if I cannot win you to this love, Go search like nobles, like noble subjects, And in your search spend your adventurous worth; Whom if you find, and win unto return, You shall like diamonds sit about his crown. FIRST LORD. To wisdom he’s a fool that will not yield; And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us, We with our travels will endeavour us. HELICANUS. Then you love us, we you, and we’ll clasp hands: When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Pentapolis. A room in the palace. Enter Simonides reading a letter at one door; the Knights meet him. FIRST KNIGHT. Good morrow to the good Simonides. SIMONIDES. Knights, from my daughter this I let you know, That for this twelvemonth she’ll not undertake A married life. Her reason to herself is only known, Which yet from her by no means can I get. SECOND KNIGHT. May we not get access to her, my lord? SIMONIDES. Faith, by no means; she hath so strictly tied Her to her chamber, that ’tis impossible. One twelve moons more she’ll wear Diana’s livery; This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow’d, And on her virgin honour will not break it. THIRD KNIGHT. Loath to bid farewell, we take our leaves. [_Exeunt Knights._] SIMONIDES. So, they are well dispatch’d; now to my daughter’s letter: She tells me here, she’ll wed the stranger knight, Or never more to view nor day nor light. ’Tis well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine; I like that well: nay, how absolute she’s in’t, Not minding whether I dislike or no! Well, I do commend her choice; And will no longer have it be delay’d. Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it. Enter Pericles. PERICLES. All fortune to the good Simonides! SIMONIDES. To you as much. Sir, I am beholding to you For your sweet music this last night: I do Protest my ears were never better fed With such delightful pleasing harmony. PERICLES. It is your grace’s pleasure to commend; Not my desert. SIMONIDES. Sir, you are music’s master. PERICLES. The worst of all her scholars, my good lord. SIMONIDES. Let me ask you one thing: What do you think of my daughter, sir? PERICLES. A most virtuous princess. SIMONIDES. And she is fair too, is she not? PERICLES. As a fair day in summer, wondrous fair. SIMONIDES. Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you; Ay, so well, that you must be her master, And she will be your scholar: therefore look to it. PERICLES. I am unworthy for her schoolmaster. SIMONIDES. She thinks not so; peruse this writing else. PERICLES. [_Aside._] What’s here? A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre! ’Tis the king’s subtlety to have my life. O, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord, A stranger and distressed gentleman, That never aim’d so high to love your daughter, But bent all offices to honour her. SIMONIDES. Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, And thou art a villain. PERICLES. By the gods, I have not: Never did thought of mine levy offence; Nor never did my actions yet commence A deed might gain her love or your displeasure. SIMONIDES. Traitor, thou liest. PERICLES. Traitor? SIMONIDES. Ay, traitor. PERICLES. Even in his throat—unless it be the king— That calls me traitor, I return the lie. SIMONIDES. [_Aside._] Now, by the gods, I do applaud his courage. PERICLES. My actions are as noble as my thoughts, That never relish’d of a base descent. I came unto your court for honour’s cause, And not to be a rebel to her state; And he that otherwise accounts of me, This sword shall prove he’s honour’s enemy. SIMONIDES. No? Here comes my daughter, she can witness it. Enter Thaisa. PERICLES. Then, as you are as virtuous as fair, Resolve your angry father, if my tongue Did e’er solicit, or my hand subscribe To any syllable that made love to you. THAISA. Why, sir, say if you had, Who takes offence at that would make me glad? SIMONIDES. Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory? [_Aside._] I am glad on’t with all my heart.— I’ll tame you; I’ll bring you in subjection. Will you, not having my consent, Bestow your love and your affections Upon a stranger? [_Aside._] Who, for aught I know May be, nor can I think the contrary, As great in blood as I myself.— Therefore hear you, mistress; either frame Your will to mine, and you, sir, hear you, Either be ruled by me, or I will make you— Man and wife. Nay, come, your hands, And lips must seal it too: and being join’d, I’ll thus your hopes destroy; and for further grief, God give you joy! What, are you both pleased? THAISA. Yes, if you love me, sir. PERICLES. Even as my life my blood that fosters it. SIMONIDES. What, are you both agreed? BOTH. Yes, if’t please your majesty. SIMONIDES. It pleaseth me so well, that I will see you wed; And then with what haste you can, get you to bed. [_Exeunt._] ACT III Enter Gower. GOWER. Now sleep yslaked hath the rouse; No din but snores about the house, Made louder by the o’erfed breast Of this most pompous marriage feast. The cat, with eyne of burning coal, Now couches fore the mouse’s hole; And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth, Are the blither for their drouth. Hymen hath brought the bride to bed, Where, by the loss of maidenhead, A babe is moulded. Be attent, And time that is so briefly spent With your fine fancies quaintly eche: What’s dumb in show I’ll plain with speech. Dumb-show. Enter, Pericles and Simonides at one door with Attendants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Pericles a letter: Pericles shows it Simonides; the Lords kneel to him. Then enter Thaisa with child, with Lychorida, a nurse. The King shows her the letter; she rejoices: she and Pericles take leave of her father, and depart, with Lychorida and their Attendants. Then exeunt Simonides and the rest. By many a dern and painful perch Of Pericles the careful search, By the four opposing coigns Which the world together joins, Is made with all due diligence That horse and sail and high expense Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre, Fame answering the most strange enquire, To th’ court of King Simonides Are letters brought, the tenour these: Antiochus and his daughter dead; The men of Tyrus on the head Of Helicanus would set on The crown of Tyre, but he will none: The mutiny he there hastes t’oppress; Says to ’em, if King Pericles Come not home in twice six moons, He, obedient to their dooms, Will take the crown. The sum of this, Brought hither to Pentapolis Y-ravished the regions round, And everyone with claps can sound, ‘Our heir apparent is a king! Who dreamt, who thought of such a thing?’ Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre: His queen with child makes her desire— Which who shall cross?—along to go: Omit we all their dole and woe: Lychorida, her nurse, she takes, And so to sea. Their vessel shakes On Neptune’s billow; half the flood Hath their keel cut: but fortune’s mood Varies again; the grisled north Disgorges such a tempest forth, That, as a duck for life that dives, So up and down the poor ship drives: The lady shrieks, and well-a-near Does fall in travail with her fear: And what ensues in this fell storm Shall for itself itself perform. I nill relate, action may Conveniently the rest convey; Which might not what by me is told. In your imagination hold This stage the ship, upon whose deck The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak. [_Exit._] SCENE I. Enter Pericles, on shipboard. PERICLES. Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges, Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou that hast Upon the winds command, bind them in brass, Having call’d them from the deep! O, still Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida, How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously; Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman’s whistle Is as a whisper in the ears of death, Unheard. Lychorida! - Lucina, O! Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle To those that cry by night, convey thy deity Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs Of my queen’s travails! Now, Lychorida! Enter Lychorida with an infant. LYCHORIDA. Here is a thing too young for such a place, Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I Am like to do: take in your arms this piece Of your dead queen. PERICLES. How? how, Lychorida? LYCHORIDA. Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm. Here’s all that is left living of your queen, A little daughter: for the sake of it, Be manly, and take comfort. PERICLES. O you gods! Why do you make us love your goodly gifts, And snatch them straight away? We here below Recall not what we give, and therein may Vie honour with you. LYCHORIDA. Patience, good sir. Even for this charge. PERICLES. Now, mild may be thy life! For a more blustrous birth had never babe: Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world That ever was prince’s child. Happy what follows! Thou hast as chiding a nativity As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, To herald thee from the womb. Even at the first thy loss is more than can Thy portage quit, with all thou canst find here, Now, the good gods throw their best eyes upon’t! Enter two Sailors FIRST SAILOR. What courage, sir? God save you! PERICLES. Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw; It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love Of this poor infant, this fresh new sea-farer, I would it would be quiet. FIRST SAILOR. Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt not, wilt thou? Blow, and split thyself. SECOND SAILOR. But sea-room, and the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not. FIRST SAILOR. Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea works high, the wind is loud and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead. PERICLES. That’s your superstition. FIRST SAILOR. Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it has been still observed; and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her; for she must overboard straight. PERICLES. As you think meet. Most wretched queen! LYCHORIDA. Here she lies, sir. PERICLES. A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; No light, no fire: th’unfriendly elements Forgot thee utterly; nor have I time To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze; Where, for a monument upon thy bones, And e’er-remaining lamps, the belching whale And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse, Lying with simple shells. O Lychorida. Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper, My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe Upon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman. [_Exit Lychorida._] SECOND SAILOR. Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready. PERICLES. I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this? SECOND SAILOR. We are near Tarsus. PERICLES. Thither, gentle mariner, Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou reach it? SECOND SAILOR. By break of day, if the wind cease. PERICLES. O, make for Tarsus! There will I visit Cleon, for the babe Cannot hold out to Tyrus. There I’ll leave it At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner: I’ll bring the body presently. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house. Enter Cerimon, with a Servant, and some Persons who have been shipwrecked. CERIMON. Philemon, ho! Enter Philemon. PHILEMON. Doth my lord call? CERIMON. Get fire and meat for these poor men: ’T has been a turbulent and stormy night. SERVANT. I have been in many; but such a night as this, Till now, I ne’er endured. CERIMON. Your master will be dead ere you return; There’s nothing can be minister’d to nature That can recover him. [_To Philemon._] Give this to the ’pothecary, And tell me how it works. [_Exeunt all but Cerimon._] Enter two Gentlemen. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good morrow. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good morrow to your lordship. CERIMON. Gentlemen, why do you stir so early? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea, Shook as the earth did quake; The very principals did seem to rend, And all to topple: pure surprise and fear Made me to quit the house. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That is the cause we trouble you so early; ’Tis not our husbandry. CERIMON. O, you say well. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But I much marvel that your lordship, having Rich tire about you, should at these early hours Shake off the golden slumber of repose. ’Tis most strange, Nature should be so conversant with pain. Being thereto not compell’d. CERIMON. I hold it ever, Virtue and cunning were endowments greater Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs May the two latter darken and expend; But immortality attends the former, Making a man a god. ’Tis known, I ever Have studied physic, through which secret art, By turning o’er authorities, I have, Together with my practice, made familiar To me and to my aid the blest infusions That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones; And I can speak of the disturbances That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me A more content in course of true delight Than to be thirsty after tottering honour, Or tie my pleasure up in silken bags, To please the fool and death. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Your honour has through Ephesus pour’d forth Your charity, and hundreds call themselves Your creatures, who by you have been restored: And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon Such strong renown as time shall never— Enter two or three Servants with a chest. FIRST SERVANT. So, lift there. CERIMON. What’s that? FIRST SERVANT. Sir, even now Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest: ’Tis of some wreck. CERIMON. Set’t down, let’s look upon’t. SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis like a coffin, sir. CERIMON. Whate’er it be, ’Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight: If the sea’s stomach be o’ercharged with gold, ’Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us. SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis so, my lord. CERIMON. How close ’tis caulk’d and bitumed! Did the sea cast it up? FIRST SERVANT. I never saw so huge a billow, sir, As toss’d it upon shore. CERIMON. Wrench it open; Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense. SECOND GENTLEMAN. A delicate odour. CERIMON. As ever hit my nostril. So up with it. O you most potent gods! what’s here? a corpse! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Most strange! CERIMON. Shrouded in cloth of state; balm’d and entreasured With full bags of spices! A passport too! Apollo, perfect me in the characters! [_Reads from a scroll._] _Here I give to understand, If e’er this coffin drives a-land, I, King Pericles, have lost This queen, worth all our mundane cost. Who finds her, give her burying; She was the daughter of a king: Besides this treasure for a fee, The gods requite his charity._ If thou livest, Pericles, thou hast a heart That even cracks for woe! This chanced tonight. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Most likely, sir. CERIMON. Nay, certainly tonight; For look how fresh she looks! They were too rough That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet. [_Exit a Servant._] Death may usurp on nature many hours, And yet the fire of life kindle again The o’erpress’d spirits. I heard of an Egyptian That had nine hours lain dead, Who was by good appliance recovered. Re-enter a Servant with napkins and fire. Well said, well said; the fire and cloths. The rough and woeful music that we have, Cause it to sound, beseech you The viol once more: how thou stirr’st, thou block! The music there!—I pray you, give her air. Gentlemen, this queen will live. Nature awakes; a warmth breathes out of her. She hath not been entranced above five hours. See how she ’gins to blow into life’s flower again! FIRST GENTLEMAN. The heavens, through you, increase our wonder And sets up your fame for ever. CERIMON. She is alive; behold, her eyelids, Cases to those heavenly jewels which Pericles hath lost, Begin to part their fringes of bright gold; The diamonds of a most praised water doth appear, To make the world twice rich. Live, and make us weep To hear your fate, fair creature, rare as you seem to be. [_She moves._] THAISA. O dear Diana, Where am I? Where’s my lord? What world is this? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Is not this strange? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Most rare. CERIMON. Hush, my gentle neighbours! Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her. Get linen: now this matter must be look’d to, For her relapse is mortal. Come, come; And Aesculapius guide us! [_Exeunt, carrying her away._] SCENE III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house. Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza and Lychorida with Marina in her arms. PERICLES. Most honour’d Cleon, I must needs be gone; My twelve months are expired, and Tyrus stands In a litigious peace. You and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness! The gods Make up the rest upon you! CLEON. Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you mortally, Yet glance full wanderingly on us. DIONYZA. O, your sweet queen! That the strict fates had pleased you had brought her hither, To have bless’d mine eyes with her! PERICLES. We cannot but obey The powers above us. Could I rage and roar As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end Must be as ’tis. My gentle babe Marina, Whom, for she was born at sea, I have named so, Here I charge your charity withal, Leaving her the infant of your care; Beseeching you to give her princely training, That she may be manner’d as she is born. CLEON. Fear not, my lord, but think Your grace, that fed my country with your corn, For which the people’s prayers still fall upon you, Must in your child be thought on. If neglection Should therein make me vile, the common body, By you relieved, would force me to my duty: But if to that my nature need a spur, The gods revenge it upon me and mine, To the end of generation! PERICLES. I believe you; Your honour and your goodness teach me to’t, Without your vows. Till she be married, madam, By bright Diana, whom we honour, all Unscissored shall this hair of mine remain, Though I show ill in’t. So I take my leave. Good madam, make me blessed in your care In bringing up my child. DIONYZA. I have one myself, Who shall not be more dear to my respect Than yours, my lord. PERICLES. Madam, my thanks and prayers. CLEON. We’ll bring your grace e’en to the edge o’the shore, Then give you up to the mask’d Neptune and The gentlest winds of heaven. PERICLES. I will embrace your offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears, Lychorida, no tears. Look to your little mistress, on whose grace You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house. Enter Cerimon and Thaisa. CERIMON. Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels, Lay with you in your coffer, which are At your command. Know you the character? THAISA. It is my lord’s. That I was shipp’d at sea, I well remember, Even on my groaning time; but whether there Deliver’d, by the holy gods, I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles, My wedded lord, I ne’er shall see again, A vestal livery will I take me to, And never more have joy. CERIMON. Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak, Diana’s temple is not distant far, Where you may abide till your date expire. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine Shall there attend you. THAISA. My recompense is thanks, that’s all; Yet my good will is great, though the gift small. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV Enter Gower. GOWER. Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre, Welcomed and settled to his own desire. His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus, Unto Diana there a votaress. Now to Marina bend your mind, Whom our fast-growing scene must find At Tarsus, and by Cleon train’d In music’s letters; who hath gain’d Of education all the grace, Which makes her both the heart and place Of general wonder. But, alack, That monster envy, oft the wrack Of earned praise, Marina’s life Seeks to take off by treason’s knife, And in this kind our Cleon hath One daughter, and a full grown wench Even ripe for marriage-rite; this maid Hight Philoten: and it is said For certain in our story, she Would ever with Marina be. Be’t when she weaved the sleided silk With fingers long, small, white as milk; Or when she would with sharp needle wound, The cambric, which she made more sound By hurting it; or when to th’ lute She sung, and made the night-bird mute That still records with moan; or when She would with rich and constant pen Vail to her mistress Dian; still This Philoten contends in skill With absolute Marina: so The dove of Paphos might with the crow Vie feathers white. Marina gets All praises, which are paid as debts, And not as given. This so darks In Philoten all graceful marks, That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare, A present murderer does prepare For good Marina, that her daughter Might stand peerless by this slaughter. The sooner her vile thoughts to stead, Lychorida, our nurse, is dead: And cursed Dionyza hath The pregnant instrument of wrath Prest for this blow. The unborn event I do commend to your content: Only I carry winged time Post on the lame feet of my rhyme; Which never could I so convey, Unless your thoughts went on my way. Dionyza does appear, With Leonine, a murderer. [_Exit._] Scene I. Tarsus. An open place near the seashore. Enter Dionyza with Leonine. DIONYZA. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do’t: ’Tis but a blow, which never shall be known. Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon, To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience, Which is but cold, inflaming love i’ thy bosom, Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be A soldier to thy purpose. LEONINE. I will do’t; but yet she is a goodly creature. DIONYZA. The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here she comes weeping for her only mistress’ death. Thou art resolved? LEONINE. I am resolved. Enter Marina with a basket of flowers. MARINA. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed To strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds, Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave, While summer days do last. Ay me! poor maid, Born in a tempest, when my mother died, This world to me is like a lasting storm, Whirring me from my friends. DIONYZA. How now, Marina! why do you keep alone? How chance my daughter is not with you? Do not consume your blood with sorrowing; Have you a nurse of me? Lord, how your favour’s Changed with this unprofitable woe! Come, give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it. Walk with Leonine; the air is quick there, And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come, Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her. MARINA. No, I pray you; I’ll not bereave you of your servant. DIONYZA. Come, come; I love the king your father, and yourself, With more than foreign heart. We every day Expect him here: when he shall come and find Our paragon to all reports thus blasted, He will repent the breadth of his great voyage; Blame both my lord and me, that we have taken No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you, Walk, and be cheerful once again; reserve That excellent complexion, which did steal The eyes of young and old. Care not for me; I can go home alone. MARINA. Well, I will go; But yet I have no desire to it. DIONYZA. Come, come, I know ’tis good for you. Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least: Remember what I have said. LEONINE. I warrant you, madam. DIONYZA. I’ll leave you, my sweet lady, for a while: Pray, walk softly, do not heat your blood: What! I must have a care of you. MARINA. My thanks, sweet madam. [_Exit Dionyza._] Is this wind westerly that blows? LEONINE. South-west. MARINA. When I was born the wind was north. LEONINE. Was’t so? MARINA. My father, as nurse said, did never fear, But cried ‘Good seamen!’ to the sailors, Galling his kingly hands, haling ropes; And clasping to the mast, endured a sea That almost burst the deck. LEONINE. When was this? MARINA. When I was born: Never was waves nor wind more violent; And from the ladder tackle washes off A canvas-climber. ‘Ha!’ says one, ‘wolt out?’ And with a dropping industry they skip From stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and The master calls and trebles their confusion. LEONINE. Come, say your prayers. MARINA. What mean you? LEONINE. If you require a little space for prayer, I grant it: pray; but be not tedious, For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn To do my work with haste. MARINA. Why will you kill me? LEONINE. To satisfy my lady. MARINA. Why would she have me kill’d now? As I can remember, by my troth, I never did her hurt in all my life: I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn To any living creature: believe me, la, I never kill’d a mouse, nor hurt a fly: I trod upon a worm against my will, But I wept for it. How have I offended, Wherein my death might yield her any profit, Or my life imply her any danger? LEONINE. My commission Is not to reason of the deed, but do it. MARINA. You will not do’t for all the world, I hope. You are well favour’d, and your looks foreshow You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately, When you caught hurt in parting two that fought: Good sooth, it show’d well in you: do so now: Your lady seeks my life; come you between, And save poor me, the weaker. LEONINE. I am sworn, And will dispatch. [_He seizes her._] Enter Pirates. FIRST PIRATE. Hold, villain! [_Leonine runs away._] SECOND PIRATE. A prize! a prize! THIRD PIRATE. Half part, mates, half part, Come, let’s have her aboard suddenly. [_Exeunt Pirates with Marina._] Re-enter Leonine. LEONINE. These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes; And they have seized Marina. Let her go: There’s no hope she will return. I’ll swear she’s dead And thrown into the sea. But I’ll see further: Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her, Not carry her aboard. If she remain, Whom they have ravish’d must by me be slain. [_Exit._] Scene II. Mytilene. A room in a brothel. Enter Pandar, Bawd and Boult. PANDAR. Boult! BOULT. Sir? PANDAR. Search the market narrowly; Mytilene is full of gallants. We lost too much money this mart by being too wenchless. BAWD. We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten. PANDAR. Therefore let’s have fresh ones, whate’er we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be used in every trade, we shall never prosper. BAWD. Thou sayest true: ’tis not our bringing up of poor bastards,—as, I think, I have brought up some eleven— BOULT. Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market? BAWD. What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden. PANDAR. Thou sayest true; they’re too unwholesome, o’ conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage. BOULT. Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I’ll go search the market. [_Exit._] PANDAR. Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over. BAWD. Why to give over, I pray you? Is it a shame to get when we are old? PANDAR. O, our credit comes not in like the commodity, nor the commodity wages not with the danger: therefore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, ’twere not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving over. BAWD. Come, others sorts offend as well as we. PANDAR. As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it’s no calling. But here comes Boult. Re-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina. BOULT [_To Pirates._] Come your ways. My masters, you say she’s a virgin? FIRST PIRATE. O sir, we doubt it not. BOULT. Master, I have gone through for this piece, you see: if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my earnest. BAWD. Boult, has she any qualities? BOULT. She has a good face, speaks well and has excellent good clothes: there’s no farther necessity of qualities can make her be refused. BAWD. What is her price, Boult? BOULT. I cannot be baited one doit of a thousand pieces. PANDAR. Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your money presently. Wife, take her in; instruct her what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her entertainment. [_Exeunt Pandar and Pirates._] BAWD. Boult, take you the marks of her, the colour of her hair, complexion, height, her age, with warrant of her virginity; and cry ‘He that will give most shall have her first.’ Such a maidenhead were no cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this done as I command you. BOULT. Performance shall follow. [_Exit._] MARINA. Alack that Leonine was so slack, so slow! He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates, Not enough barbarous, had not o’erboard thrown me For to seek my mother! BAWD. Why lament you, pretty one? MARINA. That I am pretty. BAWD. Come, the gods have done their part in you. MARINA. I accuse them not. BAWD. You are light into my hands, where you are like to live. MARINA. The more my fault To scape his hands where I was like to die. BAWD. Ay, and you shall live in pleasure. MARINA. No. BAWD. Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentlemen of all fashions: you shall fare well; you shall have the difference of all complexions. What! do you stop your ears? MARINA. Are you a woman? BAWD. What would you have me be, an I be not a woman? MARINA. An honest woman, or not a woman. BAWD. Marry, whip the gosling: I think I shall have something to do with you. Come, you’re a young foolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have you. MARINA. The gods defend me! BAWD. If it please the gods to defend you by men, then men must comfort you, men must feed you, men stir you up. Boult’s returned. Re-enter Boult. Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market? BOULT. I have cried her almost to the number of her hairs; I have drawn her picture with my voice. BAWD. And I prithee tell me, how dost thou find the inclination of the people, especially of the younger sort? BOULT. Faith, they listened to me as they would have hearkened to their father’s testament. There was a Spaniard’s mouth so watered, that he went to bed to her very description. BAWD. We shall have him here tomorrow with his best ruff on. BOULT. Tonight, tonight. But, mistress, do you know the French knight that cowers i’ the hams? BAWD. Who, Monsieur Veroles? BOULT. Ay, he: he offered to cut a caper at the proclamation; but he made a groan at it, and swore he would see her tomorrow. BAWD. Well, well, as for him, he brought his disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the sun. BOULT. Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, we should lodge them with this sign. [_To Marina._] Pray you, come hither awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must seem to do that fearfully which you commit willingly, despise profit where you have most gain. To weep that you live as ye do makes pity in your lovers: seldom but that pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit. MARINA. I understand you not. BOULT. O, take her home, mistress, take her home: these blushes of hers must be quenched with some present practice. BAWD. Thou sayest true, i’faith so they must; for your bride goes to that with shame which is her way to go with warrant. BOULT. Faith, some do and some do not. But, mistress, if I have bargained for the joint,— BAWD. Thou mayst cut a morsel off the spit. BOULT. I may so. BAWD. Who should deny it? Come young one, I like the manner of your garments well. BOULT. Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed yet. BAWD. Boult, spend thou that in the town: report what a sojourner we have; you’ll lose nothing by custom. When nature framed this piece, she meant thee a good turn; therefore say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own report. BOULT. I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels as my giving out her beauty stirs up the lewdly inclined. I’ll bring home some tonight. BAWD. Come your ways; follow me. MARINA. If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep, Untied I still my virgin knot will keep. Diana, aid my purpose! BAWD. What have we to do with Diana? Pray you, will you go with us? [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house. Enter Cleon and Dionyza. DIONYZA. Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone? CLEON. O, Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter The sun and moon ne’er look’d upon! DIONYZA. I think you’ll turn a child again. CLEON. Were I chief lord of all this spacious world, I’d give it to undo the deed. A lady, Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess To equal any single crown o’ the earth I’ the justice of compare! O villain Leonine! Whom thou hast poison’d too: If thou hadst drunk to him, ’t had been a kindness Becoming well thy face. What canst thou say When noble Pericles shall demand his child? DIONYZA. That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates, To foster it, nor ever to preserve. She died at night; I’ll say so. Who can cross it? Unless you play the pious innocent, And for an honest attribute cry out ‘She died by foul play.’ CLEON. O, go to. Well, well, Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods Do like this worst. DIONYZA. Be one of those that thinks The petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence, And open this to Pericles. I do shame To think of what a noble strain you are, And of how coward a spirit. CLEON. To such proceeding Whoever but his approbation added, Though not his prime consent, he did not flow From honourable courses. DIONYZA. Be it so, then: Yet none does know, but you, how she came dead, Nor none can know, Leonine being gone. She did distain my child, and stood between Her and her fortunes: none would look on her, But cast their gazes on Marina’s face; Whilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin Not worth the time of day. It pierced me through; And though you call my course unnatural, You not your child well loving, yet I find It greets me as an enterprise of kindness Perform’d to your sole daughter. CLEON. Heavens forgive it! DIONYZA. And as for Pericles, what should he say? We wept after her hearse, and yet we mourn. Her monument is almost finish’d, and her epitaphs In glittering golden characters express A general praise to her, and care in us At whose expense ’tis done. CLEON. Thou art like the harpy, Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel’s face, Seize with thine eagle’s talons. DIONYZA. You are like one that superstitiously Doth swear to the gods that winter kills the flies: But yet I know you’ll do as I advise. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Enter Gower, before the monument of Marina at Tarsus. GOWER. Thus time we waste, and long leagues make short; Sail seas in cockles, have and wish but for’t; Making, to take your imagination, From bourn to bourn, region to region. By you being pardon’d, we commit no crime To use one language in each several clime Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you To learn of me, who stand i’the gaps to teach you, The stages of our story. Pericles Is now again thwarting the wayward seas Attended on by many a lord and knight, To see his daughter, all his life’s delight. Old Helicanus goes along. Behind Is left to govern, if you bear in mind, Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late Advanced in time to great and high estate. Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have brought This king to Tarsus,—think his pilot thought; So with his steerage shall your thoughts go on,— To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone. Like motes and shadows see them move awhile; Your ears unto your eyes I’ll reconcile. Dumb-show. Enter Pericles at one door with all his train; Cleon and Dionyza at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb; whereat Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth and in a mighty passion departs. Then exeunt Cleon and Dionyza. See how belief may suffer by foul show; This borrow’d passion stands for true old woe; And Pericles, in sorrow all devour’d, With sighs shot through; and biggest tears o’ershower’d, Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs: He puts on sackcloth, and to sea he bears A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears, And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit The epitaph is for Marina writ By wicked Dionyza. [_Reads the inscription on Marina’s monument._] _The fairest, sweet’st, and best lies here, Who wither’d in her spring of year. She was of Tyrus the King’s daughter, On whom foul death hath made this slaughter; Marina was she call’d; and at her birth, Thetis, being proud, swallow’d some part o’ the earth: Therefore the earth, fearing to be o’erflow’d, Hath Thetis’ birth-child on the heavens bestow’d: Wherefore she does, and swears she’ll never stint, Make raging battery upon shores of flint._ No visor does become black villany So well as soft and tender flattery. Let Pericles believe his daughter’s dead, And bear his courses to be ordered By Lady Fortune; while our scene must play His daughter’s woe and heavy well-a-day In her unholy service. Patience, then, And think you now are all in Mytilene. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Mytilene. A street before the brothel. Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Did you ever hear the like? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a thing? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy houses: shall’s go hear the vestals sing? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I’ll do anything now that is virtuous; but I am out of the road of rutting for ever. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. A room in the brothel. Enter Pandar, Bawd and Boult. PANDAR. Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne’er come here. BAWD. Fie, fie upon her! She’s able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. We must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, her knees; that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her. BOULT. Faith, I must ravish her, or she’ll disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our swearers priests. PANDAR. Now, the pox upon her green sickness for me! BAWD. Faith, there’s no way to be rid on’t but by the way to the pox. Here comes the Lord Lysimachus disguised. BOULT. We should have both lord and lown, if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers. Enter Lysimachus. LYSIMACHUS. How now! How a dozen of virginities? BAWD. Now, the gods to bless your honour! BOULT. I am glad to see your honour in good health. LYSIMACHUS. You may so; ’tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now? Wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon? BAWD. We have here one, sir, if she would—but there never came her like in Mytilene. LYSIMACHUS. If she’d do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say. BAWD. Your honour knows what ’tis to say well enough. LYSIMACHUS. Well, call forth, call forth. BOULT. For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but— LYSIMACHUS. What, prithee? BOULT. O, sir, I can be modest. LYSIMACHUS. That dignifies the renown of a bawd no less than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste. [_Exit Boult._] BAWD. Here comes that which grows to the stalk; never plucked yet, I can assure you. Re-enter Boult with Marina. Is she not a fair creature? LYSIMACHUS. Faith, she would serve after a long voyage at sea. Well, there’s for you: leave us. BAWD. I beseech your honour, give me leave: a word, and I’ll have done presently. LYSIMACHUS. I beseech you, do. BAWD. [_To Marina._] First, I would have you note, this is an honourable man. MARINA. I desire to find him so, that I may worthily note him. BAWD. Next, he’s the governor of this country, and a man whom I am bound to. MARINA. If he govern the country, you are bound to him indeed; but how honourable he is in that, I know not. BAWD. Pray you, without any more virginal fencing, will you use him kindly? He will line your apron with gold. MARINA. What he will do graciously, I will thankfully receive. LYSIMACHUS. Ha’ you done? BAWD. My lord, she’s not paced yet: you must take some pains to work her to your manage. Come, we will leave his honour and her together. Go thy ways. [_Exeunt Bawd, Pandar and Boult._] LYSIMACHUS. Now, pretty one, how long have you been at this trade? MARINA. What trade, sir? LYSIMACHUS. Why, I cannot name’t but I shall offend. MARINA. I cannot be offended with my trade. Please you to name it. LYSIMACHUS. How long have you been of this profession? MARINA. E’er since I can remember. LYSIMACHUS. Did you go to’t so young? Were you a gamester at five or at seven? MARINA. Earlier, too, sir, if now I be one. LYSIMACHUS. Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you to be a creature of sale. MARINA. Do you know this house to be a place of such resort, and will come into’t? I hear say you are of honourable parts, and are the governor of this place. LYSIMACHUS. Why, hath your principal made known unto you who I am? MARINA. Who is my principal? LYSIMACHUS. Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. O, you have heard something of my power, and so stand aloof for more serious wooing. But I protest to thee, pretty one, my authority shall not see thee, or else look friendly upon thee. Come, bring me to some private place: come, come. MARINA. If you were born to honour, show it now; If put upon you, make the judgement good That thought you worthy of it. LYSIMACHUS. How’s this? how’s this? Some more; be sage. MARINA. For me, That am a maid, though most ungentle Fortune Have placed me in this sty, where, since I came, Diseases have been sold dearer than physic, O, that the gods Would set me free from this unhallow’d place, Though they did change me to the meanest bird That flies i’ the purer air! LYSIMACHUS. I did not think Thou couldst have spoke so well; ne’er dream’d thou couldst. Had I brought hither a corrupted mind, Thy speech had alter’d it. Hold, here’s gold for thee: Persever in that clear way thou goest, And the gods strengthen thee! MARINA. The good gods preserve you! LYSIMACHUS. For me, be you thoughten That I came with no ill intent; for to me The very doors and windows savour vilely. Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and I doubt not but thy training hath been noble. Hold, here’s more gold for thee. A curse upon him, die he like a thief, That robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost Hear from me, it shall be for thy good. Re-enter Boult. BOULT. I beseech your honour, one piece for me. LYSIMACHUS. Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper! Your house but for this virgin that doth prop it, Would sink and overwhelm you. Away! [_Exit._] BOULT. How’s this? We must take another course with you. If your peevish chastity, which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest country under the cope, shall undo a whole household, let me be gelded like a spaniel. Come your ways. MARINA. Whither would you have me? BOULT. I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We’ll have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say. Re-enter Bawd. BAWD. How now! what’s the matter? BOULT. Worse and worse, mistress; she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus. BAWD. O, abominable! BOULT. She makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods. BAWD. Marry, hang her up for ever! BOULT. The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball; saying his prayers too. BAWD. Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable. BOULT. An if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be ploughed. MARINA. Hark, hark, you gods! BAWD. She conjures: away with her! Would she had never come within my doors! Marry, hang you! She’s born to undo us. Will you not go the way of womankind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays! [_Exit._] BOULT. Come, mistress; come your way with me. MARINA. Whither wilt thou have me? BOULT. To take from you the jewel you hold so dear. MARINA. Prithee, tell me one thing first. BOULT. Come now, your one thing? MARINA. What canst thou wish thine enemy to be? BOULT. Why, I could wish him to be my master, or rather, my mistress. MARINA. Neither of these are so bad as thou art, Since they do better thee in their command. Thou hold’st a place, for which the pained’st fiend Of hell would not in reputation change: Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every Coistrel that comes inquiring for his Tib. To the choleric fisting of every rogue Thy ear is liable, thy food is such As hath been belch’d on by infected lungs. BOULT. What would you have me do? Go to the wars, would you? where a man may serve seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not money enough in the end to buy him a wooden one? MARINA. Do anything but this thou doest. Empty Old receptacles, or common shores, of filth; Serve by indenture to the common hangman: Any of these ways are yet better than this; For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak, Would own a name too dear. O, that the gods Would safely deliver me from this place! Here, here’s gold for thee. If that thy master would gain by me, Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance, With other virtues, which I’ll keep from boast; And I will undertake all these to teach. I doubt not but this populous city will Yield many scholars. BOULT. But can you teach all this you speak of? MARINA. Prove that I cannot, take me home again, And prostitute me to the basest groom That doth frequent your house. BOULT. Well, I will see what I can do for thee: if I can place thee, I will. MARINA. But amongst honest women. BOULT. Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst them. But since my master and mistress have bought you, there’s no going but by their consent: therefore I will make them acquainted with your purpose, and I doubt not but I shall find them tractable enough. Come, I’ll do for thee what I can; come your ways. [_Exeunt._] ACT V Enter Gower. GOWER. Marina thus the brothel ’scapes, and chances Into an honest house, our story says. She sings like one immortal, and she dances As goddess-like to her admired lays; Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her nee’le composes Nature’s own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or berry, That even her art sisters the natural roses; Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry: That pupils lacks she none of noble race, Who pour their bounty on her; and her gain She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place; And to her father turn our thoughts again, Where we left him, on the sea. We there him lost; Whence, driven before the winds, he is arrived Here where his daughter dwells; and on this coast Suppose him now at anchor. The city strived God Neptune’s annual feast to keep: from whence Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies, His banners sable, trimm’d with rich expense; And to him in his barge with fervour hies. In your supposing once more put your sight Of heavy Pericles; think this his bark: Where what is done in action, more, if might, Shall be discover’d; please you, sit and hark. [_Exit._] SCENE I. On board Pericles’ ship, off Mytilene. A close pavilion on deck, with a curtain before it; Pericles within it, reclined on a couch. A barge lying beside the Tyrian vessel. Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian vessel, the other to the barge; to them Helicanus. TYRIAN SAILOR. [_To the Sailor of Mytilene._] Where is lord Helicanus? He can resolve you. O, here he is. Sir, there’s a barge put off from Mytilene, And in it is Lysimachus the governor, Who craves to come aboard. What is your will? HELICANUS. That he have his. Call up some gentlemen. TYRIAN SAILOR. Ho, gentlemen! my lord calls. Enter two or three Gentlemen. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Doth your lordship call? HELICANUS. Gentlemen, there is some of worth would come aboard; I pray ye, greet them fairly. [_The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend and go on board the barge._] Enter, from thence, Lysimachus and Lords; with the Gentlemen and the two Sailors. TYRIAN SAILOR. Sir, This is the man that can, in aught you would, Resolve you. LYSIMACHUS. Hail, reverend sir! the gods preserve you! HELICANUS. And you, sir, to outlive the age I am, And die as I would do. LYSIMACHUS. You wish me well. Being on shore, honouring of Neptune’s triumphs, Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us, I made to it, to know of whence you are. HELICANUS. First, what is your place? LYSIMACHUS. I am the governor of this place you lie before. HELICANUS. Sir, our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king; A man who for this three months hath not spoken To anyone, nor taken sustenance But to prorogue his grief. LYSIMACHUS. Upon what ground is his distemperature? HELICANUS. ’Twould be too tedious to repeat; But the main grief springs from the loss Of a beloved daughter and a wife. LYSIMACHUS. May we not see him? HELICANUS. You may; But bootless is your sight: he will not speak To any. LYSIMACHUS. Yet let me obtain my wish. HELICANUS. Behold him. [_Pericles discovered._] This was a goodly person. Till the disaster that, one mortal night, Drove him to this. LYSIMACHUS. Sir king, all hail! The gods preserve you! Hail, royal sir! HELICANUS. It is in vain; he will not speak to you. FIRST LORD. Sir, we have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager, Would win some words of him. LYSIMACHUS. ’Tis well bethought. She questionless with her sweet harmony And other chosen attractions, would allure, And make a battery through his deafen’d parts, Which now are midway stopp’d: She is all happy as the fairest of all, And, with her fellow maids, is now upon The leafy shelter that abuts against The island’s side. [_Whispers a Lord who goes off in the barge of Lysimachus._] HELICANUS. Sure, all’s effectless; yet nothing we’ll omit That bears recovery’s name. But, since your kindness We have stretch’d thus far, let us beseech you That for our gold we may provision have, Wherein we are not destitute for want, But weary for the staleness. LYSIMACHUS. O, sir, a courtesy Which if we should deny, the most just gods For every graff would send a caterpillar, And so inflict our province. Yet once more Let me entreat to know at large the cause Of your king’s sorrow. HELICANUS. Sit, sir, I will recount it to you: But, see, I am prevented. Re-enter from the barge, Lord with Marina and a young Lady. LYSIMACHUS. O, here is the lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one! Is’t not a goodly presence? HELICANUS. She’s a gallant lady. LYSIMACHUS. She’s such a one, that, were I well assured Came of a gentle kind and noble stock, I’d wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed. Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty Expect even here, where is a kingly patient: If that thy prosperous and artificial feat Can draw him but to answer thee in aught, Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay As thy desires can wish. MARINA. Sir, I will use My utmost skill in his recovery, provided That none but I and my companion maid Be suffer’d to come near him. LYSIMACHUS. Come, let us leave her, And the gods make her prosperous! [_Marina sings._] LYSIMACHUS. Mark’d he your music? MARINA. No, nor look’d on us. LYSIMACHUS. See, she will speak to him. MARINA. Hail, sir! My lord, lend ear. PERICLES. Hum, ha! MARINA. I am a maid, My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes, But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks, My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d. Though wayward Fortune did malign my state, My derivation was from ancestors Who stood equivalent with mighty kings: But time hath rooted out my parentage, And to the world and awkward casualties Bound me in servitude. [_Aside._] I will desist; But there is something glows upon my cheek, And whispers in mine ear ‘Go not till he speak.’ PERICLES. My fortunes—parentage—good parentage— To equal mine!—was it not thus? what say you? MARINA. I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage, You would not do me violence. PERICLES. I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me. You are like something that—what country-woman? Here of these shores? MARINA. No, nor of any shores: Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am No other than I appear. PERICLES. I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping. My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one My daughter might have been: my queen’s square brows; Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight; As silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like And cased as richly; in pace another Juno; Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry, The more she gives them speech. Where do you live? MARINA. Where I am but a stranger: from the deck You may discern the place. PERICLES. Where were you bred? And how achieved you these endowments, which You make more rich to owe? MARINA. If I should tell my history, it would seem Like lies disdain’d in the reporting. PERICLES. Prithee, speak: Falseness cannot come from thee; for thou look’st Modest as Justice, and thou seem’st a palace For the crown’d Truth to dwell in: I will believe thee, And make my senses credit thy relation To points that seem impossible; for thou look’st Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends? Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back— Which was when I perceived thee—that thou cam’st From good descending? MARINA. So indeed I did. PERICLES. Report thy parentage. I think thou said’st Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury, And that thou thought’st thy griefs might equal mine, If both were open’d. MARINA. Some such thing, I said, and said no more but what my thoughts Did warrant me was likely. PERICLES. Tell thy story; If thine consider’d prove the thousand part Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I Have suffer’d like a girl: yet thou dost look Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling Extremity out of act. What were thy friends? How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind virgin? Recount, I do beseech thee: come, sit by me. MARINA. My name is Marina. PERICLES. O, I am mock’d, And thou by some incensed god sent hither To make the world to laugh at me. MARINA. Patience, good sir, Or here I’ll cease. PERICLES. Nay, I’ll be patient. Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me, To call thyself Marina. MARINA. The name Was given me by one that had some power, My father, and a king. PERICLES. How! a king’s daughter? And call’d Marina? MARINA. You said you would believe me; But, not to be a troubler of your peace, I will end here. PERICLES. But are you flesh and blood? Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy? Motion! Well; speak on. Where were you born? And wherefore call’d Marina? MARINA. Call’d Marina For I was born at sea. PERICLES. At sea! What mother? MARINA. My mother was the daughter of a king; Who died the minute I was born, As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft Deliver’d weeping. PERICLES. O, stop there a little! [_Aside._] This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep Did mock sad fools withal: this cannot be: My daughter, buried. Well, where were you bred? I’ll hear you more, to the bottom of your story, And never interrupt you. MARINA. You scorn: believe me, ’twere best I did give o’er. PERICLES. I will believe you by the syllable Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave: How came you in these parts? Where were you bred? MARINA. The king my father did in Tarsus leave me; Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife, Did seek to murder me: and having woo’d A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do’t, A crew of pirates came and rescued me; Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir. Whither will you have me? Why do you weep? It may be, You think me an impostor: no, good faith; I am the daughter to King Pericles, If good King Pericles be. PERICLES. Ho, Helicanus! Enter Helicanus and Lysimachus. HELICANUS. Calls my lord? PERICLES. Thou art a grave and noble counsellor, Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst, What this maid is, or what is like to be, That thus hath made me weep. HELICANUS. I know not, But here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene Speaks nobly of her. LYSIMACHUS. She would never tell Her parentage; being demanded that, She would sit still and weep. PERICLES. O Helicanus, strike me, honour’d sir; Give me a gash, put me to present pain; Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me O’erbear the shores of my mortality, And drown me with their sweetness. [_To Marina_] O, come hither, Thou that beget’st him that did thee beget; Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, And found at sea again! O Helicanus, Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud As thunder threatens us: this is Marina. What was thy mother’s name? tell me but that, For truth can never be confirm’d enough, Though doubts did ever sleep. MARINA. First, sir, I pray, what is your title? PERICLES. I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you said Thou hast been godlike perfect, The heir of kingdoms and another life To Pericles thy father. MARINA. Is it no more to be your daughter than To say my mother’s name was Thaisa? Thaisa was my mother, who did end The minute I began. PERICLES. Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child. Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus; She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been, By savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all; When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge She is thy very princess. Who is this? HELICANUS. Sir, ’tis the governor of Mytilene, Who, hearing of your melancholy state, Did come to see you. PERICLES. I embrace you. Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding. O heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music? Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt, How sure you are my daughter. But, what music? HELICANUS. My lord, I hear none. PERICLES. None! The music of the spheres! List, my Marina. LYSIMACHUS. It is not good to cross him; give him way. PERICLES. Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear? LYSIMACHUS. Music, my lord? I hear. [_Music._] PERICLES. Most heavenly music! It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber Hangs upon mine eyes: let me rest. [_Sleeps._] LYSIMACHUS. A pillow for his head: So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends, If this but answer to my just belief, I’ll well remember you. [_Exeunt all but Pericles._] Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision. DIANA. My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither, And do upon mine altar sacrifice. There, when my maiden priests are met together, Before the people all, Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife: To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call And give them repetition to the life. Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe: Do it, and happy; by my silver bow! Awake and tell thy dream. [_Disappears._] PERICLES. Celestial Dian, goddess argentine, I will obey thee. Helicanus! Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus and Marina. HELICANUS. Sir? PERICLES. My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike The inhospitable Cleon; but I am For other service first: toward Ephesus Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I’ll tell thee why. [_To Lysimachus._] Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore, And give you gold for such provision As our intents will need? LYSIMACHUS. Sir, with all my heart, And when you come ashore I have another suit. PERICLES. You shall prevail, were it to woo my daughter; For it seems you have been noble towards her. LYSIMACHUS. Sir, lend me your arm. PERICLES. Come, my Marina. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Enter Gower before the temple of Diana at Ephesus. GOWER. Now our sands are almost run; More a little, and then dumb. This, my last boon, give me, For such kindness must relieve me, That you aptly will suppose What pageantry, what feats, what shows, What minstrelsy, and pretty din, The regent made in Mytilene To greet the king. So he thrived, That he is promised to be wived To fair Marina; but in no wise Till he had done his sacrifice, As Dian bade: whereto being bound, The interim, pray you, all confound. In feather’d briefness sails are fill’d, And wishes fall out as they’re will’d. At Ephesus, the temple see, Our king and all his company. That he can hither come so soon, Is by your fancy’s thankful doom. [_Exit._] SCENE III. The temple of Diana at Ephesus; Thaisa standing near the altar, as high priestess; a number of Virgins on each side; Cerimon and other inhabitants of Ephesus attending. Enter Pericles with his train; Lysimachus, Helicanus, Marina and a Lady. PERICLES. Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command, I here confess myself the King of Tyre; Who, frighted from my country, did wed At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa. At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth A maid child call’d Marina; whom, O goddess, Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus Was nursed with Cleon; who at fourteen years He sought to murder: but her better stars Brought her to Mytilene; ’gainst whose shore Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us, Where by her own most clear remembrance, she Made known herself my daughter. THAISA. Voice and favour! You are, you are—O royal Pericles! [_Faints._] PERICLES. What means the nun? She dies! help, gentlemen! CERIMON. Noble sir, If you have told Diana’s altar true, This is your wife. PERICLES. Reverend appearer, no; I threw her overboard with these very arms. CERIMON. Upon this coast, I warrant you. PERICLES. ’Tis most certain. CERIMON. Look to the lady; O, she’s but o’er-joy’d. Early in blustering morn this lady was Thrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin, Found there rich jewels; recover’d her, and placed her Here in Diana’s temple. PERICLES. May we see them? CERIMON. Great sir, they shall be brought you to my house, Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is Recovered. THAISA. O, let me look! If he be none of mine, my sanctity Will to my sense bend no licentious ear, But curb it, spite of seeing. O, my lord, Are you not Pericles? Like him you spake, Like him you are: did you not name a tempest, A birth, and death? PERICLES. The voice of dead Thaisa! THAISA. That Thaisa am I, supposed dead And drown’d. PERICLES. Immortal Dian! THAISA. Now I know you better, When we with tears parted Pentapolis, The king my father gave you such a ring. [_Shows a ring._] PERICLES. This, this: no more, you gods! your present kindness Makes my past miseries sports: you shall do well, That on the touching of her lips I may Melt and no more be seen. O, come, be buried A second time within these arms. MARINA. My heart Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom. [_Kneels to Thaisa._] PERICLES. Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, Thaisa; Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina For she was yielded there. THAISA. Blest, and mine own! HELICANUS. Hail, madam, and my queen! THAISA. I know you not. PERICLES. You have heard me say, when I did fly from Tyre, I left behind an ancient substitute: Can you remember what I call’d the man? I have named him oft. THAISA. ’Twas Helicanus then. PERICLES. Still confirmation: Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he. Now do I long to hear how you were found: How possibly preserved; and who to thank, Besides the gods, for this great miracle. THAISA. Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man, Through whom the gods have shown their power; that can From first to last resolve you. PERICLES. Reverend sir, The gods can have no mortal officer More like a god than you. Will you deliver How this dead queen relives? CERIMON. I will, my lord. Beseech you, first go with me to my house, Where shall be shown you all was found with her; How she came placed here in the temple; No needful thing omitted. PERICLES. Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision! I Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa, This prince, the fair betrothed of your daughter, Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now this ornament Makes me look dismal will I clip to form; And what this fourteen years no razor touch’d To grace thy marriage-day, I’ll beautify. THAISA. Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, sir, My father’s dead. PERICLES. Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, my queen, We’ll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves Will in that kingdom spend our following days: Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign. Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay To hear the rest untold. Sir, lead’s the way. [_Exeunt._] Enter Gower. GOWER. In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard Of monstrous lust the due and just reward: In Pericles, his queen and daughter seen, Although assail’d with Fortune fierce and keen, Virtue preserved from fell destruction’s blast, Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last. In Helicanus may you well descry A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty: In reverend Cerimon there well appears The worth that learned charity aye wears: For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame Had spread their cursed deed, the honour’d name Of Pericles, to rage the city turn, That him and his they in his palace burn. The gods for murder seemed so content To punish, although not done, but meant. So on your patience evermore attending, New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending. [_Exit._] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND Contents ACT I Scene I. London. A Room in the palace. Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke of Lancaster’s palace. Scene III. Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending. Scene IV. London. A Room in the King’s Castle. ACT II Scene I. London. An Apartment in Ely House. Scene II. The Same. A Room in the Castle. Scene III. The Wolds in Gloucestershire. Scene IV. A camp in Wales. ACT III Scene I. Bristol. Bolingbroke’s camp. Scene II. The coast of Wales. A castle in view. Scene III. Wales. Before Flint Castle. Scene IV. Langley. The Duke of York’s garden. ACT IV Scene I. Westminster Hall. ACT V Scene I. London. A street leading to the Tower. Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke of York’s palace. Scene III. Windsor. A room in the Castle. Scene IV. Another room in the Castle. Scene V. Pomfret. The dungeon of the Castle. Scene VI. Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle. Dramatis Personæ KING RICHARD THE SECOND JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster - uncle to the King EDMUND LANGLEY, Duke of York - uncle to the King HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, son of John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV DUKE OF AUMERLE, son of the Duke of York THOMAS MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk DUKE OF SURREY EARL OF SALISBURY LORD BERKELEY BUSHY - Servant to King Richard BAGOT - Servant to King Richard GREEN - Servant to King Richard EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND HARRY PERCY, surnamed Hotspur, his son LORD ROSS LORD WILLOUGHBY LORD FITZWATER BISHOP OF CARLISLE ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER LORD MARSHAL SIR PIERCE OF EXTON SIR STEPHEN SCROOP Captain of a band of Welshmen QUEEN TO KING RICHARD DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER DUCHESS OF YORK Lady attending on the Queen Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants SCENE: Dispersedly in England and Wales. ACT I SCENE I. London. A Room in the palace. Enter King Richard, John of Gaunt, with other Nobles and Attendants. KING RICHARD. Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster, Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son, Here to make good the boist’rous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? GAUNT. I have, my liege. KING RICHARD. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice, Or worthily, as a good subject should, On some known ground of treachery in him? GAUNT. As near as I could sift him on that argument, On some apparent danger seen in him Aimed at your Highness, no inveterate malice. KING RICHARD. Then call them to our presence. Face to face And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear The accuser and the accused freely speak. High-stomached are they both and full of ire, In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Enter Bolingbroke and Mowbray. BOLINGBROKE. Many years of happy days befall My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! MOWBRAY. Each day still better other’s happiness Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap, Add an immortal title to your crown! KING RICHARD. We thank you both. Yet one but flatters us, As well appeareth by the cause you come, Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? BOLINGBROKE. First—heaven be the record to my speech!— In the devotion of a subject’s love, Tend’ring the precious safety of my prince, And free from other misbegotten hate, Come I appellant to this princely presence. Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, And mark my greeting well; for what I speak My body shall make good upon this earth, Or my divine soul answer it in heaven. Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, Too good to be so and too bad to live, Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. Once more, the more to aggravate the note, With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat, And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move, What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may prove. MOWBRAY. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal. ’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain; The blood is hot that must be cooled for this. Yet can I not of such tame patience boast As to be hushed and naught at all to say. First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me From giving reins and spurs to my free speech, Which else would post until it had returned These terms of treason doubled down his throat. Setting aside his high blood’s royalty, And let him be no kinsman to my liege, I do defy him, and I spit at him, Call him a slanderous coward and a villain; Which to maintain, I would allow him odds And meet him, were I tied to run afoot Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, Or any other ground inhabitable Wherever Englishman durst set his foot. Meantime let this defend my loyalty: By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie. BOLINGBROKE. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage, Disclaiming here the kindred of the King, And lay aside my high blood’s royalty, Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. If guilty dread have left thee so much strength As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop. By that and all the rites of knighthood else, Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, What I have spoke or thou canst worst devise. MOWBRAY. I take it up; and by that sword I swear Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder, I’ll answer thee in any fair degree Or chivalrous design of knightly trial. And when I mount, alive may I not light If I be traitor or unjustly fight! KING RICHARD. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge? It must be great that can inherit us So much as of a thought of ill in him. BOLINGBROKE. Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true: That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles In name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers, The which he hath detained for lewd employments, Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides I say, and will in battle prove, Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge That ever was surveyed by English eye, That all the treasons for these eighteen years Complotted and contrived in this land Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. Further I say, and further will maintain Upon his bad life to make all this good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death, Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, And consequently, like a traitor coward, Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood, Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth To me for justice and rough chastisement. And, by the glorious worth of my descent, This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. KING RICHARD. How high a pitch his resolution soars! Thomas of Norfolk, what sayst thou to this? MOWBRAY. O! let my sovereign turn away his face And bid his ears a little while be deaf, Till I have told this slander of his blood How God and good men hate so foul a liar. KING RICHARD. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears. Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir, As he is but my father’s brother’s son, Now, by my sceptre’s awe I make a vow Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood Should nothing privilege him nor partialize The unstooping firmness of my upright soul. He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou. Free speech and fearless I to thee allow. MOWBRAY. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest. Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais Disbursed I duly to his highness’ soldiers; The other part reserved I by consent, For that my sovereign liege was in my debt Upon remainder of a dear account Since last I went to France to fetch his queen. Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death, I slew him not, but to my own disgrace Neglected my sworn duty in that case. For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe, Once did I lay an ambush for your life, A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul; But ere I last received the sacrament I did confess it and exactly begged Your Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it. This is my fault. As for the rest appealed, It issues from the rancour of a villain, A recreant and most degenerate traitor, Which in myself I boldly will defend, And interchangeably hurl down my gage Upon this overweening traitor’s foot, To prove myself a loyal gentleman Even in the best blood chambered in his bosom. In haste whereof most heartily I pray Your highness to assign our trial day. KING RICHARD. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me. Let’s purge this choler without letting blood. This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision. Forget, forgive, conclude and be agreed; Our doctors say this is no month to bleed. Good uncle, let this end where it begun; We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son. GAUNT. To be a make-peace shall become my age. Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage. KING RICHARD. And, Norfolk, throw down his. GAUNT. When, Harry, when? Obedience bids I should not bid again. KING RICHARD. Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot. MOWBRAY. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot. My life thou shalt command, but not my shame. The one my duty owes; but my fair name, Despite of death that lives upon my grave, To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have. I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander’s venomed spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison. KING RICHARD. Rage must be withstood. Give me his gage. Lions make leopards tame. MOWBRAY. Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame, And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one. Take honour from me, and my life is done. Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live, and for that will I die. KING RICHARD. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin. BOLINGBROKE. O, God defend my soul from such deep sin! Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father’s sight? Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height Before this outdared dastard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear The slavish motive of recanting fear And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face. [_Exit Gaunt._] KING RICHARD. We were not born to sue, but to command; Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, At Coventry upon Saint Lambert’s day. There shall your swords and lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your settled hate. Since we cannot atone you, we shall see Justice design the victor’s chivalry. Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms Be ready to direct these home alarms. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A room in the Duke of Lancaster’s palace. Enter John of Gaunt with the Duchess of Gloucester. GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock’s blood Doth more solicit me than your exclaims To stir against the butchers of his life. But since correction lieth in those hands Which made the fault that we cannot correct, Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven, Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads. DUCHESS. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire? Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one, Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, Or seven fair branches springing from one root. Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course, Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt, Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all faded, By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine! That bed, that womb, That metal, that self mould, that fashioned thee Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest, Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent In some large measure to thy father’s death In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy father’s life. Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair. In suff’ring thus thy brother to be slaughtered, Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee. That which in mean men we entitle patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life, The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death. GAUNT. God’s is the quarrel; for God’s substitute, His deputy anointed in His sight, Hath caused his death, the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift An angry arm against His minister. DUCHESS. Where then, alas! may I complain myself? GAUNT. To God, the widow’s champion and defence. DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight. O, sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast! Or if misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom That they may break his foaming courser’s back And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford! Farewell, old Gaunt. Thy sometimes brother’s wife With her companion, Grief, must end her life. GAUNT. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry. As much good stay with thee as go with me! DUCHESS. Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight. I take my leave before I have begun, For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. Lo, this is all. Nay, yet depart not so! Though this be all, do not so quickly go; I shall remember more. Bid him—ah, what?— With all good speed at Plashy visit me. Alack, and what shall good old York there see But empty lodgings and unfurnished walls, Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones? And what hear there for welcome but my groans? Therefore commend me; let him not come there To seek out sorrow that dwells everywhere. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die! The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending. Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke of Aumerle. MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed? AUMERLE. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in. MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appelant’s trumpet. AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepared and stay For nothing but his Majesty’s approach. Enter King Richard, who takes his seat on his Throne; Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green and others, who take their places. A trumpet is sounded, and answered by another trumpet within. Then enter Mowbray in armour, defendant, preceded by a Herald. KING RICHARD. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms. Ask him his name, and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause. MARSHAL. In God’s name and the King’s, say who thou art, And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms, Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel. Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath, As so defend thee heaven and thy valour. MOWBRAY. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, Who hither come engaged by my oath— Which God defend a knight should violate!— Both to defend my loyalty and truth To God, my King, and my succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me, And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, To prove him, in defending of myself, A traitor to my God, my king, and me; And as I truly fight, defend me heaven. [_He takes his seat._] Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke, appellant, in armour, preceded by a Herald. KING RICHARD. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms Both who he is and why he cometh hither Thus plated in habiliments of war, And formally, according to our law, Depose him in the justice of his cause. MARSHAL. What is thy name? And wherefore com’st thou hither Before King Richard in his royal lists? Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel? Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven! BOLINGBROKE. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Am I, who ready here do stand in arms To prove by God’s grace and my body’s valour, In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, That he’s a traitor foul and dangerous, To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me. And as I truly fight, defend me heaven. MARSHAL. On pain of death, no person be so bold Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, Except the Marshal and such officers Appointed to direct these fair designs. BOLINGBROKE. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand And bow my knee before his Majesty. For Mowbray and myself are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage; Then let us take a ceremonious leave And loving farewell of our several friends. MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your highness And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. KING RICHARD. [_Descends from his throne_.] We will descend and fold him in our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this royal fight. Farewell, my blood, which if today thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear. As confident as is the falcon’s flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of you. Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; Not sick, although I have to do with death, But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet. O thou, the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head, Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers, And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point, That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat And furbish new the name of John o’ Gaunt, Even in the lusty haviour of his son. GAUNT. God in thy good cause make thee prosperous. Be swift like lightning in the execution, And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the casque Of thy adverse pernicious enemy. Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live. BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive! [_He takes his seat._] MOWBRAY. [_Rising_.] However God or fortune cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne, A loyal, just, and upright gentleman. Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace His golden uncontrolled enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine adversary. Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, Take from my mouth the wish of happy years. As gentle and as jocund as to jest Go I to fight. Truth hath a quiet breast. KING RICHARD. Farewell, my lord. Securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. Order the trial, Marshal, and begin. [_The King and the Lords return to their seats._] MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right. BOLINGBROKE. [_Rising_.] Strong as a tower in hope, I cry “Amen”! MARSHAL. [_To an officer_.] Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. FIRST HERALD. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, A traitor to his God, his King, and him, And dares him to set forward to the fight. SECOND HERALD. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himself and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal, Courageously and with a free desire, Attending but the signal to begin. MARSHAL. Sound trumpets, and set forward, combatants. [_A charge sounded._] Stay! the King hath thrown his warder down. KING RICHARD. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears, And both return back to their chairs again. Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets sound While we return these dukes what we decree. [_A long flourish._] [_To the Combatants_.] Draw near, And list what with our council we have done. For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soiled With that dear blood which it hath fostered; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbours’ swords; And for we think the eagle-winged pride Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set on you To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep, Which so roused up with boist’rous untuned drums, With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood: Therefore we banish you our territories. You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enriched our fields Shall not regreet our fair dominions, But tread the stranger paths of banishment. BOLINGBROKE. Your will be done. This must my comfort be: That sun that warms you here shall shine on me, And those his golden beams to you here lent Shall point on me and gild my banishment. KING RICHARD. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: The sly slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile. The hopeless word of “never to return” Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. MOWBRAY. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlooked for from your highness’ mouth. A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness’ hands. The language I have learnt these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo; And now my tongue’s use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony. Within my mouth you have engaoled my tongue, Doubly portcullised with my teeth and lips, And dull unfeeling, barren ignorance Is made my gaoler to attend on me. I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now. What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? KING RICHARD. It boots thee not to be compassionate. After our sentence plaining comes too late. MOWBRAY. Then thus I turn me from my country’s light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [_Retiring._] KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banished hands. Swear by the duty that you owe to God— Our part therein we banish with yourselves— To keep the oath that we administer: You never shall, so help you truth and God, Embrace each other’s love in banishment; Nor never look upon each other’s face; Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile This louring tempest of your home-bred hate; Nor never by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill ’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. BOLINGBROKE. I swear. MOWBRAY. And I, to keep all this. BOLINGBROKE. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy: By this time, had the King permitted us, One of our souls had wandered in the air, Banished this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banished from this land. Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm. Since thou hast far to go, bear not along The clogging burden of a guilty soul. MOWBRAY. No, Bolingbroke. If ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banished as from hence! But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know; And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue. Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray; Save back to England, all the world’s my way. [_Exit._] KING RICHARD. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banished years Plucked four away. [_To Bolingbroke_.] Six frozen winters spent, Return with welcome home from banishment. BOLINGBROKE. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters and four wanton springs End in a word: such is the breath of kings. GAUNT. I thank my liege that in regard of me He shortens four years of my son’s exile; But little vantage shall I reap thereby, For, ere the six years that he hath to spend Can change their moons and bring their times about, My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light Shall be extinct with age and endless night; My inch of taper will be burnt and done, And blindfold death not let me see my son. KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live. GAUNT. But not a minute, king, that thou canst give. Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow. Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage; Thy word is current with him for my death, But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. KING RICHARD. Thy son is banished upon good advice, Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave. Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour? GAUNT. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. You urged me as a judge, but I had rather You would have bid me argue like a father. O, had it been a stranger, not my child, To smooth his fault I should have been more mild. A partial slander sought I to avoid, And in the sentence my own life destroyed. Alas, I looked when some of you should say I was too strict to make mine own away; But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue Against my will to do myself this wrong. KING RICHARD. Cousin, farewell, and, uncle, bid him so. Six years we banish him, and he shall go. [_Flourish. Exit King Richard and Train._] AUMERLE. Cousin, farewell. What presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper show. MARSHAL. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride, As far as land will let me, by your side. GAUNT. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends? BOLINGBROKE. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue’s office should be prodigal To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. GAUNT. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. BOLINGBROKE. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. GAUNT. What is six winters? They are quickly gone. BOLINGBROKE. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten. GAUNT. Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure. BOLINGBROKE. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage. GAUNT. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home return. BOLINGBROKE. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Will but remember me what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages, and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief? GAUNT. All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus: There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the King did banish thee, But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour, And not the King exiled thee; or suppose Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, And thou art flying to a fresher clime. Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com’st. Suppose the singing birds musicians, The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strewed, The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delightful measure or a dance; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light. BOLINGBROKE. O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O no, the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse. Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more Than when it bites but lanceth not the sore. GAUNT. Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way. Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay. BOLINGBROKE. Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu, My mother and my nurse that bears me yet! Where’er I wander, boast of this I can, Though banished, yet a true-born Englishman. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. A Room in the King’s Castle Enter King Richard, Green and Bagot at one door; Aumerle at another. KING RICHARD. We did observe.—Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way? AUMERLE. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next highway, and there I left him. KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting tears were shed? AUMERLE. Faith, none for me, except the northeast wind, Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. KING RICHARD. What said our cousin when you parted with him? AUMERLE. “Farewell.” And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft To counterfeit oppression of such grief That words seemed buried in my sorrow’s grave. Marry, would the word “farewell” have lengthened hours And added years to his short banishment, He should have had a volume of farewells, But since it would not, he had none of me. KING RICHARD. He is our cousin, cousin, but ’tis doubt, When time shall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green, Observed his courtship to the common people, How he did seem to dive into their hearts With humble and familiar courtesy, What reverence he did throw away on slaves, Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles And patient underbearing of his fortune, As ’twere to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench; A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, And had the tribute of his supple knee, With “Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends”, As were our England in reversion his, And he our subjects’ next degree in hope. GREEN. Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts. Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland, Expedient manage must be made, my liege, Ere further leisure yield them further means For their advantage and your highness’ loss. KING RICHARD. We will ourself in person to this war. And, for our coffers, with too great a court And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, We are enforced to farm our royal realm, The revenue whereof shall furnish us For our affairs in hand. If that come short, Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich, They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold, And send them after to supply our wants; For we will make for Ireland presently. Enter Bushy. Bushy, what news? BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord, Suddenly taken, and hath sent posthaste To entreat your Majesty to visit him. KING RICHARD. Where lies he? BUSHY. At Ely House. KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in his physician’s mind To help him to his grave immediately! The lining of his coffers shall make coats To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Come, gentlemen, let’s all go visit him. Pray God we may make haste and come too late! ALL. Amen! [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. London. An Apartment in Ely House. Gaunt on a couch; the Duke of York and Others standing by him. GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may breathe my last In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth? YORK. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath, For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. GAUNT. O, but they say the tongues of dying men Enforce attention like deep harmony. Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain. He that no more must say is listened more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose. More are men’s ends marked than their lives before. The setting sun and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past. Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear, My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. YORK. No, it is stopped with other flattering sounds, As praises, of whose state the wise are fond; Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound The open ear of youth doth always listen; Report of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity— So it be new, there’s no respect how vile— That is not quickly buzzed into his ears? Then all too late comes counsel to be heard, Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. Direct not him whose way himself will choose. ’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose. GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired, And thus expiring do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder. Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Feared by their breed, and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son, This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leased out—I die pronouncing it— Like to a tenement or pelting farm. England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of wat’ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds That England that was wont to conquer others Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death! Enter King Richard and Queen; Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross and Willoughby. YORK. The King is come. Deal mildly with his youth, For young hot colts, being raged, do rage the more. QUEEN. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster? KING RICHARD. What comfort, man? How is’t with aged Gaunt? GAUNT. O, how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old. Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast, And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt? For sleeping England long time have I watched; Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt. The pleasure that some fathers feed upon Is my strict fast—I mean my children’s looks, And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt. Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones. KING RICHARD. Can sick men play so nicely with their names? GAUNT. No, misery makes sport to mock itself. Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. KING RICHARD. Should dying men flatter with those that live? GAUNT. No, no, men living flatter those that die. KING RICHARD. Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me. GAUNT. O, no, thou diest, though I the sicker be. KING RICHARD. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. GAUNT. Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill, Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land, Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Committ’st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee. A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; And yet, encaged in so small a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire with a prophet’s eye Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame, Deposing thee before thou wert possessed, Which art possessed now to depose thyself. Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, It were a shame to let this land by lease; But for thy world enjoying but this land, Is it not more than shame to shame it so? Landlord of England art thou now, not king. Thy state of law is bondslave to the law, And thou— KING RICHARD. A lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague’s privilege, Darest with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood With fury from his native residence. Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son, This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders. GAUNT. O! spare me not, my brother Edward’s son, For that I was his father Edward’s son. That blood already, like the pelican, Hast thou tapped out, and drunkenly caroused. My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul, Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls!— May be a precedent and witness good That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood. Join with the present sickness that I have, And thy unkindness be like crooked age To crop at once a too-long withered flower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee! These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave. Love they to live that love and honour have. [_Exit, borne off by his Attendants._] KING RICHARD. And let them die that age and sullens have, For both hast thou, and both become the grave. YORK. I do beseech your Majesty, impute his words To wayward sickliness and age in him. He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear As Harry, Duke of Hereford, were he here. KING RICHARD. Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his; As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty. KING RICHARD. What says he? NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, nothing; all is said. His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent. YORK. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. KING RICHARD. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he. His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be. So much for that. Now for our Irish wars: We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom where no venom else But only they have privilege to live. And, for these great affairs do ask some charge, Towards our assistance we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possessed. YORK. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment, Nor Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs, Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me sour my patient cheek, Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face. I am the last of noble Edward’s sons, Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first. In war was never lion raged more fierce, In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for even so looked he, Accomplished with the number of thy hours; But when he frowned, it was against the French And not against his friends. His noble hand Did win what he did spend, and spent not that Which his triumphant father’s hand had won. His hands were guilty of no kindred’s blood, But bloody with the enemies of his kin. O Richard! York is too far gone with grief, Or else he never would compare between. KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, what’s the matter? YORK. O my liege. Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased Not to be pardoned, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The royalties and rights of banished Hereford? Is not Gaunt dead? And doth not Hereford live? Was not Gaunt just? And is not Harry true? Did not the one deserve to have an heir? Is not his heir a well-deserving son? Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from Time His charters and his customary rights; Let not tomorrow then ensue today; Be not thyself; for how art thou a king But by fair sequence and succession? Now, afore God—God forbid I say true!— If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights, Call in the letters patents that he hath By his attorneys-general to sue His livery, and deny his offered homage, You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts, And prick my tender patience to those thoughts Which honour and allegiance cannot think. KING RICHARD. Think what you will, we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. YORK. I’ll not be by the while. My liege, farewell. What will ensue hereof there’s none can tell; But by bad courses may be understood That their events can never fall out good. [_Exit._] KING RICHARD. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight. Bid him repair to us to Ely House To see this business. Tomorrow next We will for Ireland, and ’tis time, I trow. And we create, in absence of ourself, Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England, For he is just, and always loved us well. Come on, our queen. Tomorrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [_Exeunt King, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, Green and Bagot._] NORTHUMBERLAND. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. ROSS. And living too, for now his son is Duke. WILLOUGHBY. Barely in title, not in revenues. NORTHUMBERLAND. Richly in both, if justice had her right. ROSS. My heart is great, but it must break with silence Ere’t be disburdened with a liberal tongue. NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, speak thy mind, and let him ne’er speak more That speaks thy words again to do thee harm! WILLOUGHBY. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford? If it be so, out with it boldly, man. Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. ROSS. No good at all that I can do for him, Unless you call it good to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne In him, a royal prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining land. The King is not himself, but basely led By flatterers; and what they will inform, Merely in hate ’gainst any of us all, That will the King severely prosecute ’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. ROSS. The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes, And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he fined For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts. WILLOUGHBY. And daily new exactions are devised, As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what. But what, i’ God’s name, doth become of this? NORTHUMBERLAND. Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his ancestors achieved with blows. More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. ROSS. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. WILLOUGHBY. The King’s grown bankrupt like a broken man. NORTHUMBERLAND. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him. ROSS. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banished Duke. NORTHUMBERLAND. His noble kinsman. Most degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm; We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, And yet we strike not, but securely perish. ROSS. We see the very wrack that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger now For suffering so the causes of our wrack. NORTHUMBERLAND. Not so. Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is. WILLOUGHBY. Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours. ROSS. Be confident to speak, Northumberland. We three are but thyself, and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts. Therefore be bold. NORTHUMBERLAND. Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay In Brittany, received intelligence That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Coint, All these well furnished by the Duke of Brittany With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war, Are making hither with all due expedience, And shortly mean to touch our northern shore. Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay The first departing of the king for Ireland. If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke, Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing, Redeem from broking pawn the blemished crown, Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt, And make high majesty look like itself, Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh. But if you faint, as fearing to do so, Stay and be secret, and myself will go. ROSS. To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear. WILLOUGHBY. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Castle. Enter Queen, Bushy and Bagot. BUSHY. Madam, your Majesty is too much sad. You promised, when you parted with the King, To lay aside life-harming heaviness And entertain a cheerful disposition. QUEEN. To please the King I did; to please myself I cannot do it. Yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard. Yet again methinks, Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune’s womb, Is coming towards me, and my inward soul With nothing trembles. At something it grieves More than with parting from my lord the King. BUSHY. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects, Like perspectives which, rightly gazed upon, Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry, Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty, Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail, Which, looked on as it is, is naught but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen, More than your lord’s departure weep not. More is not seen, Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye, Which for things true weeps things imaginary. QUEEN. It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe’er it be, I cannot but be sad—so heavy sad As thought, in thinking, on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. BUSHY. ’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady. QUEEN. ’Tis nothing less. Conceit is still derived From some forefather grief. Mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my something grief, Or something hath the nothing that I grieve. ’Tis in reversion that I do possess, But what it is, that is not yet known what, I cannot name. ’Tis nameless woe, I wot. Enter Green. GREEN. God save your majesty! And well met, gentlemen. I hope the King is not yet shipped for Ireland. QUEEN. Why hop’st thou so? ’Tis better hope he is, For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope. Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped? GREEN. That he, our hope, might have retired his power, And driven into despair an enemy’s hope Who strongly hath set footing in this land. The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arrived At Ravenspurgh. QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid! GREEN. Ah, madam, ’tis too true; and that is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy, The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him. BUSHY. Why have you not proclaimed Northumberland And all the rest revolted faction traitors? GREEN. We have, whereupon the Earl of Worcester Hath broken his staff, resigned his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke. QUEEN. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe, And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir. Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy, And I, a gasping new-delivered mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined. BUSHY. Despair not, madam. QUEEN. Who shall hinder me? I will despair and be at enmity With cozening hope. He is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper-back of death, Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter York. GREEN. Here comes the Duke of York. QUEEN. With signs of war about his aged neck. O! full of careful business are his looks! Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words. YORK. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts. Comfort’s in heaven, and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief. Your husband, he is gone to save far off, Whilst others come to make him lose at home. Here am I left to underprop his land, Who, weak with age, cannot support myself. Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made; Now shall he try his friends that flattered him. Enter a Servingman. SERVINGMAN. My lord, your son was gone before I came. YORK. He was? Why, so! Go all which way it will! The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side. Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound. Hold, take my ring. SERVINGMAN. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship: Today, as I came by, I called there— But I shall grieve you to report the rest. YORK. What is’t, knave? SERVINGMAN. An hour before I came, the Duchess died. YORK. God for his mercy, what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do. I would to God, So my untruth had not provoked him to it, The King had cut off my head with my brother’s. What, are there no posts dispatched for Ireland? How shall we do for money for these wars? Come, sister—cousin, I would say, pray, pardon me. Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some carts And bring away the armour that is there. [_Exit Servingman._] Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen. Th’ one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; th’ other again Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wronged, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I’ll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men, And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle. I should to Plashy too, But time will not permit. All is uneven, And everything is left at six and seven. [_Exeunt York and Queen._] BUSHY. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland, But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the enemy Is all unpossible. GREEN. Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King. BAGOT. And that is the wavering commons, for their love Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them, By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. BUSHY. Wherein the King stands generally condemned. BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the King. GREEN. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol Castle. The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. BUSHY. Thither will I with you, for little office Will the hateful commons perform for us, Except like curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us? BAGOT. No, I will to Ireland to his Majesty. Farewell. If heart’s presages be not vain, We three here part that ne’er shall meet again. BUSHY. That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke. GREEN. Alas, poor Duke! The task he undertakes Is numb’ring sands and drinking oceans dry. Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once, for once, for all, and ever. BUSHY. Well, we may meet again. BAGOT. I fear me, never. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The Wolds in Gloucestershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland with Forces. BOLINGBROKE. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now? NORTHUMBERLAND. Believe me, noble lord, I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire. These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out our miles and makes them wearisome. And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable. But I bethink me what a weary way From Ravenspurgh to Cotshall will be found In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled The tediousness and process of my travel. But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have The present benefit which I possess; And hope to joy is little less in joy Than hope enjoyed. By this the weary lords Shall make their way seem short as mine hath done By sight of what I have, your noble company. BOLINGBROKE. Of much less value is my company Than your good words. But who comes here? Enter Harry Percy. NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my son, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever. Harry, how fares your uncle? PERCY. I had thought, my lord, to have learned his health of you. NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, is he not with the Queen? PERCY. No, my good lord. He hath forsook the court, Broken his staff of office, and dispersed The household of the King. NORTHUMBERLAND. What was his reason? He was not so resolved when last we spake together. PERCY. Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor. But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, And sent me over by Berkeley to discover What power the Duke of York had levied there, Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh. NORTHUMBERLAND. Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy? PERCY. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot Which ne’er I did remember. To my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him. NORTHUMBERLAND. Then learn to know him now. This is the Duke. PERCY. My gracious lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young, Which elder days shall ripen and confirm To more approved service and desert. BOLINGBROKE. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul rememb’ring my good friends; And as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love’s recompense. My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. NORTHUMBERLAND. How far is it to Berkeley, and what stir Keeps good old York there with his men of war? PERCY. There stands the castle by yon tuft of trees, Manned with three hundred men, as I have heard. And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour, None else of name and noble estimate. Enter Ross and Willoughby. NORTHUMBERLAND. Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby, Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. BOLINGBROKE. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues A banished traitor. All my treasury Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enriched, Shall be your love and labour’s recompense. ROSS. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord. WILLOUGHBY. And far surmounts our labour to attain it. BOLINGBROKE. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor; Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, Stands for my bounty. But who comes here? Enter Berkeley. NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess. BERKELEY. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you. BOLINGBROKE. My lord, my answer is—to “Lancaster”, And I am come to seek that name in England; And I must find that title in your tongue Before I make reply to aught you say. BERKELEY. Mistake me not, my lord, ’tis not my meaning To rase one title of your honour out. To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will, From the most gracious regent of this land, The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on To take advantage of the absent time, And fright our native peace with self-borne arms. Enter York, attended. BOLINGBROKE. I shall not need transport my words by you. Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle! [_Kneels._] YORK. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee, Whose duty is deceivable and false. BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle— YORK. Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle. I am no traitor’s uncle, and that word “grace” In an ungracious mouth is but profane. Why have those banished and forbidden legs Dared once to touch a dust of England’s ground? But then more why: why have they dared to march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-faced villages with war And ostentation of despised arms? Com’st thou because the anointed king is hence? Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind, And in my loyal bosom lies his power. Were I but now lord of such hot youth As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men, From forth the ranks of many thousand French, O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee And minister correction to thy fault! BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault. On what condition stands it and wherein? YORK. Even in condition of the worst degree, In gross rebellion and detested treason. Thou art a banished man, and here art come, Before the expiration of thy time, In braving arms against thy sovereign. BOLINGBROKE. As I was banished, I was banished Hereford; But as I come, I come for Lancaster. And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye. You are my father, for methinks in you I see old Gaunt alive. O then, my father, Will you permit that I shall stand condemned A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties Plucked from my arms perforce and given away To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born? If that my cousin king be King in England, It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin. Had you first died and he been thus trod down, He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay. I am denied to sue my livery here, And yet my letters patents give me leave. My father’s goods are all distrained and sold, And these, and all, are all amiss employed. What would you have me do? I am a subject, And challenge law. Attorneys are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent. NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath been too much abused. ROSS. It stands your Grace upon to do him right. WILLOUGHBY. Base men by his endowments are made great. YORK. My lords of England, let me tell you this: I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs And laboured all I could to do him right. But in this kind to come, in braving arms, Be his own carver and cut out his way To find out right with wrong, it may not be. And you that do abet him in this kind Cherish rebellion and are rebels all. NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath sworn his coming is But for his own; and for the right of that We all have strongly sworn to give him aid; And let him never see joy that breaks that oath! YORK. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms. I cannot mend it, I must needs confess, Because my power is weak and all ill-left; But if I could, by Him that gave me life, I would attach you all and make you stoop Unto the sovereign mercy of the King. But since I cannot, be it known unto you I do remain as neuter. So fare you well— Unless you please to enter in the castle And there repose you for this night. BOLINGBROKE. An offer, uncle, that we will accept; But we must win your Grace to go with us To Bristol Castle, which they say is held By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices, The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. YORK. It may be I will go with you; but yet I’ll pause, For I am loath to break our country’s laws. Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are. Things past redress are now with me past care. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A camp in Wales. Enter Earl of Salisbury and a Welsh Captain. CAPTAIN. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stayed ten days And hardly kept our countrymen together, And yet we hear no tidings from the King. Therefore we will disperse ourselves. Farewell. SALISBURY. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman. The King reposeth all his confidence in thee. CAPTAIN. ’Tis thought the King is dead. We will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all withered, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap, The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, The other to enjoy by rage and war. These signs forerun the death or fall of kings. Farewell. Our countrymen are gone and fled, As well assured Richard their king is dead. [_Exit._] SALISBURY. Ah, Richard! With the eyes of heavy mind I see thy glory like a shooting star Fall to the base earth from the firmament. Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west, Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest. Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes, And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. Bristol. Bolingbroke’s camp. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Harry Percy, Willoughby, Ross; Officers behind, with Bushy and Green, prisoners. BOLINGBROKE. Bring forth these men. Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls— Since presently your souls must part your bodies— With too much urging your pernicious lives, For ’twere no charity; yet to wash your blood From off my hands, here in the view of men I will unfold some causes of your deaths: You have misled a prince, a royal king, A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, By you unhappied and disfigured clean. You have in manner with your sinful hours Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, Broke the possession of a royal bed, And stained the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs. Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth, Near to the King in blood, and near in love Till you did make him misinterpret me, Have stooped my neck under your injuries And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds, Eating the bitter bread of banishment, Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Disparked my parks and felled my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat, Rased out my imprese, leaving me no sign Save men’s opinions and my living blood To show the world I am a gentleman. This and much more, much more than twice all this, Condemns you to the death. See them delivered over To execution and the hand of death. BUSHY. More welcome is the stroke of death to me Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell. GREEN. My comfort is that heaven will take our souls And plague injustice with the pains of hell. BOLINGBROKE. My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatched. [_Exeunt Northumberland and Others, with Bushy and Green._] Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house; For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated. Tell her I send to her my kind commends; Take special care my greetings be delivered. YORK. A gentleman of mine I have dispatched With letters of your love to her at large. BOLINGBROKE. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away, To fight with Glendower and his complices. A while to work, and after holiday. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The coast of Wales. A castle in view. Flourish: drums and trumpets. Enter King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle and soldiers. KING RICHARD. Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand? AUMERLE. Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air After your late tossing on the breaking seas? KING RICHARD. Needs must I like it well. I weep for joy To stand upon my kingdom once again. Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs. As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, So weeping-smiling greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favours with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense, But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way, Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet Which with usurping steps do trample thee. Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies; And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies. Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords. This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms. CARLISLE. Fear not, my lord. That Power that made you king Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. The means that heaven yields must be embraced And not neglected; else if heaven would, And we will not. Heaven’s offer we refuse, The proffered means of succour and redress. AUMERLE. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss, Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, Grows strong and great in substance and in power. KING RICHARD. Discomfortable cousin, know’st thou not That when the searching eye of heaven is hid Behind the globe that lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen In murders and in outrage boldly here; But when from under this terrestrial ball He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines And darts his light through every guilty hole, Then murders, treasons, and detested sins, The cloak of night being plucked from off their backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revelled in the night Whilst we were wand’ring with the Antipodes, Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, His treasons will sit blushing in his face, Not able to endure the sight of day, But self-affrighted, tremble at his sin. Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord. For every man that Bolingbroke hath pressed To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay A glorious angel. Then, if angels fight, Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right. Enter Salisbury. Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power? SALISBURY. Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord, Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my tongue And bids me speak of nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear me, noble lord, Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. O, call back yesterday, bid time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! Today, today, unhappy day, too late, O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed, and fled. AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege. Why looks your Grace so pale? KING RICHARD. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And till so much blood thither come again Have I not reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side, For time hath set a blot upon my pride. AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege. Remember who you are. KING RICHARD. I had forgot myself. Am I not king? Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest! Is not the King’s name twenty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! A puny subject strikes At thy great glory. Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a king. Are we not high? High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here? Enter Sir Stephen Scroop. SCROOP. More health and happiness betide my liege Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him. KING RICHARD. Mine ear is open and my heart prepared. The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, ’twas my care, And what loss is it to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he shall not be. If he serve God, We’ll serve Him too, and be his fellow so. Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend. They break their faith to God as well as us. Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay. The worst is death, and death will have his day. SCROOP. Glad am I that your highness is so armed To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores As if the world were all dissolved to tears, So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. Whitebeards have armed their thin and hairless scalps Against thy majesty; boys with women’s voices Strive to speak big and clap their female joints In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown; Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows Of double-fatal yew against thy state; Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills Against thy seat. Both young and old rebel, And all goes worse than I have power to tell. KING RICHARD. Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot? What is become of Bushy? Where is Green? That they have let the dangerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. SCROOP. Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord. KING RICHARD. O villains, vipers, damned without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warmed, that sting my heart! Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? Terrible hell Make war upon their spotted souls for this! SCROOP. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. Again uncurse their souls. Their peace is made With heads, and not with hands. Those whom you curse Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground. AUMERLE. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? SCROOP. Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. AUMERLE. Where is the Duke my father with his power? KING RICHARD. No matter where. Of comfort no man speak! Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let’s choose executors and talk of wills. And yet not so, for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings— How some have been deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed, All murdered. For within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable; and, humoured thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence. Throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, For you have but mistook me all this while. I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus, How can you say to me I am a king? CARLISLE. My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail. To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear and be slain—no worse can come to fight; And fight and die is death destroying death, Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. AUMERLE. My father hath a power. Enquire of him, And learn to make a body of a limb. KING RICHARD. Thou chid’st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come To change blows with thee for our day of doom. This ague fit of fear is overblown; An easy task it is to win our own. Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. SCROOP. Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state in inclination of the day; So may you by my dull and heavy eye. My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. I play the torturer by small and small To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: Your uncle York is joined with Bolingbroke, And all your northern castles yielded up, And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party. KING RICHARD. Thou hast said enough. [_To Aumerle_.] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth Of that sweet way I was in to despair. What say you now? What comfort have we now? By heaven, I’ll hate him everlastingly That bids me be of comfort any more. Go to Flint Castle. There I’ll pine away; A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey. That power I have, discharge, and let them go To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, For I have none. Let no man speak again To alter this, for counsel is but vain. AUMERLE. My liege, one word. KING RICHARD. He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. Discharge my followers. Let them hence away, From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Wales. Before Flint Castle. Enter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke and Forces; Northumberland and Others. BOLINGBROKE. So that by this intelligence we learn The Welshmen are dispersed, and Salisbury Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed With some few private friends upon this coast. NORTHUMBERLAND. The news is very fair and good, my lord: Richard not far from hence hath hid his head. YORK. It would beseem the Lord Northumberland To say “King Richard”. Alack the heavy day When such a sacred king should hide his head! NORTHUMBERLAND. Your Grace mistakes; only to be brief Left I his title out. YORK. The time hath been, Would you have been so brief with him, he would Have been so brief with you to shorten you, For taking so the head, your whole head’s length. BOLINGBROKE. Mistake not, uncle, further than you should. YORK. Take not, good cousin, further than you should, Lest you mistake. The heavens are o’er our heads. BOLINGBROKE. I know it, uncle, and oppose not myself Against their will. But who comes here? Enter Harry Percy. Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield? PERCY. The castle royally is manned, my lord, Against thy entrance. BOLINGBROKE. Royally! Why, it contains no king? PERCY. Yes, my good lord, It doth contain a king. King Richard lies Within the limits of yon lime and stone, And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury, Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman Of holy reverence—who, I cannot learn. NORTHUMBERLAND. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle. BOLINGBROKE. [_To Northumberland_.] Noble lord, Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle; Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley Into his ruined ears, and thus deliver: Henry Bolingbroke On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s hand And sends allegiance and true faith of heart To his most royal person, hither come Even at his feet to lay my arms and power, Provided that my banishment repealed And lands restored again be freely granted. If not, I’ll use the advantage of my power And lay the summer’s dust with showers of blood Rained from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen— The which how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke It is such crimson tempest should bedrench The fresh green lap of fair King Richard’s land, My stooping duty tenderly shall show. Go signify as much, while here we march Upon the grassy carpet of this plain. Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning drum, That from this castle’s tottered battlements Our fair appointments may be well perused. Methinks King Richard and myself should meet With no less terror than the elements Of fire and water, when their thund’ring shock At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven. Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water; The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain My waters—on the earth, and not on him. March on, and mark King Richard how he looks. A parley sounded, and answered by a trumpet within. Flourish. Enter on the Walls, the King, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop and Salisbury See, see, King Richard doth himself appear, As doth the blushing discontented sun From out the fiery portal of the east, When he perceives the envious clouds are bent To dim his glory and to stain the track Of his bright passage to the occident. YORK. Yet he looks like a king. Behold, his eye, As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe That any harm should stain so fair a show! KING RICHARD. [_To Northumberland._] We are amazed, and thus long have we stood To watch the fearful bending of thy knee Because we thought ourself thy lawful king. And if we be, how dare thy joints forget To pay their awful duty to our presence? If we be not, show us the hand of God That hath dismissed us from our stewardship; For well we know no hand of blood and bone Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp. And though you think that all, as you have done, Have torn their souls by turning them from us, And we are barren and bereft of friends, Yet know: my master, God omnipotent, Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf Armies of pestilence, and they shall strike Your children yet unborn and unbegot, That lift your vassal hands against my head And threat the glory of my precious crown. Tell Bolingbroke—for yon methinks he stands— That every stride he makes upon my land Is dangerous treason. He is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war; But ere the crown he looks for live in peace, Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons Shall ill become the flower of England’s face, Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace To scarlet indignation, and bedew Her pastures’ grass with faithful English blood. NORTHUMBERLAND. The King of Heaven forbid our lord the King Should so with civil and uncivil arms Be rushed upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand; And by the honourable tomb he swears That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones, And by the royalties of both your bloods, Currents that spring from one most gracious head, And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt, And by the worth and honour of himself, Comprising all that may be sworn or said, His coming hither hath no further scope Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg Enfranchisement immediate on his knees; Which on thy royal party granted once, His glittering arms he will commend to rust, His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart To faithful service of your Majesty. This swears he, as he is a prince and just; And as I am a gentleman I credit him. KING RICHARD. Northumberland, say, thus the King returns: His noble cousin is right welcome hither, And all the number of his fair demands Shall be accomplished without contradiction. With all the gracious utterance thou hast, Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends. [_Northumberland returns to Bolingbroke._] [_To Aumerle_.] We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not, To look so poorly and to speak so fair? Shall we call back Northumberland and send Defiance to the traitor, and so die? AUMERLE. No, good my lord. Let’s fight with gentle words Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords. KING RICHARD. O God, O God, that e’er this tongue of mine That laid the sentence of dread banishment On yon proud man should take it off again With words of sooth! O, that I were as great As is my grief, or lesser than my name, Or that I could forget what I have been, Or not remember what I must be now. Swell’st thou, proud heart? I’ll give thee scope to beat, Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. AUMERLE. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke. KING RICHARD. What must the King do now? Must he submit? The King shall do it. Must he be deposed? The King shall be contented. Must he lose The name of King? I’ God’s name, let it go. I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff, My subjects for a pair of carved saints, And my large kingdom for a little grave, A little, little grave, an obscure grave; Or I’ll be buried in the King’s highway, Some way of common trade, where subjects’ feet May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head; For on my heart they tread now whilst I live, And, buried once, why not upon my head? Aumerle, thou weep’st, my tender-hearted cousin! We’ll make foul weather with despised tears; Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn And make a dearth in this revolting land. Or shall we play the wantons with our woes And make some pretty match with shedding tears? As thus, to drop them still upon one place Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth; and, therein laid, there lies Two kinsmen digged their graves with weeping eyes. Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see I talk but idly, and you laugh at me. Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland, What says King Bolingbroke? Will his Majesty Give Richard leave to live till Richard die? You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, in the base court he doth attend To speak with you. May it please you to come down? KING RICHARD. Down, down I come, like glist’ring Phaëthon, Wanting the manage of unruly jades. In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base, To come at traitors’ calls, and do them grace. In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king! For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing. [_Exeunt from above._] BOLINGBROKE. What says his Majesty? NORTHUMBERLAND. Sorrow and grief of heart Makes him speak fondly like a frantic man. Yet he is come. Enter King Richard and his attendants. BOLINGBROKE. Stand all apart, And show fair duty to his Majesty. [_Kneeling_.] My gracious lord. KING RICHARD. Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee To make the base earth proud with kissing it. Me rather had my heart might feel your love Than my unpleased eye see your courtesy. Up, cousin, up. Your heart is up, I know, Thus high at least, although your knee be low. BOLINGBROKE. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own. KING RICHARD. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all. BOLINGBROKE. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, As my true service shall deserve your love. KING RICHARD. Well you deserve. They well deserve to have That know the strong’st and surest way to get. Uncle, give me your hands. Nay, dry your eyes. Tears show their love, but want their remedies. Cousin, I am too young to be your father, Though you are old enough to be my heir. What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too; For do we must what force will have us do. Set on towards London, cousin, is it so? BOLINGBROKE. Yea, my good lord. KING RICHARD. Then I must not say no. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Langley. The Duke of York’s garden. Enter the Queen and two Ladies. QUEEN. What sport shall we devise here in this garden To drive away the heavy thought of care? LADY. Madam, we’ll play at bowls. QUEEN. ’Twill make me think the world is full of rubs And that my fortune runs against the bias. LADY. Madam, we’ll dance. QUEEN. My legs can keep no measure in delight When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief. Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport. LADY. Madam, we’ll tell tales. QUEEN. Of sorrow or of joy? LADY. Of either, madam. QUEEN. Of neither, girl. For if of joy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me the more of sorrow; Or if of grief, being altogether had, It adds more sorrow to my want of joy. For what I have I need not to repeat, And what I want it boots not to complain. LADY. Madam, I’ll sing. QUEEN. ’Tis well that thou hast cause; But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep. LADY. I could weep, madam, would it do you good. QUEEN. And I could sing, would weeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee. But stay, here come the gardeners. Let’s step into the shadow of these trees. My wretchedness unto a row of pins, They will talk of state, for everyone doth so Against a change; woe is forerun with woe. [_Queen and Ladies retire._] Enter a Gardener and two Servants. GARDENER. Go, bind thou up young dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight. Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and like an executioner Cut off the heads of too fast-growing sprays That look too lofty in our commonwealth. All must be even in our government. You thus employed, I will go root away The noisome weeds which without profit suck The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers. SERVANT. Why should we in the compass of a pale Keep law and form and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up, Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined, Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars? GARDENER. Hold thy peace. He that hath suffered this disordered spring Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf. The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seemed in eating him to hold him up, Are plucked up, root and all, by Bolingbroke— I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. SERVANT. What, are they dead? GARDENER. They are. And Bolingbroke Hath seized the wasteful King. O, what pity is it That he had not so trimmed and dressed his land As we this garden! We at time of year Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees, Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, With too much riches it confound itself. Had he done so to great and growing men, They might have lived to bear and he to taste Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live. Had he done so, himself had home the crown, Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. SERVANT. What, think you the King shall be deposed? GARDENER. Depressed he is already, and deposed ’Tis doubt he will be. Letters came last night To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s That tell black tidings. QUEEN. O, I am pressed to death through want of speaking! [_Coming forward._] Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden, How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news? What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee To make a second fall of cursed man? Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed? Dar’st thou, thou little better thing than earth, Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how, Cam’st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch! GARDENER. Pardon me, madam. Little joy have I To breathe this news; yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weighed. In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself, And some few vanities that make him light; But in the balance of great Bolingbroke, Besides himself, are all the English peers, And with that odds he weighs King Richard down. Post you to London, and you will find it so. I speak no more than everyone doth know. QUEEN. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it? O, thou thinkest To serve me last that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go To meet at London London’s king in woe. What, was I born to this, that my sad look Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke? Gard’ner, for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow! [_Exeunt Queen and Ladies._] GARDENER. Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse. Here did she fall a tear. Here in this place I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace. Rue even for ruth here shortly shall be seen In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Westminster Hall. The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne; the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below. Enter Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Surrey, Northumberland, Harry Percy, Fitzwater, another Lord, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster and attendants. BOLINGBROKE. Call forth Bagot. Enter Officers with Bagot. Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind, What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s death, Who wrought it with the King, and who performed The bloody office of his timeless end. BAGOT. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle. BOLINGBROKE. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man. BAGOT. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue Scorns to unsay what once it hath delivered. In that dead time when Gloucester’s death was plotted, I heard you say “Is not my arm of length, That reacheth from the restful English Court As far as Calais, to mine uncle’s head?” Amongst much other talk that very time I heard you say that you had rather refuse The offer of an hundred thousand crowns Than Bolingbroke’s return to England, Adding withal, how blest this land would be In this your cousin’s death. AUMERLE. Princes and noble lords, What answer shall I make to this base man? Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars On equal terms to give him chastisement? Either I must, or have mine honour soiled With the attainder of his slanderous lips. There is my gage, the manual seal of death That marks thee out for hell. I say thou liest, And will maintain what thou hast said is false In thy heart-blood, though being all too base To stain the temper of my knightly sword. BOLINGBROKE. Bagot, forbear. Thou shalt not take it up. AUMERLE. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence that hath moved me so. FITZWATER. If that thy valour stand on sympathy, There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine. By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand’st, I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak’st it, That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester’s death. If thou deniest it twenty times, thou liest! And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point. AUMERLE. Thou dar’st not, coward, live to see that day. FITZWATER. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. AUMERLE. Fitzwater, thou art damned to hell for this. HARRY PERCY. Aumerle, thou liest. His honour is as true In this appeal as thou art an unjust; And that thou art so, there I throw my gage, To prove it on thee to the extremest point Of mortal breathing. Seize it if thou dar’st. AUMERLE. And if I do not, may my hands rot off And never brandish more revengeful steel Over the glittering helmet of my foe! ANOTHER LORD. I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle, And spur thee on with full as many lies As may be holloaed in thy treacherous ear From sun to sun. There is my honour’s pawn. Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st. AUMERLE. Who sets me else? By heaven, I’ll throw at all. I have a thousand spirits in one breast To answer twenty thousand such as you. SURREY. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well The very time Aumerle and you did talk. FITZWATER. ’Tis very true. You were in presence then, And you can witness with me this is true. SURREY. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true. FITZWATER. Surrey, thou liest. SURREY. Dishonourable boy! That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword That it shall render vengeance and revenge Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie In earth as quiet as thy father’s skull. In proof whereof, there is my honour’s pawn. Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st. FITZWATER. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse! If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live, I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies, And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith To tie thee to my strong correction. As I intend to thrive in this new world, Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal. Besides, I heard the banished Norfolk say That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men To execute the noble duke at Calais. AUMERLE. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage. That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this, If he may be repealed to try his honour. BOLINGBROKE. These differences shall all rest under gage Till Norfolk be repealed. Repealed he shall be, And, though mine enemy, restored again To all his lands and signories. When he is returned, Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. CARLISLE. That honourable day shall ne’er be seen. Many a time hath banished Norfolk fought For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens; And, toiled with works of war, retired himself To Italy, and there at Venice gave His body to that pleasant country’s earth And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long. BOLINGBROKE. Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead? CARLISLE. As surely as I live, my lord. BOLINGBROKE. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants, Your differences shall all rest under gage Till we assign you to your days of trial. Enter York, attended. YORK. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee From plume-plucked Richard, who with willing soul Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields To the possession of thy royal hand. Ascend his throne, descending now from him, And long live Henry, of that name the fourth! BOLINGBROKE. In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal throne. CARLISLE. Marry, God forbid! Worst in this royal presence may I speak, Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. Would God that any in this noble presence Were enough noble to be upright judge Of noble Richard! Then true noblesse would Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. What subject can give sentence on his king? And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject? Thieves are not judged but they are by to hear, Although apparent guilt be seen in them; And shall the figure of God’s majesty, His captain, steward, deputy elect, Anointed, crowned, planted many years, Be judged by subject and inferior breath, And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God, That in a Christian climate souls refined Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, Stirred up by God, thus boldly for his king. My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king, Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king. And if you crown him, let me prophesy The blood of English shall manure the ground And future ages groan for this foul act. Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels, And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound. Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny Shall here inhabit, and this land be called The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls. O, if you raise this house against this house, It will the woefullest division prove That ever fell upon this cursed earth. Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so, Lest child, child’s children, cry against you, “woe!” NORTHUMBERLAND. Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains, Of capital treason we arrest you here. My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge To keep him safely till his day of trial. May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit? BOLINGBROKE. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view He may surrender. So we shall proceed Without suspicion. YORK. I will be his conduct. [_Exit._] BOLINGBROKE. Lords, you that here are under our arrest, Procure your sureties for your days of answer. Little are we beholding to your love, And little looked for at your helping hands. Enter York with King Richard and Officers bearing the Crown, &c. KING RICHARD. Alack, why am I sent for to a king Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reigned? I hardly yet have learned To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee. Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me To this submission. Yet I well remember The favours of these men. Were they not mine? Did they not sometime cry “All hail!” to me? So Judas did to Christ, but He in twelve, Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none. God save the King! Will no man say, “Amen”? Am I both priest and clerk? Well then, amen. God save the King, although I be not he, And yet, Amen, if heaven do think him me. To do what service am I sent for hither? YORK. To do that office of thine own good will Which tired majesty did make thee offer: The resignation of thy state and crown To Henry Bolingbroke. KING RICHARD. Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin, On this side my hand, and on that side thine. Now is this golden crown like a deep well That owes two buckets, filling one another, The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen, and full of water. That bucket down and full of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. BOLINGBROKE. I thought you had been willing to resign. KING RICHARD. My crown I am, but still my griefs are mine. You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs; still am I king of those. BOLINGBROKE. Part of your cares you give me with your crown. KING RICHARD. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down. My care is loss of care, by old care done; Your care is gain of care, by new care won. The cares I give I have, though given away; They ’tend the crown, yet still with me they stay. BOLINGBROKE. Are you contented to resign the crown? KING RICHARD. Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be. Therefore no “no”, for I resign to thee. Now mark me how I will undo myself: I give this heavy weight from off my head, And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand, The pride of kingly sway from out my heart; With mine own tears I wash away my balm, With mine own hands I give away my crown, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duteous oaths. All pomp and majesty I do forswear; My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo; My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny. God pardon all oaths that are broke to me; God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee. Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved, And thou with all pleased that hast all achieved. Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit, And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit! God save King Henry, unkinged Richard says, And send him many years of sunshine days! What more remains? NORTHUMBERLAND. [_Offering a paper_.] No more, but that you read These accusations, and these grievous crimes Committed by your person and your followers Against the state and profit of this land; That, by confessing them, the souls of men May deem that you are worthily deposed. KING RICHARD. Must I do so? And must I ravel out My weaved-up follies? Gentle Northumberland, If thy offences were upon record, Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst, There shouldst thou find one heinous article Containing the deposing of a king And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, Marked with a blot, damned in the book of heaven. Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands, Showing an outward pity, yet you Pilates Have here delivered me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash away your sin. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, dispatch. Read o’er these articles. KING RICHARD. Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see: And yet salt water blinds them not so much But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest; For I have given here my soul’s consent T’ undeck the pompous body of a king, Made glory base and sovereignty a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord— KING RICHARD. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man, Nor no man’s lord! I have no name, no title, No, not that name was given me at the font, But ’tis usurped. Alack the heavy day! That I have worn so many winters out And know not now what name to call myself. O, that I were a mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, To melt myself away in water-drops! Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good, An if my word be sterling yet in England, Let it command a mirror hither straight, That it may show me what a face I have, Since it is bankrupt of his majesty. BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. [_Exit an Attendant._] NORTHUMBERLAND. Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come. KING RICHARD. Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell! BOLINGBROKE. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND. The commons will not then be satisfied. KING RICHARD. They shall be satisfied. I’ll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that’s myself. Re-enter Attendant with glass. Give me that glass, and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds? O flatt’ring glass, Like to my followers in prosperity, Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face That every day under his household roof Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face That like the sun did make beholders wink? Is this the face which faced so many follies, That was at last outfaced by Bolingbroke? A brittle glory shineth in this face. As brittle as the glory is the face! [_Dashes the glass against the ground._] For there it is, cracked in an hundred shivers. Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face. BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed The shadow of your face. KING RICHARD. Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow? Ha, let’s see. ’Tis very true, my grief lies all within; And these external manner of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul. There lies the substance. And I thank thee, king, For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. I’ll beg one boon, And then be gone and trouble you no more. Shall I obtain it? BOLINGBROKE. Name it, fair cousin. KING RICHARD. “Fair cousin”? I am greater than a king; For when I was a king, my flatterers Were then but subjects. Being now a subject, I have a king here to my flatterer. Being so great, I have no need to beg. BOLINGBROKE. Yet ask. KING RICHARD. And shall I have? BOLINGBROKE. You shall. KING RICHARD. Then give me leave to go. BOLINGBROKE. Whither? KING RICHARD. Whither you will, so I were from your sights. BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower. KING RICHARD. O, good! “Convey”? Conveyers are you all, That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall. [_Exeunt King Richard and Guard._] BOLINGBROKE. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves. [_Exeunt all but the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster and Aumerle._] ABBOT. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. CARLISLE. The woe’s to come. The children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn. AUMERLE. You holy clergymen, is there no plot To rid the realm of this pernicious blot? ABBOT. My lord, Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the sacrament To bury mine intents, but also to effect Whatever I shall happen to devise. I see your brows are full of discontent, Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears. Come home with me to supper. I will lay A plot shall show us all a merry day. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. London. A street leading to the Tower. Enter the Queen and ladies. QUEEN. This way the King will come. This is the way To Julius Caesar’s ill-erected tower, To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Is doomed a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke. Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Have any resting for her true king’s queen. Enter King Richard and Guard. But soft, but see, or rather do not see My fair rose wither; yet look up, behold, That you in pity may dissolve to dew And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand, Thou map of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb, And not King Richard! Thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favoured grief be lodged in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest? KING RICHARD. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream, From which awaked, the truth of what we are Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim Necessity, and he and I Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France, And cloister thee in some religious house. Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, Which our profane hours here have thrown down. QUEEN. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind Transformed and weakened! Hath Bolingbroke Deposed thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart? The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o’erpowered; and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a lion and the king of beasts? KING RICHARD. A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts, I had been still a happy king of men. Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France. Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak’st, As from my death-bed, thy last living leave. In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages long ago betid; And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs, Tell thou the lamentable tale of me, And send the hearers weeping to their beds. For why, the senseless brands will sympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, And in compassion weep the fire out; And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, For the deposing of a rightful king. Enter Northumberland, attended. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed. You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. And, madam, there is order ta’en for you: With all swift speed you must away to France. KING RICHARD. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, The time shall not be many hours of age More than it is ere foul sin, gathering head, Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think, Though he divide the realm and give thee half It is too little, helping him to all. And he shall think that thou, which knowst the way To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, Being ne’er so little urged, another way To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. The love of wicked men converts to fear, That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death. NORTHUMBERLAND. My guilt be on my head, and there an end. Take leave and part, for you must part forthwith. KING RICHARD. Doubly divorced! Bad men, you violate A twofold marriage, ’twixt my crown and me, And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me; And yet not so, for with a kiss ’twas made. Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north, Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime; My wife to France, from whence set forth in pomp, She came adorned hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hallowmas or short’st of day. QUEEN. And must we be divided? Must we part? KING RICHARD. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart. QUEEN. Banish us both, and send the King with me. NORTHUMBERLAND. That were some love, but little policy. QUEEN. Then whither he goes, thither let me go. KING RICHARD. So two, together weeping, make one woe. Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; Better far off than near, be ne’er the near. Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans. QUEEN. So longest way shall have the longest moans. KING RICHARD. Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short, And piece the way out with a heavy heart. Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief, Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief. One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [_They kiss._] QUEEN. Give me mine own again; ’twere no good part To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. [_They kiss again._] So, now I have mine own again, be gone, That I may strive to kill it with a groan. KING RICHARD. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu. The rest let sorrow say. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A room in the Duke of York’s palace. Enter York and his Duchess. DUCHESS. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off Of our two cousins’ coming into London. YORK. Where did I leave? DUCHESS. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands from windows’ tops Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head. YORK. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to know, With slow but stately pace kept on his course, Whilst all tongues cried “God save thee, Bolingbroke!” You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage, and that all the walls With painted imagery had said at once “Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!” Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning, Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck, Bespake them thus, “I thank you, countrymen.” And thus still doing, thus he passed along. DUCHESS. Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst? YORK. As in a theatre the eyes of men After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious, Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes Did scowl on gentle Richard. No man cried “God save him!” No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home, But dust was thrown upon his sacred head, Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience, That had not God for some strong purpose, steeled The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him. But heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents. To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, Whose state and honour I for aye allow. Enter Aumerle. DUCHESS. Here comes my son Aumerle. YORK. Aumerle that was; But that is lost for being Richard’s friend, And, madam, you must call him Rutland now. I am in Parliament pledge for his truth And lasting fealty to the new-made king. DUCHESS. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now That strew the green lap of the new-come spring? AUMERLE. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not. God knows I had as lief be none as one. YORK. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Lest you be cropped before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? Do these jousts and triumphs hold? AUMERLE. For aught I know, my lord, they do. YORK. You will be there, I know. AUMERLE. If God prevent not, I purpose so. YORK. What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom? Yea, look’st thou pale? Let me see the writing. AUMERLE. My lord, ’tis nothing. YORK. No matter, then, who see it. I will be satisfied. Let me see the writing. AUMERLE. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me. It is a matter of small consequence, Which for some reasons I would not have seen. YORK. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear, I fear— DUCHESS. What should you fear? ’Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day. YORK. Bound to himself? What doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. Boy, let me see the writing. AUMERLE. I do beseech you, pardon me. I may not show it. YORK. I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say. [_Snatches it and reads it._] Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave! DUCHESS. What is the matter, my lord? YORK. Ho! who is within there? Enter a Servant. Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here! DUCHESS. Why, what is it, my lord? YORK. Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horse. Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain. [_Exit Servant._] DUCHESS. What is the matter? YORK. Peace, foolish woman. DUCHESS. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle? AUMERLE. Good mother, be content. It is no more Than my poor life must answer. DUCHESS. Thy life answer? YORK. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. Re-enter Servant with boots. DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed. [_To Servant_.] Hence, villain! Never more come in my sight. [_Exit Servant._] YORK. Give me my boots, I say. DUCHESS. Why, York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Have we more sons? Or are we like to have? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time? And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age And rob me of a happy mother’s name? Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own? YORK. Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament And interchangeably set down their hands To kill the King at Oxford. DUCHESS. He shall be none; We’ll keep him here. Then what is that to him? YORK. Away, fond woman! Were he twenty times my son, I would appeach him. DUCHESS. Hadst thou groaned for him As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful. But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect That I have been disloyal to thy bed And that he is a bastard, not thy son. Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind. He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kin, And yet I love him. YORK. Make way, unruly woman! [_Exit._] DUCHESS. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse! Spur post, and get before him to the King, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. I’ll not be long behind. Though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York. And never will I rise up from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, be gone! [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Windsor. A room in the Castle. Enter Bolingbroke as King, Harry Percy and other Lords. KING HENRY. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son? ’Tis full three months since I did see him last. If any plague hang over us, ’tis he. I would to God, my lords, he might be found. Inquire at London, ’mongst the taverns there, For there, they say, he daily doth frequent With unrestrained loose companions, Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes And beat our watch and rob our passengers, While he, young wanton and effeminate boy, Takes on the point of honour to support So dissolute a crew. PERCY. My lord, some two days since I saw the Prince, And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford. KING HENRY. And what said the gallant? PERCY. His answer was he would unto the stews, And from the common’st creature pluck a glove And wear it as a favour, and with that He would unhorse the lustiest challenger. KING HENRY. As dissolute as desperate! Yet through both I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years May happily bring forth. But who comes here? Enter Aumerle. AUMERLE. Where is the King? KING HENRY. What means our cousin that he stares and looks so wildly? AUMERLE. God save your Grace! I do beseech your majesty To have some conference with your Grace alone. KING HENRY. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone. [_Exeunt Harry Percy and Lords._] What is the matter with our cousin now? AUMERLE. [_Kneels_.] For ever may my knees grow to the earth, My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. KING HENRY. Intended or committed was this fault? If on the first, how heinous e’er it be, To win thy after-love I pardon thee. AUMERLE. Then give me leave that I may turn the key, That no man enter till my tale be done. KING HENRY. Have thy desire. [_Aumerle locks the door._] YORK. [_Within_.] My liege, beware! Look to thyself! Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. KING HENRY. [_Drawing_.] Villain, I’ll make thee safe. AUMERLE. Stay thy revengeful hand. Thou hast no cause to fear. YORK. [_Within_.] Open the door, secure, foolhardy king! Shall I for love speak treason to thy face? Open the door, or I will break it open. [_King Henry unlocks the door; and afterwards, relocks it._] Enter York. KING HENRY. What is the matter, uncle? Speak! Recover breath. Tell us how near is danger, That we may arm us to encounter it. YORK. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know The treason that my haste forbids me show. AUMERLE. Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise passed. I do repent me. Read not my name there; My heart is not confederate with my hand. YORK. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down. I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king. Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove A serpent that will sting thee to the heart. KING HENRY. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy! O loyal father of a treacherous son! Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain From whence this stream through muddy passages Hath held his current and defiled himself! Thy overflow of good converts to bad, And thy abundant goodness shall excuse This deadly blot in thy digressing son. YORK. So shall my virtue be his vice’s bawd, And he shall spend mine honour with his shame, As thriftless sons their scraping fathers’ gold. Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, Or my shamed life in his dishonour lies. Thou kill’st me in his life: giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death. DUCHESS. [_Within_.] What ho, my liege! For God’s sake, let me in! KING HENRY. What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry? DUCHESS. [_Within_.] A woman, and thine aunt, great king, ’tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door! A beggar begs that never begged before. KING HENRY. Our scene is altered from a serious thing, And now changed to “The Beggar and the King.” My dangerous cousin, let your mother in. I know she’s come to pray for your foul sin. Enter Duchess. YORK. If thou do pardon whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. This festered joint cut off, the rest rest sound; This let alone will all the rest confound. DUCHESS. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man. Love loving not itself none other can. YORK. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here? Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? DUCHESS. Sweet York, be patient. [_Kneels_.] Hear me, gentle liege. KING HENRY. Rise up, good aunt. DUCHESS. Not yet, I thee beseech. For ever will I walk upon my knees And never see day that the happy sees, Till thou give joy, until thou bid me joy By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. AUMERLE. Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my knee. [_Kneels._] YORK. Against them both, my true joints bended be. [_Kneels._] Ill mayst thou thrive if thou grant any grace! DUCHESS. Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face. His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest; His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast. He prays but faintly and would be denied; We pray with heart and soul and all beside: His weary joints would gladly rise, I know; Our knees still kneel till to the ground they grow. His prayers are full of false hypocrisy; Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. Our prayers do outpray his; then let them have That mercy which true prayer ought to have. KING HENRY. Good aunt, stand up. DUCHESS. Nay, do not say “stand up”. Say “pardon” first, and afterwards “stand up”. An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, “Pardon” should be the first word of thy speech. I never longed to hear a word till now. Say “pardon,” king; let pity teach thee how. The word is short, but not so short as sweet; No word like “pardon” for kings’ mouths so meet. YORK. Speak it in French, King, say “pardonne moy.” DUCHESS. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, That sets the word itself against the word! Speak “pardon” as ’tis current in our land; The chopping French we do not understand. Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there, Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear, That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce, Pity may move thee “pardon” to rehearse. KING HENRY. Good aunt, stand up. DUCHESS. I do not sue to stand. Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. KING HENRY. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. DUCHESS. O, happy vantage of a kneeling knee! Yet am I sick for fear. Speak it again, Twice saying “pardon” doth not pardon twain, But makes one pardon strong. KING HENRY. With all my heart I pardon him. DUCHESS. A god on earth thou art. KING HENRY. But for our trusty brother-in-law and the Abbot, With all the rest of that consorted crew, Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels. Good uncle, help to order several powers To Oxford, or where’er these traitors are; They shall not live within this world, I swear, But I will have them, if I once know where. Uncle, farewell, and cousin, adieu. Your mother well hath prayed, and prove you true. DUCHESS. Come, my old son. I pray God make thee new. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Another room in the Castle. Enter Exton and a Servant. EXTON. Didst thou not mark the King, what words he spake: “Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?” Was it not so? SERVANT. These were his very words. EXTON. “Have I no friend?” quoth he. He spake it twice And urged it twice together, did he not? SERVANT. He did. EXTON. And speaking it, he wishtly looked on me, As who should say “I would thou wert the man That would divorce this terror from my heart”, Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let’s go. I am the King’s friend, and will rid his foe. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Pomfret. The dungeon of the Castle. Enter Richard. RICHARD. I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world; And for because the world is populous And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I’ll hammer it out. My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul, My soul the father, and these two beget A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world, In humours like the people of this world, For no thought is contented. The better sort, As thoughts of things divine, are intermixed With scruples, and do set the word itself Against the word, as thus: “Come, little ones”; And then again: “It is as hard to come as for a camel To thread the postern of a needle’s eye.” Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls, And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves, Nor shall not be the last, like silly beggars Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame That many have and others must sit there; And in this thought they find a kind of ease, Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endured the like. Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented. Sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am. Then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I kinged again, and by and by Think that I am unkinged by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing. But whate’er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased till he be eased With being nothing. Music do I hear? [_Music_.] Ha, ha! keep time! How sour sweet music is When time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men’s lives. And here have I the daintiness of ear To check time broke in a disordered string; But for the concord of my state and time Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numb’ring clock. My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now, sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell. So sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours. But my time Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy, While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock. This music mads me! Let it sound no more; For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems it will make wise men mad. Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me, For ’tis a sign of love; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world. Enter a Groom of the stable. GROOM. Hail, royal Prince! RICHARD. Thanks, noble peer. The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou, and how comest thou hither Where no man never comes but that sad dog That brings me food to make misfortune live? GROOM. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king, When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York, With much ado at length have gotten leave To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face. O, how it erned my heart when I beheld In London streets, that coronation day, When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse that I so carefully have dressed. RICHARD. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him? GROOM. So proudly as if he disdained the ground. RICHARD. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down, Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back? Forgiveness, horse! Why do I rail on thee, Since thou, created to be awed by man, Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse, And yet I bear a burden like an ass, Spurred, galled and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter Keeper with a dish. KEEPER. [_To the Groom_.] Fellow, give place. Here is no longer stay. RICHARD. If thou love me, ’tis time thou wert away. GROOM. My tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. [_Exit._] KEEPER. My lord, will’t please you to fall to? RICHARD. Taste of it first as thou art wont to do. KEEPER. My lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of Exton, Who lately came from the King, commands the contrary. RICHARD. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [_Strikes the Keeper._] KEEPER. Help, help, help! Enter Exton and Servants, armed. RICHARD. How now! What means death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instrument. [_Snatching a weapon and killing one._] Go thou and fill another room in hell. [_He kills another, then Exton strikes him down._] That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the King’s blood stained the King’s own land. Mount, mount, my soul! Thy seat is up on high, Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [_Dies._] EXTON. As full of valour as of royal blood! Both have I spilled. O, would the deed were good! For now the devil that told me I did well Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. This dead king to the living king I’ll bear. Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle. Flourish. Enter King Henry and York with Lords and Attendants. KING HENRY. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consumed with fire Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire, But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not. Enter Northumberland. Welcome, my lord. What is the news? NORTHUMBERLAND. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is: I have to London sent The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent. The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here. KING HENRY. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains, And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter Fitzwater. FITZWATER. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous consorted traitors That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. KING HENRY. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot. Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Harry Percy with the Bishop of Carlisle. PERCY. The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience and sour melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave. But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride. KING HENRY. Carlisle, this is your doom: Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life. So as thou liv’st in peace, die free from strife; For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. Enter Exton with attendants, bearing a coffin. EXTON. Great king, within this coffin I present Thy buried fear. Herein all breathless lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. KING HENRY. Exton, I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought A deed of slander with thy fatal hand Upon my head and all this famous land. EXTON. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed. KING HENRY. They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee. Though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word nor princely favour. With Cain go wander thorough shades of night, And never show thy head by day nor light. Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on sullen black incontinent. I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after; grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier. [_Exeunt._] KING RICHARD THE THIRD Contents ACT I Scene I. London. A street Scene II. London. Another street Scene III. London. A Room in the Palace Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower ACT II Scene I. London. A Room in the palace Scene II. Another Room in the palace Scene III. London. A street Scene IV. London. A Room in the Palace ACT III Scene I. London. A street Scene II. Before Lord Hastings’ house Scene III. Pomfret. Before the Castle Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower Scene V. London. The Tower Walls Scene VI. London. A street Scene VII. London. Court of Baynard’s Castle ACT IV Scene I. London. Before the Tower Scene II. London. A Room of State in the Palace Scene III. London. Another Room in the Palace Scene IV. London. Before the Palace Scene V. A Room in Lord Stanley’s house ACT V Scene I. Salisbury. An open place Scene II. Plain near Tamworth Scene III. Bosworth Field Scene IV. Another part of the Field Scene V. Another part of the Field Dramatis Personæ RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, afterwards KING RICHARD III. LADY ANNE, widow to Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI.; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester KING EDWARD THE FOURTH, brother to Richard QUEEN ELIZABETH, Queen to King Edward IV. Sons to the king: EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards KING EDWARD V. RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK GEORGE, DUKE OF CLARENCE, brother to Edward and Richard BOY, son to Clarence GIRL, daughter to Clarence DUCHESS OF YORK, mother to King Edward IV., Clarence, and Gloucester QUEEN MARGARET, widow to King Henry VI. DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM LORD HASTINGS, the Lord Chamberlain LORD STANLEY, the Earl of Derby EARL RIVERS, brother to Queen Elizabeth LORD GREY, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage MARQUESS OF DORSET, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN SIR WILLIAM CATESBY SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE LORD LOVELL DUKE OF NORFOLK EARL OF SURREY HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, afterwards KING HENRY VII. EARL OF OXFORD SIR JAMES BLUNT SIR WALTER HERBERT SIR WILLIAM BRANDON CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY John Morton, BISHOP OF ELY SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower SIR JAMES TYRREL Another Priest LORD MAYOR OF LONDON SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c. SCENE: England ACT I SCENE I. London. A street Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, alone. RICHARD. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them— Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the King In deadly hate the one against the other; And if King Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, This day should Clarence closely be mewed up About a prophecy which says that “G” Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul. Here Clarence comes. Enter Clarence, guarded and Brakenbury. Brother, good day. What means this armed guard That waits upon your Grace? CLARENCE. His Majesty, Tend’ring my person’s safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to the Tower. RICHARD. Upon what cause? CLARENCE. Because my name is George. RICHARD. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours. He should, for that, commit your godfathers. O, belike his Majesty hath some intent That you should be new-christened in the Tower. But what’s the matter, Clarence? May I know? CLARENCE. Yea, Richard, when I know, for I protest As yet I do not. But, as I can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams, And from the cross-row plucks the letter G, And says a wizard told him that by “G” His issue disinherited should be. And for my name of George begins with G, It follows in his thought that I am he. These, as I learn, and such like toys as these, Hath moved his Highness to commit me now. RICHARD. Why, this it is when men are ruled by women. ’Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower; My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’tis she That tempers him to this extremity. Was it not she and that good man of worship, Antony Woodville, her brother there, That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, From whence this present day he is delivered? We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe. CLARENCE. By heaven, I think there is no man secure But the Queen’s kindred, and night-walking heralds That trudge betwixt the King and Mistress Shore. Heard you not what an humble suppliant Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery? RICHARD. Humbly complaining to her deity Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty. I’ll tell you what: I think it is our way, If we will keep in favour with the King, To be her men and wear her livery. The jealous o’er-worn widow and herself, Since that our brother dubbed them gentlewomen, Are mighty gossips in our monarchy. BRAKENBURY. I beseech your Graces both to pardon me. His Majesty hath straitly given in charge That no man shall have private conference, Of what degree soever, with your brother. RICHARD. Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of anything we say. We speak no treason, man. We say the King Is wise and virtuous, and his noble Queen Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous. We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue; And that the Queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks. How say you, sir? Can you deny all this? BRAKENBURY. With this, my lord, myself have naught to do. RICHARD. Naught to do with Mistress Shore? I tell thee, fellow, He that doth naught with her, excepting one, Were best to do it secretly alone. BRAKENBURY. What one, my lord? RICHARD. Her husband, knave! Wouldst thou betray me? BRAKENBURY. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, and withal Forbear your conference with the noble Duke. CLARENCE. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey. RICHARD. We are the Queen’s abjects and must obey. Brother, farewell. I will unto the King, And whatsoe’er you will employ me in, Were it to call King Edward’s widow “sister,” I will perform it to enfranchise you. Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood Touches me deeper than you can imagine. CLARENCE. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. RICHARD. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long. I will deliver or else lie for you. Meantime, have patience. CLARENCE. I must perforce. Farewell. [_Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury and guard._] RICHARD. Go tread the path that thou shalt ne’er return. Simple, plain Clarence, I do love thee so That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven, If heaven will take the present at our hands. But who comes here? The new-delivered Hastings? Enter Lord Hastings. HASTINGS. Good time of day unto my gracious lord. RICHARD. As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain. Well are you welcome to the open air. How hath your lordship brooked imprisonment? HASTINGS. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must; But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks That were the cause of my imprisonment. RICHARD. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too, For they that were your enemies are his, And have prevailed as much on him as you. HASTINGS. More pity that the eagles should be mewed, Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty. RICHARD. What news abroad? HASTINGS. No news so bad abroad as this at home: The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy, And his physicians fear him mightily. RICHARD. Now, by Saint John, that news is bad indeed. O, he hath kept an evil diet long, And overmuch consumed his royal person. ’Tis very grievous to be thought upon. Where is he, in his bed? HASTINGS. He is. RICHARD. Go you before, and I will follow you. [_Exit Hastings._] He cannot live, I hope, and must not die Till George be packed with post-horse up to heaven. I’ll in to urge his hatred more to Clarence With lies well steeled with weighty arguments; And, if I fail not in my deep intent, Clarence hath not another day to live; Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy, And leave the world for me to bustle in. For then I’ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter. What though I killed her husband and her father? The readiest way to make the wench amends Is to become her husband and her father; The which will I, not all so much for love As for another secret close intent, By marrying her which I must reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market. Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns. When they are gone, then must I count my gains. [_Exit._] SCENE II. London. Another street Enter the corse of King Henry the Sixth, with Halberds to guard it, Lady Anne, being the mourner, Tressel and Berkeley and other Gentlemen. ANNE. Set down, set down your honourable load, If honour may be shrouded in a hearse, Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament Th’ untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. Poor key-cold figure of a holy king, Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster. Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood, Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son, Stabbed by the selfsame hand that made these wounds. Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. O, cursed be the hand that made these holes; Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it; Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence. More direful hap betide that hated wretch That makes us wretched by the death of thee Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venomed thing that lives. If ever he have child, abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view, And that be heir to his unhappiness. If ever he have wife, let her be made More miserable by the death of him Than I am made by my young lord and thee. Come now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul’s to be interred there; And still, as you are weary of this weight, Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse. [_They take up the bier._] Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester. RICHARD. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down. ANNE. What black magician conjures up this fiend To stop devoted charitable deeds? RICHARD. Villains, set down the corse or, by Saint Paul, I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys! GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. RICHARD. Unmannered dog, stand thou, when I command! Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, Or by Saint Paul I’ll strike thee to my foot And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. [_They set down the bier._] ANNE. What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal, And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell! Thou hadst but power over his mortal body; His soul thou canst not have; therefore begone. RICHARD. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. ANNE. Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and trouble us not; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O, gentlemen, see, see dead Henry’s wounds Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh! Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells. Thy deeds, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his death! O earth, which this blood drink’st, revenge his death! Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good King’s blood, Which his hell-governed arm hath butchered. RICHARD. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. ANNE. Villain, thou know’st nor law of God nor man. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. RICHARD. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. ANNE. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! RICHARD. More wonderful when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Of these supposed crimes to give me leave, By circumstance, but to acquit myself. ANNE. Vouchsafe, diffused infection of a man, Of these known evils but to give me leave, By circumstance, to accuse thy cursed self. RICHARD. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself. ANNE. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current but to hang thyself. RICHARD. By such despair I should accuse myself. ANNE. And by despairing shalt thou stand excused For doing worthy vengeance on thyself That didst unworthy slaughter upon others. RICHARD. Say that I slew them not? ANNE. Then say they were not slain. But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. RICHARD. I did not kill your husband. ANNE. Why then he is alive. RICHARD. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward’s hand. ANNE. In thy foul throat thou liest. Queen Margaret saw Thy murd’rous falchion smoking in his blood, The which thou once didst bend against her breast, But that thy brothers beat aside the point. RICHARD. I was provoked by her sland’rous tongue, That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders. ANNE. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind, That never dream’st on aught but butcheries. Didst thou not kill this King? RICHARD. I grant ye. ANNE. Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then, God grant me too Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed. O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous. RICHARD. The better for the King of Heaven that hath him. ANNE. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come. RICHARD. Let him thank me that holp to send him thither, For he was fitter for that place than earth. ANNE. And thou unfit for any place but hell. RICHARD. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. ANNE. Some dungeon. RICHARD. Your bed-chamber. ANNE. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest! RICHARD. So will it, madam, till I lie with you. ANNE. I hope so. RICHARD. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter of our wits, And fall something into a slower method: Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner? ANNE. Thou wast the cause and most accursed effect. RICHARD. Your beauty was the cause of that effect: Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep To undertake the death of all the world, So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. ANNE. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks. RICHARD. These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack; You should not blemish it if I stood by. As all the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that; it is my day, my life. ANNE. Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life. RICHARD. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both. ANNE. I would I were, to be revenged on thee. RICHARD. It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be revenged on him that loveth thee. ANNE. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be revenged on him that killed my husband. RICHARD. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband, Did it to help thee to a better husband. ANNE. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. RICHARD. He lives that loves thee better than he could. ANNE. Name him. RICHARD. Plantagenet. ANNE. Why, that was he. RICHARD. The selfsame name, but one of better nature. ANNE. Where is he? RICHARD. Here. [_She spits at him._] Why dost thou spit at me? ANNE. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake. RICHARD. Never came poison from so sweet a place. ANNE. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes. RICHARD. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. ANNE. Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead! RICHARD. I would they were, that I might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Shamed their aspects with store of childish drops. These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear, No, when my father York and Edward wept To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, Told the sad story of my father’s death, And twenty times made pause to sob and weep, That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks Like trees bedashed with rain. In that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. I never sued to friend nor enemy; My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word; But now thy beauty is proposed my fee, My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak. [_She looks scornfully at him._] Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword, Which if thou please to hide in this true breast And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee, [_He kneels and lays his breast open; she offers at it with his sword._] Nay, do not pause, for I did kill King Henry— But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabbed young Edward— But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on. [_She falls the sword._] Take up the sword again, or take up me. ANNE. Arise, dissembler. Though I wish thy death, I will not be thy executioner. RICHARD. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. ANNE. I have already. RICHARD. That was in thy rage. Speak it again, and even with the word, This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love, Shall for thy love kill a far truer love. To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary. ANNE. I would I knew thy heart. RICHARD. ’Tis figured in my tongue. ANNE. I fear me both are false. RICHARD. Then never was man true. ANNE. Well, well, put up your sword. RICHARD. Say then my peace is made. ANNE. That shalt thou know hereafter. RICHARD. But shall I live in hope? ANNE. All men, I hope, live so. RICHARD. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. ANNE. To take is not to give. [_He places the ring on her hand._] RICHARD. Look how my ring encompasseth thy finger; Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted servant may But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. ANNE. What is it? RICHARD. That it may please you leave these sad designs To him that hath most cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby Place; Where, after I have solemnly interred At Chertsey monastery this noble King, And wet his grave with my repentant tears, I will with all expedient duty see you. For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, Grant me this boon. ANNE. With all my heart, and much it joys me too To see you are become so penitent. Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. RICHARD. Bid me farewell. ANNE. ’Tis more than you deserve; But since you teach me how to flatter you, Imagine I have said farewell already. [_Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel and Berkeley._] RICHARD. Sirs, take up the corse. GENTLEMAN. Towards Chertsey, noble lord? RICHARD. No, to White Friars; there attend my coming. [_Exeunt Halberds and Gentlemen with corse._] Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won? I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long. What, I that killed her husband and his father, To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, The bleeding witness of her hatred by, Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me, And I no friends to back my suit at all, But the plain devil and dissembling looks? And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! Ha! Hath she forgot already that brave prince, Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since, Stabbed in my angry mood at Tewksbury? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, Framed in the prodigality of nature, Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal, The spacious world cannot again afford. And will she yet abase her eyes on me, That cropped the golden prime of this sweet prince, And made her widow to a woeful bed? On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety? On me, that halt and am misshapen thus? My dukedom to a beggarly denier, I do mistake my person all this while! Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, Myself to be a marvellous proper man. I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass, And entertain a score or two of tailors To study fashions to adorn my body. Since I am crept in favour with myself, I will maintain it with some little cost. But first I’ll turn yon fellow in his grave, And then return lamenting to my love. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass. [_Exit._] SCENE III. London. A Room in the Palace Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Marquess of Dorset, Lord Rivers and Lord Grey. RIVERS. Have patience, madam. There’s no doubt his Majesty Will soon recover his accustomed health. GREY. In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse. Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort, And cheer his Grace with quick and merry eyes. QUEEN ELIZABETH. If he were dead, what would betide on me? GREY. No other harm but loss of such a lord. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The loss of such a lord includes all harms. GREY. The heavens have blessed you with a goodly son To be your comforter when he is gone. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, he is young, and his minority Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester, A man that loves not me, nor none of you. RIVERS. Is it concluded he shall be Protector? QUEEN ELIZABETH. It is determined, not concluded yet; But so it must be, if the King miscarry. Enter Buckingham and Stanley, Earl of Derby. GREY. Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Derby. BUCKINGHAM. Good time of day unto your royal Grace. STANLEY. God make your Majesty joyful as you have been. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby, To your good prayer will scarcely say amen. Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife, And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured I hate not you for her proud arrogance. STANLEY. I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false accusers, Or if she be accused on true report, Bear with her weakness, which I think proceeds From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Saw you the King today, my Lord of Derby? STANLEY. But now the Duke of Buckingham and I Are come from visiting his Majesty. QUEEN ELIZABETH. What likelihood of his amendment, lords? BUCKINGHAM. Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks cheerfully. QUEEN ELIZABETH. God grant him health! Did you confer with him? BUCKINGHAM. Ay, madam; he desires to make atonement Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers, And between them and my Lord Chamberlain; And sent to warn them to his royal presence. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Would all were well—but that will never be. I fear our happiness is at the height. Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Hastings. RICHARD. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it! Who is it that complains unto the King That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not? By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. Because I cannot flatter and look fair, Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog, Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy. Cannot a plain man live and think no harm, But thus his simple truth must be abused With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks? GREY. To who in all this presence speaks your Grace? RICHARD. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injured thee? When done thee wrong? Or thee? Or thee? Or any of your faction? A plague upon you all! His royal Grace, Whom God preserve better than you would wish, Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing while But you must trouble him with lewd complaints. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter. The King, on his own royal disposition, And not provoked by any suitor else, Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred That in your outward action shows itself Against my children, brothers, and myself, Makes him to send, that he may learn the ground Of your ill will, and thereby to remove it. RICHARD. I cannot tell. The world is grown so bad That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch. Since every Jack became a gentleman, There’s many a gentle person made a Jack. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester. You envy my advancement, and my friends’. God grant we never may have need of you. RICHARD. Meantime, God grants that we have need of you. Our brother is imprisoned by your means, Myself disgraced, and the nobility Held in contempt, while great promotions Are daily given to ennoble those That scarce some two days since were worth a noble. QUEEN ELIZABETH. By Him that raised me to this careful height From that contented hap which I enjoyed, I never did incense his Majesty Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been An earnest advocate to plead for him. My lord, you do me shameful injury Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects. RICHARD. You may deny that you were not the mean Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment. RIVERS. She may, my lord; for— RICHARD. She may, Lord Rivers; why, who knows not so? She may do more, sir, than denying that. She may help you to many fair preferments, And then deny her aiding hand therein, And lay those honours on your high desert. What may she not? She may, ay, marry, may she— RIVERS. What, marry, may she? RICHARD. What, marry, may she? Marry with a king, A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too. Iwis your grandam had a worser match. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs. By heaven, I will acquaint his Majesty Of those gross taunts that oft I have endured. I had rather be a country servant-maid Than a great queen with this condition, To be so baited, scorned, and stormed at. Enter old Queen Margaret behind. Small joy have I in being England’s queen. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] And lessened be that small, God, I beseech Him! Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me. RICHARD. What, threat you me with telling of the King? Tell him, and spare not. Look what I have said I will avouch ’t in presence of the King; I dare adventure to be sent to th’ Tower. ’Tis time to speak. My pains are quite forgot. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Out, devil! I do remember them too well: Thou killed’st my husband Henry in the Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. RICHARD. Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king, I was a pack-horse in his great affairs; A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, A liberal rewarder of his friends. To royalize his blood, I spilt mine own. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Ay, and much better blood than his or thine. RICHARD. In all which time, you and your husband Grey Were factious for the house of Lancaster. And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband In Margaret’s battle at Saint Albans slain? Let me put in your minds, if you forget, What you have been ere this, and what you are; Withal, what I have been, and what I am. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] A murd’rous villain, and so still thou art. RICHARD. Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick, Ay, and forswore himself—which Jesu pardon!— QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Which God revenge! RICHARD. To fight on Edward’s party for the crown; And for his meed, poor lord, he is mewed up. I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s, Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine. I am too childish-foolish for this world. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world, Thou cacodemon! There thy kingdom is. RIVERS. My lord of Gloucester, in those busy days Which here you urge to prove us enemies, We followed then our lord, our sovereign king. So should we you, if you should be our king. RICHARD. If I should be! I had rather be a pedler. Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof. QUEEN ELIZABETH. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose You should enjoy, were you this country’s king, As little joy you may suppose in me That I enjoy, being the Queen thereof. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] As little joy enjoys the Queen thereof, For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me patient. [_Coming forward._] Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing that which you have pilled from me! Which of you trembles not that looks on me? If not, that I am Queen, you bow like subjects, Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels. Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away. RICHARD. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my sight? QUEEN MARGARET. But repetition of what thou hast marred. That will I make before I let thee go. RICHARD. Wert thou not banished on pain of death? QUEEN MARGARET. I was, but I do find more pain in banishment Than death can yield me here by my abode. A husband and a son thou ow’st to me; And thou a kingdom; all of you, allegiance. This sorrow that I have by right is yours; And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. RICHARD. The curse my noble father laid on thee When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper, And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes, And then to dry them, gav’st the Duke a clout Steeped in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland— His curses then, from bitterness of soul Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee, And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed. QUEEN ELIZABETH. So just is God, to right the innocent. HASTINGS. O, ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe, And the most merciless that e’er was heard of. RIVERS. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported. DORSET. No man but prophesied revenge for it. BUCKINGHAM. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it. QUEEN MARGARET. What, were you snarling all before I came, Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on me? Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death, Their kingdom’s loss, my woeful banishment, Should all but answer for that peevish brat? Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven? Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses! Though not by war, by surfeit die your King, As ours by murder, to make him a king. Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence. Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self. Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s death, And see another, as I see thee now, Decked in thy rights, as thou art stalled in mine; Long die thy happy days before thy death, And, after many lengthened hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s Queen. Rivers and Dorset, you were standers-by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabbed with bloody daggers. God, I pray Him, That none of you may live his natural age, But by some unlooked accident cut off. RICHARD. Have done thy charm, thou hateful withered hag. QUEEN MARGARET. And leave out thee? Stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me. If heaven have any grievous plague in store Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, And then hurl down their indignation On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace. The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul; Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv’st, And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends; No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, Unless it be while some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils. Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog, Thou that wast sealed in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell; Thou slander of thy heavy mother’s womb, Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins, Thou rag of honour, thou detested— RICHARD. Margaret. QUEEN MARGARET. Richard! RICHARD. Ha? QUEEN MARGARET. I call thee not. RICHARD. I cry thee mercy then, for I did think That thou hadst called me all these bitter names. QUEEN MARGARET. Why, so I did, but looked for no reply. O, let me make the period to my curse! RICHARD. ’Tis done by me, and ends in “Margaret”. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself. QUEEN MARGARET. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune, Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider, Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about? Fool, fool; thou whet’st a knife to kill thyself. The day will come that thou shalt wish for me To help thee curse this poisonous bunch-backed toad. HASTINGS. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. QUEEN MARGARET. Foul shame upon you, you have all moved mine. RIVERS. Were you well served, you would be taught your duty. QUEEN MARGARET. To serve me well, you all should do me duty: Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects. O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty! DORSET. Dispute not with her; she is lunatic. QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, Master Marquess, you are malapert. Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. O, that your young nobility could judge What ’twere to lose it and be miserable! They that stand high have many blasts to shake them, And if they fall they dash themselves to pieces. RICHARD. Good counsel, marry. Learn it, learn it, Marquess. DORSET. It touches you, my lord, as much as me. RICHARD. Ay, and much more; but I was born so high. Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top, And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun. QUEEN MARGARET. And turns the sun to shade, alas, alas! Witness my son, now in the shade of death, Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternal darkness folded up. Your aery buildeth in our aery’s nest. O God, that seest it, do not suffer it! As it is won with blood, lost be it so. BUCKINGHAM. Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity. QUEEN MARGARET. Urge neither charity nor shame to me. Uncharitably with me have you dealt, And shamefully my hopes by you are butchered. My charity is outrage, life my shame, And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage. BUCKINGHAM. Have done, have done. QUEEN MARGARET. O princely Buckingham, I’ll kiss thy hand In sign of league and amity with thee. Now fair befall thee and thy noble house! Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, Nor thou within the compass of my curse. BUCKINGHAM. Nor no one here, for curses never pass The lips of those that breathe them in the air. QUEEN MARGARET. I will not think but they ascend the sky, And there awake God’s gentle sleeping peace. O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog! Look when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites, His venom tooth will rankle to the death. Have not to do with him; beware of him; Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him. RICHARD. What doth she say, my lord of Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. QUEEN MARGARET. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel, And soothe the devil that I warn thee from? O, but remember this another day, When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, And say, poor Margaret was a prophetess. Live each of you the subjects to his hate, And he to yours, and all of you to God’s! [_Exit._] BUCKINGHAM. My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses. RIVERS. And so doth mine. I muse why she’s at liberty. RICHARD. I cannot blame her. By God’s holy mother, She hath had too much wrong; and I repent My part thereof that I have done to her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I never did her any, to my knowledge. RICHARD. Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong. I was too hot to do somebody good That is too cold in thinking of it now. Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid; He is franked up to fatting for his pains. God pardon them that are the cause thereof. RIVERS. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, To pray for them that have done scathe to us. RICHARD. So do I ever—(_Speaks to himself_) being well advised; For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself. Enter Catesby. CATESBY. Madam, his Majesty doth call for you, And for your Grace, and you, my gracious lords. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go with me? RIVERS. We wait upon your Grace. [_Exeunt all but Richard._] RICHARD. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others. Clarence, whom I indeed have cast in darkness, I do beweep to many simple gulls, Namely, to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham; And tell them ’tis the Queen and her allies That stir the King against the Duke my brother. Now they believe it, and withal whet me To be revenged on Rivers, Dorset, Grey. But then I sigh, and, with a piece of Scripture, Tell them that God bids us do good for evil; And thus I clothe my naked villany With odd old ends stol’n forth of Holy Writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil. Enter two Murderers. But soft, here come my executioners. How now, my hardy, stout, resolved mates; Are you now going to dispatch this thing? FIRST MURDERER. We are, my lord, and come to have the warrant, That we may be admitted where he is. RICHARD. Well thought upon; I have it here about me. [_Gives the warrant._] When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead; For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. SECOND MURDERER. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate. Talkers are no good doers. Be assured We go to use our hands, and not our tongues. RICHARD. Your eyes drop millstones when fools’ eyes fall tears. I like you, lads. About your business straight. Go, go, dispatch. BOTH MURDERERS. We will, my noble lord. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower Enter Clarence and Keeper. KEEPER. Why looks your Grace so heavily today? CLARENCE. O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days, So full of dismal terror was the time! KEEPER. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me. CLARENCE. Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower, And was embarked to cross to Burgundy; And in my company my brother Gloucester, Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befall’n us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard Into the tumbling billows of the main. O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown, What dreadful noise of waters in my ears; What sights of ugly death within my eyes. Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wracks; A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men’s skulls, and in the holes Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept— As ’twere in scorn of eyes—reflecting gems, That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by. KEEPER. Had you such leisure in the time of death To gaze upon these secrets of the deep? CLARENCE. Methought I had; and often did I strive To yield the ghost, but still the envious flood Stopped in my soul, and would not let it forth To find the empty, vast, and wand’ring air, But smothered it within my panting bulk, Who almost burst to belch it in the sea. KEEPER. Awaked you not in this sore agony? CLARENCE. No, no, my dream was lengthened after life. O, then began the tempest to my soul. I passed, methought, the melancholy flood, With that sour ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger-soul Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who spake aloud, “What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?” And so he vanished. Then came wand’ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud “Clarence is come—false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury! Seize on him, Furies! Take him unto torment!” With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends Environed me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries that with the very noise I trembling waked, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made my dream. KEEPER. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. CLARENCE. Ah, Keeper, Keeper, I have done these things, That now give evidence against my soul, For Edward’s sake, and see how he requites me. O God, if my deep prayers cannot appease Thee, But Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, Yet execute Thy wrath in me alone; O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children! Keeper, I prithee sit by me awhile. My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. KEEPER. I will, my lord; God give your Grace good rest. [_Clarence reposes himself on a chair._] Enter Brakenbury the Lieutenant. BRAKENBURY. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night. Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honour for an inward toil; And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares, So that between their titles and low name, There’s nothing differs but the outward fame. Enter the two Murderers. FIRST MURDERER. Ho, who’s here? BRAKENBURY. What wouldst thou, fellow? And how cam’st thou hither? SECOND MURDERER. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. BRAKENBURY. What, so brief? FIRST MURDERER. ’Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. Let him see our commission, and talk no more. [_Brakenbury reads the commission._] BRAKENBURY. I am in this commanded to deliver The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands. I will not reason what is meant hereby, Because I will be guiltless of the meaning. There lies the Duke asleep, and there the keys. I’ll to the King and signify to him That thus I have resigned to you my charge. FIRST MURDERER. You may, sir; ’tis a point of wisdom. Fare you well. [_Exeunt Brakenbury and the Keeper._] SECOND MURDERER. What, shall I stab him as he sleeps? FIRST MURDERER. No. He’ll say ’twas done cowardly, when he wakes. SECOND MURDERER. Why, he shall never wake until the great Judgement Day. FIRST MURDERER. Why, then he’ll say we stabbed him sleeping. SECOND MURDERER. The urging of that word “judgement” hath bred a kind of remorse in me. FIRST MURDERER. What, art thou afraid? SECOND MURDERER. Not to kill him, having a warrant, but to be damned for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me. FIRST MURDERER. I thought thou hadst been resolute. SECOND MURDERER. So I am—to let him live. FIRST MURDERER. I’ll back to the Duke of Gloucester and tell him so. SECOND MURDERER. Nay, I prithee stay a little. I hope this passionate humour will change. It was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty. FIRST MURDERER. How dost thou feel thyself now? SECOND MURDERER. Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me. FIRST MURDERER. Remember our reward, when the deed’s done. SECOND MURDERER. Zounds, he dies! I had forgot the reward. FIRST MURDERER. Where’s thy conscience now? SECOND MURDERER. O, in the Duke of Gloucester’s purse. FIRST MURDERER. So, when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out. SECOND MURDERER. ’Tis no matter; let it go. There’s few or none will entertain it. FIRST MURDERER. What if it come to thee again? SECOND MURDERER. I’ll not meddle with it; it makes a man coward. A man cannot steal but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour’s wife but it detects him. ’Tis a blushing shamefaced spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is turned out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust to himself and live without it. FIRST MURDERER. Zounds, ’tis even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the Duke. SECOND MURDERER. Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not. He would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh. FIRST MURDERER. I am strong-framed; he cannot prevail with me. SECOND MURDERER. Spoke like a tall man that respects thy reputation. Come, shall we fall to work? FIRST MURDERER. Take him on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him in the malmsey-butt in the next room. SECOND MURDERER. O excellent device—and make a sop of him. FIRST MURDERER. Soft, he wakes. SECOND MURDERER. Strike! FIRST MURDERER. No, we’ll reason with him. CLARENCE. Where art thou, keeper? Give me a cup of wine. SECOND MURDERER. You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon. CLARENCE. In God’s name, what art thou? FIRST MURDERER. A man, as you are. CLARENCE. But not as I am, royal. SECOND MURDERER. Nor you as we are, loyal. CLARENCE. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble. FIRST MURDERER. My voice is now the King’s, my looks mine own. CLARENCE. How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak! Your eyes do menace me; why look you pale? Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come? SECOND MURDERER. To, to, to— CLARENCE. To murder me? BOTH MURDERERS. Ay, ay. CLARENCE. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you? FIRST MURDERER. Offended us you have not, but the King. CLARENCE. I shall be reconciled to him again. SECOND MURDERER. Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die. CLARENCE. Are you drawn forth among a world of men To slay the innocent? What is my offence? Where is the evidence that doth accuse me? What lawful quest have given their verdict up Unto the frowning judge? Or who pronounced The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death? Before I be convict by course of law, To threaten me with death is most unlawful. I charge you, as you hope to have redemption, By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous sins, That you depart, and lay no hands on me. The deed you undertake is damnable. FIRST MURDERER. What we will do, we do upon command. SECOND MURDERER. And he that hath commanded is our King. CLARENCE. Erroneous vassals! The great King of kings Hath in the table of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder. Will you then Spurn at His edict and fulfil a man’s? Take heed, for He holds vengeance in His hand To hurl upon their heads that break His law. SECOND MURDERER. And that same vengeance doth He hurl on thee For false forswearing, and for murder too. Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight In quarrel of the house of Lancaster. FIRST MURDERER. And like a traitor to the name of God Didst break that vow, and with thy treacherous blade Unrippedst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son. SECOND MURDERER. Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend. FIRST MURDERER. How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us, When thou hast broke it in such dear degree? CLARENCE. Alas, for whose sake did I that ill deed? For Edward, for my brother, for his sake. He sends you not to murder me for this, For in that sin he is as deep as I. If God will be avenged for the deed, O, know you yet He doth it publicly; Take not the quarrel from His powerful arm; He needs no indirect or lawless course To cut off those that have offended Him. FIRST MURDERER. Who made thee then a bloody minister When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet, That princely novice, was struck dead by thee? CLARENCE. My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage. FIRST MURDERER. Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy faults, Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. CLARENCE. If you do love my brother, hate not me. I am his brother, and I love him well. If you are hired for meed, go back again, And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, Who shall reward you better for my life Than Edward will for tidings of my death. SECOND MURDERER. You are deceived. Your brother Gloucester hates you. CLARENCE. O no, he loves me, and he holds me dear. Go you to him from me. FIRST MURDERER. Ay, so we will. CLARENCE. Tell him when that our princely father York Blessed his three sons with his victorious arm, And charged us from his soul to love each other, He little thought of this divided friendship. Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep. FIRST MURDERER. Ay, millstones, as he lessoned us to weep. CLARENCE. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. FIRST MURDERER. Right, as snow in harvest. Come, you deceive yourself. ’Tis he that sends us to destroy you here. CLARENCE. It cannot be, for he bewept my fortune, And hugged me in his arms, and swore with sobs That he would labour my delivery. FIRST MURDERER. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven. SECOND MURDERER. Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord. CLARENCE. Have you that holy feeling in your souls To counsel me to make my peace with God, And are you yet to your own souls so blind That you will war with God by murd’ring me? O sirs, consider: they that set you on To do this deed will hate you for the deed. SECOND MURDERER. What shall we do? CLARENCE. Relent, and save your souls. FIRST MURDERER. Relent? No, ’tis cowardly and womanish. CLARENCE. Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish. Which of you—if you were a prince’s son, Being pent from liberty, as I am now— If two such murderers as yourselves came to you, Would not entreat for life? Ay, you would beg, Were you in my distress. My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks. O, if thine eye be not a flatterer, Come thou on my side, and entreat for me; A begging prince what beggar pities not? SECOND MURDERER. Look behind you, my lord. FIRST MURDERER. Take that, and that! [_Stabs him._] If all this will not do, I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. [_Exit with the body._] SECOND MURDERER. A bloody deed, and desperately dispatched. How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous murder. Enter First Murderer. FIRST MURDERER. How now? What mean’st thou that thou help’st me not? By heavens, the Duke shall know how slack you have been. SECOND MURDERER. I would he knew that I had saved his brother. Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say, For I repent me that the Duke is slain. [_Exit._] FIRST MURDERER. So do not I. Go, coward as thou art. Well, I’ll go hide the body in some hole Till that the Duke give order for his burial. And when I have my meed, I will away, For this will out, and then I must not stay. [_Exit._] ACT II SCENE I. London. A Room in the palace Enter King Edward, sick, Queen Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey and others. KING EDWARD. Why, so. Now have I done a good day’s work. You peers, continue this united league. I every day expect an embassage From my Redeemer, to redeem me hence; And more at peace my soul shall part to heaven Since I have made my friends at peace on earth. Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s hand; Dissemble not your hatred. Swear your love. RIVERS. By heaven, my soul is purged from grudging hate, And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love. HASTINGS. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like. KING EDWARD. Take heed you dally not before your King, Lest He that is the supreme King of kings Confound your hidden falsehood, and award Either of you to be the other’s end. HASTINGS. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love. RIVERS. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart. KING EDWARD. Madam, yourself is not exempt from this; Nor you, son Dorset; Buckingham, nor you. You have been factious one against the other. Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand, And what you do, do it unfeignedly. QUEEN ELIZABETH. There, Hastings, I will never more remember Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine. KING EDWARD. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord Marquess. DORSET. This interchange of love, I here protest, Upon my part shall be inviolable. HASTINGS. And so swear I. [_They embrace._] KING EDWARD. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife’s allies, And make me happy in your unity. BUCKINGHAM. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate Upon your Grace, but with all duteous love Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me With hate in those where I expect most love. When I have most need to employ a friend, And most assured that he is a friend, Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile Be he unto me: this do I beg of God, When I am cold in love to you or yours. [_Embrace._] KING EDWARD. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here, To make the blessed period of this peace. BUCKINGHAM. And in good time, Here comes Sir Ratcliffe and the Duke. Enter Ratcliffe and Richard. RICHARD. Good morrow to my sovereign King and Queen; And, princely peers, a happy time of day. KING EDWARD. Happy indeed, as we have spent the day. Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. RICHARD. A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord, Among this princely heap, if any here By false intelligence or wrong surmise Hold me a foe, If I unwittingly, or in my rage, Have aught committed that is hardly borne By any in this presence, I desire To reconcile me to his friendly peace. ’Tis death to me to be at enmity; I hate it, and desire all good men’s love. First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, Which I will purchase with my duteous service; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodged between us; Of you and you, Lord Rivers and of Dorset, That all without desert have frowned on me; Of you, Lord Woodville and Lord Scales;—of you, Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds More than the infant that is born tonight. I thank my God for my humility. QUEEN ELIZABETH. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter. I would to God all strifes were well compounded. My sovereign lord, I do beseech your Highness To take our brother Clarence to your grace. RICHARD. Why, madam, have I offered love for this, To be so flouted in this royal presence? Who knows not that the gentle Duke is dead? [_They all start._] You do him injury to scorn his corse. KING EDWARD. Who knows not he is dead! Who knows he is? QUEEN ELIZABETH. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this! BUCKINGHAM. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest? DORSET. Ay, my good lord, and no man in the presence But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. KING EDWARD. Is Clarence dead? The order was reversed. RICHARD. But he, poor man, by your first order died, And that a winged Mercury did bear; Some tardy cripple bore the countermand, That came too lag to see him buried. God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, And yet go current from suspicion! Enter Stanley Earl of Derby. STANLEY. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done! KING EDWARD. I prithee, peace. My soul is full of sorrow. STANLEY. I will not rise unless your Highness hear me. KING EDWARD. Then say at once what is it thou requests. STANLEY. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life Who slew today a riotous gentleman Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk. KING EDWARD. Have I a tongue to doom my brother’s death, And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave? My brother killed no man; his fault was thought, And yet his punishment was bitter death. Who sued to me for him? Who, in my wrath, Kneeled at my feet, and bid me be advised? Who spoke of brotherhood? Who spoke of love? Who told me how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me? Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, When Oxford had me down, he rescued me, And said, “Dear brother, live, and be a king”? Who told me, when we both lay in the field Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me Even in his garments, and did give himself, All thin and naked, to the numb-cold night? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully plucked, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your carters or your waiting vassals Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon, And I, unjustly too, must grant it you. But for my brother not a man would speak, Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all Have been beholding to him in his life, Yet none of you would once beg for his life. O God, I fear Thy justice will take hold On me, and you, and mine and yours for this! Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Ah, poor Clarence! [_Exeunt some with King and Queen._] RICHARD. This is the fruit of rashness. Marked you not How that the guilty kindred of the Queen Looked pale when they did hear of Clarence’ death? O, they did urge it still unto the King. God will revenge it. Come, lords, will you go To comfort Edward with our company? BUCKINGHAM. We wait upon your Grace. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another Room in the palace Enter the old Duchess of York with the two Children of Clarence. BOY. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead? DUCHESS. No, boy. GIRL. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast, And cry “O Clarence, my unhappy son”? BOY. Why do you look on us, and shake your head, And call us orphans, wretches, castaways, If that our noble father were alive? DUCHESS. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both. I do lament the sickness of the King, As loath to lose him, not your father’s death. It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost. BOY. Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead. The King mine uncle is to blame for it. God will revenge it, whom I will importune With earnest prayers all to that effect. GIRL. And so will I. DUCHESS. Peace, children, peace. The King doth love you well. Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caused your father’s death. BOY. Grandam, we can, for my good uncle Gloucester Told me, the King, provoked to it by the Queen, Devised impeachments to imprison him; And when my uncle told me so, he wept, And pitied me, and kindly kissed my cheek; Bade me rely on him as on my father, And he would love me dearly as his child. DUCHESS. Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shape, And with a virtuous visard hide deep vice! He is my son, ay, and therein my shame; Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. BOY. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam? DUCHESS. Ay, boy. BOY. I cannot think it. Hark, what noise is this? Enter Queen Elizabeth with her hair about her ears, Rivers and Dorset after her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, who shall hinder me to wail and weep, To chide my fortune, and torment myself? I’ll join with black despair against my soul And to myself become an enemy. DUCHESS. What means this scene of rude impatience? QUEEN ELIZABETH. To make an act of tragic violence. Edward, my lord, thy son, our King, is dead. Why grow the branches when the root is gone? Why wither not the leaves that want their sap? If you will live, lament; if die, be brief, That our swift-winged souls may catch the King’s Or, like obedient subjects, follow him To his new kingdom of ne’er-changing night. DUCHESS. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow As I had title in thy noble husband. I have bewept a worthy husband’s death, And lived by looking on his images; But now two mirrors of his princely semblance Are cracked in pieces by malignant death, And I, for comfort, have but one false glass, That grieves me when I see my shame in him. Thou art a widow, yet thou art a mother, And hast the comfort of thy children left; But death hath snatched my husband from mine arms And plucked two crutches from my feeble hands, Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I, Thine being but a moiety of my moan, To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries. BOY. Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father’s death. How can we aid you with our kindred tears? GIRL. Our fatherless distress was left unmoaned. Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Give me no help in lamentation. I am not barren to bring forth complaints. All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, That I, being governed by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world. Ah, for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward! CHILDREN. Ah for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence! DUCHESS. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence! QUEEN ELIZABETH. What stay had I but Edward? And he’s gone. CHILDREN. What stay had we but Clarence? And he’s gone. DUCHESS. What stays had I but they? And they are gone. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Was never widow had so dear a loss. CHILDREN. Were never orphans had so dear a loss. DUCHESS. Was never mother had so dear a loss. Alas, I am the mother of these griefs. Their woes are parcelled, mine is general. She for an Edward weeps, and so do I; I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she; These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I; I for an Edward weep, so do not they. Alas, you three, on me, threefold distressed, Pour all your tears. I am your sorrow’s nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentation. DORSET. Comfort, dear mother. God is much displeased That you take with unthankfulness His doing. In common worldly things ’tis called ungrateful With dull unwillingness to repay a debt Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent; Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you. RIVERS. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, Of the young prince your son. Send straight for him; Let him be crowned; in him your comfort lives. Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave, And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne. Enter Richard, Buckingham, Stanley Earl of Derby, Hastings and Ratcliffe. RICHARD. Sister, have comfort. All of us have cause To wail the dimming of our shining star, But none can help our harms by wailing them. Madam my mother, I do cry you mercy; I did not see your Grace. Humbly on my knee I crave your blessing. [_Kneels._] DUCHESS. God bless thee, and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty. RICHARD. Amen. [_Aside_.] And make me die a good old man! That is the butt end of a mother’s blessing; I marvel that her Grace did leave it out. BUCKINGHAM. You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers That bear this heavy mutual load of moan, Now cheer each other in each other’s love. Though we have spent our harvest of this king, We are to reap the harvest of his son. The broken rancour of your high-swoll’n hates, But lately splintered, knit, and joined together, Must gently be preserved, cherished, and kept. Me seemeth good that with some little train, Forthwith from Ludlow the young Prince be fet Hither to London, to be crowned our King. RIVERS. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude The new-healed wound of malice should break out, Which would be so much the more dangerous By how much the estate is green and yet ungoverned. Where every horse bears his commanding rein And may direct his course as please himself, As well the fear of harm as harm apparent, In my opinion, ought to be prevented. RICHARD. I hope the King made peace with all of us; And the compact is firm and true in me. RIVERS. And so in me, and so, I think, in all. Yet since it is but green, it should be put To no apparent likelihood of breach, Which haply by much company might be urged. Therefore I say with noble Buckingham That it is meet so few should fetch the Prince. HASTINGS. And so say I. RICHARD. Then be it so, and go we to determine Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow. Madam, and you, my sister, will you go To give your censures in this business? [_Exeunt all but Buckingham and Richard._] BUCKINGHAM. My lord, whoever journeys to the Prince, For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home. For by the way I’ll sort occasion, As index to the story we late talked of, To part the Queen’s proud kindred from the Prince. RICHARD. My other self, my counsel’s consistory, My oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin, I, as a child, will go by thy direction. Toward Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay behind. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. London. A street Enter one Citizen at one door, and Another at the other. FIRST CITIZEN. Good morrow, neighbour, whither away so fast? SECOND CITIZEN. I promise you, I scarcely know myself. Hear you the news abroad? FIRST CITIZEN. Yes, that the King is dead. SECOND CITIZEN. Ill news, by’r Lady; seldom comes the better. I fear, I fear ’twill prove a giddy world. Enter another Citizen. THIRD CITIZEN. Neighbours, God speed. FIRST CITIZEN. Give you good morrow, sir. THIRD CITIZEN. Doth the news hold of good King Edward’s death? SECOND CITIZEN. Ay, sir, it is too true, God help the while. THIRD CITIZEN. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world. FIRST CITIZEN. No, no; by God’s good grace, his son shall reign. THIRD CITIZEN. Woe to that land that’s governed by a child. SECOND CITIZEN. In him there is a hope of government, Which, in his nonage, council under him, And, in his full and ripened years, himself, No doubt shall then, and till then, govern well. FIRST CITIZEN. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth Was crowned in Paris but at nine months old. THIRD CITIZEN. Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot. For then this land was famously enriched With politic grave counsel; then the King Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace. FIRST CITIZEN. Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother. THIRD CITIZEN. Better it were they all came by his father, Or by his father there were none at all, For emulation who shall now be nearest Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester, And the Queen’s sons and brothers haught and proud; And were they to be ruled, and not to rule, This sickly land might solace as before. FIRST CITIZEN. Come, come, we fear the worst; all will be well. THIRD CITIZEN. When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. All may be well; but, if God sort it so, ’Tis more than we deserve or I expect. SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear. You cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of dread. THIRD CITIZEN. Before the days of change, still is it so. By a divine instinct men’s minds mistrust Ensuing danger, as by proof we see The water swell before a boist’rous storm. But leave it all to God. Whither away? SECOND CITIZEN. Marry, we were sent for to the Justices. THIRD CITIZEN. And so was I. I’ll bear you company. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Palace Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York. ARCHBISHOP. Last night, I hear, they lay at Stony Stratford, And at Northampton they do rest tonight. Tomorrow or next day they will be here. DUCHESS. I long with all my heart to see the Prince. I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But I hear no; they say my son of York Has almost overta’en him in his growth. YORK. Ay, mother, but I would not have it so. DUCHESS. Why, my good cousin? It is good to grow. YORK. Grandam, one night as we did sit at supper, My uncle Rivers talked how I did grow More than my brother. “Ay,” quoth my uncle Gloucester, “Small herbs have grace; great weeds do grow apace.” And since, methinks I would not grow so fast, Because sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste. DUCHESS. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold In him that did object the same to thee! He was the wretched’st thing when he was young, So long a-growing and so leisurely, That if his rule were true, he should be gracious. ARCHBISHOP. And so no doubt he is, my gracious madam. DUCHESS. I hope he is, but yet let mothers doubt. YORK. Now, by my troth, if I had been remembered, I could have given my uncle’s Grace a flout To touch his growth nearer than he touched mine. DUCHESS. How, my young York? I prithee let me hear it. YORK. Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old. ’Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. DUCHESS. I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this? YORK. Grandam, his nurse. DUCHESS. His nurse? Why she was dead ere thou wast born. YORK. If ’twere not she, I cannot tell who told me. QUEEN ELIZABETH. A parlous boy! Go to, you are too shrewd. DUCHESS. Good madam, be not angry with the child. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Pitchers have ears. Enter a Messenger. ARCHBISHOP. Here comes a messenger. What news? MESSENGER. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report. QUEEN ELIZABETH. How doth the Prince? MESSENGER. Well, madam, and in health. DUCHESS. What is thy news? MESSENGER. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret, And, with them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. DUCHESS. Who hath committed them? MESSENGER. The mighty Dukes, Gloucester and Buckingham. ARCHBISHOP. For what offence? MESSENGER. The sum of all I can, I have disclosed. Why or for what the nobles were committed Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah me! I see the ruin of my house. The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind; Insulting tyranny begins to jut Upon the innocent and aweless throne. Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre; I see, as in a map, the end of all. DUCHESS. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, How many of you have mine eyes beheld? My husband lost his life to get the crown, And often up and down my sons were tossed For me to joy and weep their gain and loss. And being seated, and domestic broils Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors Make war upon themselves, brother to brother, Blood to blood, self against self. O, preposterous And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen, Or let me die, to look on earth no more. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, my boy. We will to sanctuary. Madam, farewell. DUCHESS. Stay, I will go with you. QUEEN ELIZABETH. You have no cause. ARCHBISHOP. [_To the Queen._] My gracious lady, go, And thither bear your treasure and your goods. For my part, I’ll resign unto your Grace The seal I keep; and so betide to me As well I tender you and all of yours. Go, I’ll conduct you to the sanctuary. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. London. A street The trumpets sound. Enter young Prince Edward, Richard, Buckingham, Cardinal Bourchier, Catesby and others. BUCKINGHAM. Welcome, sweet Prince, to London, to your chamber. RICHARD. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sovereign. The weary way hath made you melancholy. PRINCE. No, uncle, but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy. I want more uncles here to welcome me. RICHARD. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years Hath not yet dived into the world’s deceit, Nor more can you distinguish of a man Than of his outward show, which, God He knows, Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you want were dangerous; Your Grace attended to their sugared words But looked not on the poison of their hearts. God keep you from them, and from such false friends! PRINCE. God keep me from false friends, but they were none. RICHARD. My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you. Enter Lord Mayor with Attendants. MAYOR. God bless your Grace with health and happy days! PRINCE. I thank you, good my lord, and thank you all. I thought my mother and my brother York Would long ere this have met us on the way. Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not To tell us whether they will come or no! Enter Lord Hastings. BUCKINGHAM. And in good time, here comes the sweating lord. PRINCE. Welcome, my lord. What, will our mother come? HASTINGS. On what occasion God He knows, not I, The Queen your mother and your brother York Have taken sanctuary. The tender prince Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace, But by his mother was perforce withheld. BUCKINGHAM. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course Is this of hers? Lord cardinal, will your Grace Persuade the Queen to send the Duke of York Unto his princely brother presently? If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him, And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce. CARDINAL. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory Can from his mother win the Duke of York, Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid We should infringe the holy privilege Of blessed sanctuary! Not for all this land Would I be guilty of so deep a sin. BUCKINGHAM. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, Too ceremonious and traditional. Weigh it but with the grossness of this age, You break not sanctuary in seizing him. The benefit thereof is always granted To those whose dealings have deserved the place And those who have the wit to claim the place. This prince hath neither claimed it nor deserved it And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it. Then taking him from thence that is not there, You break no privilege nor charter there. Oft have I heard of sanctuary-men, But sanctuary children, never till now. CARDINAL. My lord, you shall o’errule my mind for once. Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me? HASTINGS. I go, my lord. PRINCE. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may. [_Exeunt Cardinal and Hastings._] Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come, Where shall we sojourn till our coronation? RICHARD. Where it seems best unto your royal self. If I may counsel you, some day or two Your Highness shall repose you at the Tower, Then where you please and shall be thought most fit For your best health and recreation. PRINCE. I do not like the Tower, of any place. Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord? BUCKINGHAM. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place, Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. PRINCE. Is it upon record, or else reported Successively from age to age, he built it? BUCKINGHAM. Upon record, my gracious lord. PRINCE. But say, my lord, it were not registered, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As ’twere retailed to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. RICHARD. [_Aside_.] So wise so young, they say, do never live long. PRINCE. What say you, uncle? RICHARD. I say, without characters, fame lives long. [_Aside_.] Thus, like the formal Vice, Iniquity, I moralize two meanings in one word. PRINCE. That Julius Caesar was a famous man. With what his valour did enrich his wit, His wit set down to make his valour live; Death makes no conquest of this conqueror, For now he lives in fame, though not in life. I’ll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham. BUCKINGHAM. What, my gracious lord? PRINCE. An if I live until I be a man, I’ll win our ancient right in France again, Or die a soldier, as I lived a king. RICHARD. [_Aside_.] Short summers lightly have a forward spring. Enter young Duke of York, Hastings and the Cardinal. BUCKINGHAM. Now, in good time here comes the Duke of York. PRINCE. Richard of York, how fares our loving brother? YORK. Well, my dread lord—so must I call you now. PRINCE. Ay brother, to our grief, as it is yours. Too late he died that might have kept that title, Which by his death hath lost much majesty. RICHARD. How fares our cousin, noble lord of York? YORK. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord, You said that idle weeds are fast in growth. The Prince my brother hath outgrown me far. RICHARD. He hath, my lord. YORK. And therefore is he idle? RICHARD. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. YORK. Then he is more beholding to you than I. RICHARD. He may command me as my sovereign, But you have power in me as in a kinsman. YORK. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. RICHARD. My dagger, little cousin? With all my heart. PRINCE. A beggar, brother? YORK. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give, And being but a toy, which is no grief to give. RICHARD. A greater gift than that I’ll give my cousin. YORK. A greater gift? O, that’s the sword to it. RICHARD. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. YORK. O, then I see you will part but with light gifts; In weightier things you’ll say a beggar nay. RICHARD. It is too heavy for your Grace to wear. YORK. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. RICHARD. What, would you have my weapon, little lord? YORK. I would, that I might thank you as you call me. RICHARD. How? YORK. Little. PRINCE. My lord of York will still be cross in talk. Uncle, your Grace knows how to bear with him. YORK. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me. Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me. Because that I am little, like an ape, He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders. BUCKINGHAM. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons! To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, He prettily and aptly taunts himself. So cunning and so young is wonderful. RICHARD. My lord, wil’t please you pass along? Myself and my good cousin Buckingham Will to your mother, to entreat of her To meet you at the Tower and welcome you. YORK. What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord? PRINCE. My Lord Protector needs will have it so. YORK. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower. RICHARD. Why, what should you fear? YORK. Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost. My grandam told me he was murdered there. PRINCE. I fear no uncles dead. RICHARD. Nor none that live, I hope. PRINCE. An if they live, I hope I need not fear. But come, my lord. With a heavy heart, Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. [_A Sennet. Exeunt Prince Edward, York, Hastings, Dorset and all but Richard, Buckingham and Catesby._] BUCKINGHAM. Think you, my lord, this little prating York Was not incensed by his subtle mother To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously? RICHARD. No doubt, no doubt. O, ’tis a parlous boy, Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable. He is all the mother’s, from the top to toe. BUCKINGHAM. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby. Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend As closely to conceal what we impart. Thou know’st our reasons urged upon the way. What think’st thou? Is it not an easy matter To make William Lord Hastings of our mind For the instalment of this noble Duke In the seat royal of this famous isle? CATESBY. He for his father’s sake so loves the Prince That he will not be won to aught against him. BUCKINGHAM. What think’st thou then of Stanley? Will not he? CATESBY. He will do all in all as Hastings doth. BUCKINGHAM. Well then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby, And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings How he doth stand affected to our purpose, And summon him tomorrow to the Tower To sit about the coronation. If thou dost find him tractable to us, Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons. If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling, Be thou so too, and so break off the talk, And give us notice of his inclination; For we tomorrow hold divided councils, Wherein thyself shalt highly be employed. RICHARD. Commend me to Lord William. Tell him, Catesby, His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries Tomorrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle, And bid my lord, for joy of this good news, Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more. BUCKINGHAM. Good Catesby, go effect this business soundly. CATESBY. My good lords both, with all the heed I can. RICHARD. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep? CATESBY. You shall, my lord. RICHARD. At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both. [_Exit Catesby._] BUCKINGHAM. Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots? RICHARD. Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will do. And look when I am king, claim thou of me The earldom of Hereford, and all the movables Whereof the King my brother was possessed. BUCKINGHAM. I’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s hand. RICHARD. And look to have it yielded with all kindness. Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards We may digest our complots in some form. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Before Lord Hastings’ house Enter a Messenger to the door of Hastings. MESSENGER. My lord, my lord! [_Knocking._] HASTINGS. [_Within_.] Who knocks? MESSENGER. One from the Lord Stanley. HASTINGS. [_Within_.] What is’t o’clock? MESSENGER. Upon the stroke of four. Enter Hastings. HASTINGS. Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights? MESSENGER. So it appears by that I have to say. First, he commends him to your noble self. HASTINGS. What then? MESSENGER. Then certifies your lordship that this night He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm. Besides, he says there are two councils kept, And that may be determined at the one Which may make you and him to rue at th’ other. Therefore he sends to know your lordship’s pleasure, If you will presently take horse with him And with all speed post with him toward the north, To shun the danger that his soul divines. HASTINGS. Go, fellow, go. Return unto thy lord; Bid him not fear the separated council. His honour and myself are at the one, And at the other is my good friend Catesby, Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us Whereof I shall not have intelligence. Tell him his fears are shallow, without instance. And for his dreams, I wonder he’s so simple To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers. To fly the boar before the boar pursues Were to incense the boar to follow us, And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. Go, bid thy master rise and come to me, And we will both together to the Tower, Where he shall see the boar will use us kindly. MESSENGER. I’ll go, my lord, and tell him what you say. [_Exit._] Enter Catesby. CATESBY. Many good morrows to my noble lord. HASTINGS. Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring. What news, what news in this our tott’ring state? CATESBY. It is a reeling world indeed, my lord, And I believe will never stand upright Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. HASTINGS. How, wear the garland? Dost thou mean the crown? CATESBY. Ay, my good lord. HASTINGS. I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders Before I’ll see the crown so foul misplaced. But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it? CATESBY. Ay, on my life, and hopes to find you forward Upon his party for the gain thereof; And thereupon he sends you this good news, That this same very day your enemies, The kindred of the Queen, must die at Pomfret. HASTINGS. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, Because they have been still my adversaries. But that I’ll give my voice on Richard’s side To bar my master’s heirs in true descent, God knows I will not do it, to the death. CATESBY. God keep your lordship in that gracious mind. HASTINGS. But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month hence, That they which brought me in my master’s hate, I live to look upon their tragedy. Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older I’ll send some packing that yet think not on’t. CATESBY. ’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepared and look not for it. HASTINGS. O monstrous, monstrous! And so falls it out With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so ’twill do With some men else that think themselves as safe As thou and I, who, as thou know’st, are dear To princely Richard and to Buckingham. CATESBY. The Princes both make high account of you— [_Aside_.] For they account his head upon the Bridge. HASTINGS. I know they do, and I have well deserved it. Enter Stanley Earl of Derby. Come on, come on. Where is your boar-spear, man? Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided? STANLEY. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, Catesby. You may jest on, but, by the Holy Rood, I do not like these several councils, I. HASTINGS. My lord, I hold my life as dear as you do yours, And never in my days, I do protest, Was it so precious to me as ’tis now. Think you, but that I know our state secure, I would be so triumphant as I am? STANLEY. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London, Were jocund and supposed their states were sure, And they indeed had no cause to mistrust; But yet you see how soon the day o’ercast. This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt; Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward. What, shall we toward the Tower? The day is spent. HASTINGS. Come, come. Have with you. Wot you what, my lord? Today the lords you talked of are beheaded. STANLEY. They, for their truth, might better wear their heads Than some that have accused them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let’s away. Enter a Pursuivant. HASTINGS. Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow. [_Exeunt Stanley and Catesby._] How now, sirrah? How goes the world with thee? PURSUIVANT. The better that your lordship please to ask. HASTINGS. I tell thee, man, ’tis better with me now Than when thou met’st me last where now we meet. Then was I going prisoner to the Tower, By the suggestion of the Queen’s allies. But now, I tell thee—keep it to thyself— This day those enemies are put to death, And I in better state than e’er I was. PURSUIVANT. God hold it, to your honour’s good content! HASTINGS. Gramercy, fellow. There, drink that for me. [_Throws him his purse._] PURSUIVANT. I thank your honour. [_Exit._] Enter a Priest. PRIEST. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour. HASTINGS. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart. I am in your debt for your last exercise. Come the next sabbath, and I will content you. Enter Buckingham. PRIEST. I’ll wait upon your lordship. [_Exit Priest._] BUCKINGHAM. What, talking with a priest, Lord Chamberlain? Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest; Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. HASTINGS. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, The men you talk of came into my mind. What, go you toward the Tower? BUCKINGHAM. I do, my lord, but long I cannot stay there. I shall return before your lordship thence. HASTINGS. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there. BUCKINGHAM. [_Aside_.] And supper too, although thou knowest it not. Come, will you go? HASTINGS. I’ll wait upon your lordship. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Pomfret. Before the Castle Enter Sir Richard Ratcliffe, with Halberds, carrying the nobles Rivers, Grey and Vaughan to death at Pomfret. RIVERS. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, let me tell thee this: Today shalt thou behold a subject die For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. GREY. God bless the Prince from all the pack of you! A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers. VAUGHAN You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter. RATCLIFFE Dispatch. The limit of your lives is out. RIVERS. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers! Within the guilty closure of thy walls Richard the Second here was hacked to death; And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink. GREY. Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our heads, When she exclaimed on Hastings, you, and I, For standing by when Richard stabbed her son. RIVERS. Then cursed she Richard, then cursed she Buckingham, Then cursed she Hastings. O, remember, God, To hear her prayer for them, as now for us! And for my sister and her princely sons, Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood, Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt. RATCLIFFE. Make haste. The hour of death is expiate. RIVERS. Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us here embrace. Farewell, until we meet again in heaven. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower Enter Buckingham, Stanley Earl of Derby, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Norfolk, Ratcliffe, Lovell with others, at a table. HASTINGS. Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met Is to determine of the coronation. In God’s name speak. When is the royal day? BUCKINGHAM. Is all things ready for that royal time? STANLEY. It is, and wants but nomination. ELY. Tomorrow, then, I judge a happy day. BUCKINGHAM. Who knows the Lord Protector’s mind herein? Who is most inward with the noble Duke? ELY. Your Grace, we think, should soonest know his mind. BUCKINGHAM. We know each other’s faces; for our hearts, He knows no more of mine than I of yours, Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine. Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love. HASTINGS. I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well; But for his purpose in the coronation I have not sounded him, nor he delivered His gracious pleasure any way therein. But you, my honourable lords, may name the time, And in the Duke’s behalf I’ll give my voice, Which I presume he’ll take in gentle part. Enter Richard. ELY. In happy time, here comes the Duke himself. RICHARD. My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow. I have been long a sleeper; but I trust My absence doth neglect no great design Which by my presence might have been concluded. BUCKINGHAM. Had you not come upon your cue, my lord, William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part— I mean your voice for crowning of the King. RICHARD. Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder. His lordship knows me well and loves me well. My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn I saw good strawberries in your garden there; I do beseech you, send for some of them. ELY. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart. [_Exit._] RICHARD. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. [_They move aside._] Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, And finds the testy gentleman so hot That he will lose his head ere give consent His master’s child, as worshipfully he terms it, Shall lose the royalty of England’s throne. BUCKINGHAM. Withdraw yourself awhile. I’ll go with you. [_Exeunt Richard and Buckingham._] STANLEY. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. Tomorrow, in my judgement, is too sudden, For I myself am not so well provided As else I would be, were the day prolonged. Enter Bishop of Ely. ELY. Where is my lord the Duke of Gloucester? I have sent for these strawberries. HASTINGS. His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning. There’s some conceit or other likes him well When that he bids good morrow with such spirit. I think there’s never a man in Christendom Can lesser hide his love or hate than he, For by his face straight shall you know his heart. STANLEY. What of his heart perceive you in his face By any livelihood he showed today? HASTINGS. Marry, that with no man here he is offended, For were he, he had shown it in his looks. Enter Richard and Buckingham. RICHARD. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed Upon my body with their hellish charms? HASTINGS. The tender love I bear your Grace, my lord, Makes me most forward in this princely presence To doom th’ offenders, whosoe’er they be. I say, my lord, they have deserved death. RICHARD. Then be your eyes the witness of their evil. Look how I am bewitched! Behold, mine arm Is like a blasted sapling withered up! And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch, Consorted with that harlot, strumpet Shore, That by their witchcraft thus have marked me. HASTINGS. If they have done this deed, my noble lord— RICHARD. If? Thou protector of this damned strumpet, Talk’st thou to me of “ifs”? Thou art a traitor. Off with his head! Now by Saint Paul I swear I will not dine until I see the same. Lovell and Ratcliffe, look that it be done. The rest that love me, rise and follow me. [_Exeunt all but Lovell and Ratcliffe with the Lord Hastings._] HASTINGS. Woe, woe, for England! Not a whit for me, For I, too fond, might have prevented this. Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm, And I did scorn it and disdain to fly. Three times today my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And started when he looked upon the Tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. O, now I need the priest that spake to me; I now repent I told the pursuivant, As too triumphing, how mine enemies Today at Pomfret bloodily were butchered, And I myself secure in grace and favour. O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head. RATCLIFFE. Come, come, dispatch. The Duke would be at dinner: Make a short shrift. He longs to see your head. HASTINGS. O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hope in air of your good looks Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. LOVELL. Come, come, dispatch. ’Tis bootless to exclaim. HASTINGS. O bloody Richard! Miserable England, I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee That ever wretched age hath looked upon. Come, lead me to the block. Bear him my head. They smile at me who shortly shall be dead. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. London. The Tower Walls Enter Richard and Buckingham in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured. RICHARD. Come, cousin, canst thou quake and change thy colour, Murder thy breath in middle of a word, And then again begin, and stop again, As if thou were distraught and mad with terror? BUCKINGHAM. Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian; Speak, and look back, and pry on every side, Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion. Ghastly looks Are at my service, like enforced smiles, And both are ready in their offices, At anytime to grace my stratagems. But what, is Catesby gone? RICHARD. He is; and, see, he brings the Mayor along. Enter the Lord Mayor and Catesby. BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor— RICHARD. Look to the drawbridge there! BUCKINGHAM. Hark, a drum. RICHARD. Catesby, o’erlook the walls. BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent— RICHARD. Look back! Defend thee, here are enemies. BUCKINGHAM. God and our innocence defend and guard us! Enter Lovell and Ratcliffe with Hastings’ head. RICHARD. Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliffe and Lovell. LOVELL. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. RICHARD. So dear I loved the man that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breathed upon the earth a Christian; Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded The history of all her secret thoughts. So smooth he daubed his vice with show of virtue That, his apparent open guilt omitted— I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife— He lived from all attainder of suspects. BUCKINGHAM. Well, well, he was the covert’st sheltered traitor That ever lived.— Would you imagine, or almost believe, Were’t not that by great preservation We live to tell it, that the subtle traitor This day had plotted, in the council-house, To murder me and my good lord of Gloucester? MAYOR. Had he done so? RICHARD. What, think you we are Turks or Infidels? Or that we would, against the form of law, Proceed thus rashly in the villain’s death, But that the extreme peril of the case, The peace of England, and our persons’ safety, Enforced us to this execution? MAYOR. Now, fair befall you! He deserved his death, And your good Graces both have well proceeded, To warn false traitors from the like attempts. BUCKINGHAM. I never looked for better at his hands After he once fell in with Mistress Shore. Yet had we not determined he should die Until your lordship came to see his end Which now the loving haste of these our friends, Something against our meanings, have prevented, Because, my lord, we would have had you heard The traitor speak, and timorously confess The manner and the purpose of his treasons, That you might well have signified the same Unto the citizens, who haply may Misconster us in him, and wail his death. MAYOR. But, my good lord, your Grace’s word shall serve As well as I had seen and heard him speak; And do not doubt, right noble princes both, But I’ll acquaint our duteous citizens With all your just proceedings in this case. RICHARD. And to that end we wished your lordship here, T’ avoid the censures of the carping world. BUCKINGHAM. But since you come too late of our intent, Yet witness what you hear we did intend. And so, my good Lord Mayor, we bid farewell. [_Exit Lord Mayor._] RICHARD. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. The Mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post. There, at your meet’st advantage of the time, Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children; Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen Only for saying he would make his son Heir to the Crown—meaning indeed his house, Which, by the sign thereof, was termed so. Moreover, urge his hateful luxury And bestial appetite in change of lust, Which stretched unto their servants, daughters, wives, Even where his raging eye or savage heart, Without control, lusted to make a prey. Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person: Tell them, when that my mother went with child Of that insatiate Edward, noble York My princely father then had wars in France, And, by true computation of the time, Found that the issue was not his begot; Which well appeared in his lineaments, Being nothing like the noble Duke, my father. Yet touch this sparingly, as ’twere far off; Because, my lord, you know my mother lives. BUCKINGHAM. Doubt not, my lord, I’ll play the orator As if the golden fee for which I plead Were for myself. And so, my lord, adieu. RICHARD. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s Castle, Where you shall find me well accompanied With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops. BUCKINGHAM. I go; and towards three or four o’clock Look for the news that the Guildhall affords. [_Exit._] RICHARD. Go, Lovell, with all speed to Doctor Shaa. [_To Ratcliffe_.] Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle. [_Exeunt Ratcliffe and Lovell._] Now will I go to take some privy order To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight, And to give order that no manner person Have any time recourse unto the Princes. [_Exit._] SCENE VI. London. A street Enter a Scrivener. SCRIVENER. Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings, Which in a set hand fairly is engrossed, That it may be today read o’er in Paul’s. And mark how well the sequel hangs together: Eleven hours I have spent to write it over, For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me; The precedent was full as long a-doing And yet within these five hours Hastings lived, Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty. Here’s a good world the while! Who is so gross That cannot see this palpable device? Yet who so bold but says he sees it not? Bad is the world, and all will come to naught When such ill dealing must be seen in thought. [_Exit._] SCENE VII. London. Court of Baynard’s Castle Enter Richard and Buckingham at several doors. RICHARD. How now, how now? What say the citizens? BUCKINGHAM. Now, by the holy mother of our Lord, The citizens are mum, say not a word. RICHARD. Touched you the bastardy of Edward’s children? BUCKINGHAM. I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy, And his contract by deputy in France; Th’ insatiate greediness of his desire, And his enforcement of the city wives; His tyranny for trifles; his own bastardy, As being got, your father then in France, And his resemblance, being not like the Duke. Withal, I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind; Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility; Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose Untouched or slightly handled in discourse. And when mine oratory drew toward end, I bid them that did love their country’s good Cry “God save Richard, England’s royal King!” RICHARD. And did they so? BUCKINGHAM. No, so God help me, they spake not a word, But, like dumb statues or breathing stones, Stared each on other, and looked deadly pale. Which when I saw, I reprehended them, And asked the Mayor what meant this wilful silence. His answer was, the people were not used To be spoke to but by the Recorder. Then he was urged to tell my tale again: “Thus saith the Duke, thus hath the Duke inferred” But nothing spoke in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of mine own, At lower end of the hall, hurled up their caps, And some ten voices cried, “God save King Richard!” And thus I took the vantage of those few. “Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,” quoth I; “This general applause and cheerful shout Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard.” And even here brake off and came away. RICHARD. What, tongueless blocks were they! Would they not speak? Will not the Mayor then and his brethren, come? BUCKINGHAM. The mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear; Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit. And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, And stand between two churchmen, good my lord, For on that ground I’ll make a holy descant. And be not easily won to our requests. Play the maid’s part: still answer nay, and take it. RICHARD. I go, and if you plead as well for them As I can say nay to thee for myself, No doubt we bring it to a happy issue. BUCKINGHAM. Go, go, up to the leads, the Lord Mayor knocks. [_Exit Richard._] Enter the Lord Mayor and Citizens. Welcome, my lord. I dance attendance here. I think the Duke will not be spoke withal. Enter Catesby. Now, Catesby, what says your lord to my request? CATESBY. He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord, To visit him tomorrow or next day. He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation; And in no worldly suits would he be moved To draw him from his holy exercise. BUCKINGHAM. Return, good Catesby, to the gracious Duke; Tell him myself, the Mayor and aldermen, In deep designs, in matter of great moment, No less importing than our general good, Are come to have some conference with his Grace. CATESBY. I’ll signify so much unto him straight. [_Exit._] BUCKINGHAM. Ah ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward! He is not lolling on a lewd love-bed, But on his knees at meditation; Not dallying with a brace of courtesans, But meditating with two deep divines; Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, But praying, to enrich his watchful soul. Happy were England would this virtuous prince Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof. But sure I fear we shall not win him to it. MAYOR. Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay! BUCKINGHAM. I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again. Enter Catesby. Now, Catesby, what says his Grace? CATESBY. He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of citizens to come to him, His Grace not being warned thereof before. He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him. BUCKINGHAM. Sorry I am my noble cousin should Suspect me that I mean no good to him. By heaven, we come to him in perfect love, And so once more return and tell his Grace. [_Exit Catesby._] When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, ’tis much to draw them thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation. Enter Richard aloft, between two Bishops. Catesby reenters. MAYOR. See where his Grace stands ’tween two clergymen! BUCKINGHAM. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him from the fall of vanity; And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, True ornaments to know a holy man. Famous Plantagenet, most gracious Prince, Lend favourable ear to our requests, And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal. RICHARD. My lord, there needs no such apology. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, Who, earnest in the service of my God, Deferred the visitation of my friends. But, leaving this, what is your Grace’s pleasure? BUCKINGHAM. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above, And all good men of this ungoverned isle. RICHARD. I do suspect I have done some offence That seems disgracious in the city’s eye, And that you come to reprehend my ignorance. BUCKINGHAM. You have, my lord. Would it might please your Grace, On our entreaties, to amend your fault. RICHARD. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land? BUCKINGHAM. Know then, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The sceptered office of your ancestors, Your state of fortune, and your due of birth, The lineal glory of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemished stock; Whiles in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country’s good, The noble isle doth want her proper limbs; Her face defaced with scars of infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shouldered in the swallowing gulf Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion; Which to recure, we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge And kingly government of this your land, Not as Protector, steward, substitute, Or lowly factor for another’s gain, But as successively, from blood to blood, Your right of birth, your empery, your own. For this, consorted with the citizens, Your very worshipful and loving friends, And by their vehement instigation, In this just cause come I to move your Grace. RICHARD. I cannot tell if to depart in silence Or bitterly to speak in your reproof Best fitteth my degree or your condition. If not to answer, you might haply think Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, Which fondly you would here impose on me; If to reprove you for this suit of yours, So seasoned with your faithful love to me, Then, on the other side, I checked my friends. Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first, And then, in speaking, not to incur the last, Definitively thus I answer you: Your love deserves my thanks, but my desert Unmeritable shuns your high request. First, if all obstacles were cut away, And that my path were even to the crown As the ripe revenue and due of birth, Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, That I would rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smothered. But, God be thanked, there is no need of me, And much I need to help you, were there need. The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, Which, mellowed by the stealing hours of time, Will well become the seat of majesty, And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. On him I lay that you would lay on me, The right and fortune of his happy stars, Which God defend that I should wring from him. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, this argues conscience in your Grace; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, All circumstances well considered. You say that Edward is your brother’s son; So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife. For first was he contract to Lady Lucy Your mother lives a witness to his vow, And afterward by substitute betrothed To Bona, sister to the King of France. These both put off, a poor petitioner, A care-crazed mother to a many sons, A beauty-waning and distressed widow, Even in the afternoon of her best days, Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye, Seduced the pitch and height of his degree To base declension and loathed bigamy. By her, in his unlawful bed, he got This Edward, whom our manners call the Prince. More bitterly could I expostulate, Save that, for reverence to some alive, I give a sparing limit to my tongue. Then, good my lord, take to your royal self This proffered benefit of dignity, If not to bless us and the land withal, Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry From the corruption of abusing times Unto a lineal true-derived course. MAYOR. Do, good my lord. Your citizens entreat you. BUCKINGHAM. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffered love. CATESBY. O, make them joyful; grant their lawful suit. RICHARD. Alas, why would you heap those cares on me? I am unfit for state and majesty. I do beseech you, take it not amiss; I cannot, nor I will not, yield to you. BUCKINGHAM. If you refuse it, as in love and zeal Loath to depose the child, your brother’s son— As well we know your tenderness of heart And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, Which we have noted in you to your kindred, And equally indeed to all estates— Yet know, whe’er you accept our suit or no, Your brother’s son shall never reign our king, But we will plant some other in the throne, To the disgrace and downfall of your house. And in this resolution here we leave you. Come, citizens; zounds, I’ll entreat no more. [_Exeunt Buckingham, the Mayor and citizens._] CATESBY. Call him again, sweet Prince; accept their suit. If you deny them, all the land will rue it. RICHARD. Will you enforce me to a world of cares? Call them again. I am not made of stones, But penetrable to your kind entreaties, Albeit against my conscience and my soul. Enter Buckingham and the rest. Cousin of Buckingham, and sage grave men, Since you will buckle Fortune on my back, To bear her burden, whe’er I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load. But if black scandal or foul-faced reproach Attend the sequel of your imposition, Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me From all the impure blots and stains thereof, For God doth know, and you may partly see, How far I am from the desire of this. MAYOR. God bless your Grace! We see it, and will say it. RICHARD. In saying so, you shall but say the truth. BUCKINGHAM. Then I salute you with this royal title: Long live King Richard, England’s worthy King! ALL. Amen. BUCKINGHAM. Tomorrow may it please you to be crowned? RICHARD. Even when you please, for you will have it so. BUCKINGHAM. Tomorrow, then, we will attend your Grace; And so most joyfully we take our leave. RICHARD. [_To the Bishops_.] Come, let us to our holy work again. Farewell, my cousin, farewell, gentle friends. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. London. Before the Tower Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Duchess of York and Marquess of Dorset, at one door; Anne Duchess of Gloucester with Clarence’s young Daughter at another door. DUCHESS. Who meets us here? My niece Plantagenet Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester? Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower, On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender Prince. Daughter, well met. ANNE. God give your Graces both A happy and a joyful time of day. QUEEN ELIZABETH. As much to you, good sister. Whither away? ANNE. No farther than the Tower, and, as I guess, Upon the like devotion as yourselves, To gratulate the gentle Princes there. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Kind sister, thanks; we’ll enter all together. Enter Brakenbury. And in good time, here the Lieutenant comes. Master Lieutenant, pray you, by your leave, How doth the Prince and my young son of York? BRAKENBURY. Right well, dear madam. By your patience, I may not suffer you to visit them. The King hath strictly charged the contrary. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The King? Who’s that? BRAKENBURY. I mean the Lord Protector. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The Lord protect him from that kingly title! Hath he set bounds between their love and me? I am their mother; who shall bar me from them? DUCHESS. I am their father’s mother. I will see them. ANNE. Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother. Then bring me to their sights. I’ll bear thy blame, And take thy office from thee, on my peril. BRAKENBURY. No, madam, no. I may not leave it so. I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. [_Exit._] Enter Stanley. STANLEY. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, And I’ll salute your Grace of York as mother And reverend looker-on of two fair queens. [_To Anne._] Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster, There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, cut my lace asunder That my pent heart may have some scope to beat, Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news! ANNE. Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news! DORSET. Be of good cheer, mother. How fares your Grace? QUEEN ELIZABETH. O Dorset, speak not to me; get thee gone. Death and destruction dog thee at thy heels; Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. If thou wilt outstrip death, go, cross the seas, And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell. Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house, Lest thou increase the number of the dead, And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse, Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted Queen. STANLEY. Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. Take all the swift advantage of the hours; You shall have letters from me to my son In your behalf, to meet you on the way. Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay. DUCHESS. O ill-dispersing wind of misery! O my accursed womb, the bed of death! A cockatrice hast thou hatched to the world, Whose unavoided eye is murderous. STANLEY. Come, madam, come. I in all haste was sent. ANNE. And I with all unwillingness will go. O, would to God that the inclusive verge Of golden metal that must round my brow Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains. Anointed let me be with deadly venom, And die ere men can say “God save the Queen.” QUEEN ELIZABETH. Go, go, poor soul; I envy not thy glory. To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. ANNE. No? Why? When he that is my husband now Came to me as I followed Henry’s corse, When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands Which issued from my other angel husband, And that dear saint which then I weeping followed; O, when, I say, I looked on Richard’s face, This was my wish: “Be thou,” quoth I, “accursed For making me, so young, so old a widow; And when thou wedd’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; And be thy wife, if any be so mad, More miserable by the life of thee Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death.” Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, Within so small a time, my woman’s heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words, And proved the subject of mine own soul’s curse, Which hitherto hath held my eyes from rest; For never yet one hour in his bed Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep, But with his timorous dreams was still awaked. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick, And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining. ANNE. No more than with my soul I mourn for yours. DORSET. Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory. ANNE. Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it. DUCHESS. [_To Dorset._] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee. [_To Anne._] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee. [_To Queen Elizabeth._] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee. I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me. Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour’s joy wracked with a week of teen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immured within your walls— Rough cradle for such little pretty one, Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well. So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. London. A Room of State in the Palace The trumpets sound a sennet. Enter Richard in pomp, Buckingham, Catesby, Ratcliffe, Lovell, a Page and others. KING RICHARD. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham! BUCKINGHAM. My gracious sovereign! KING RICHARD. Give me thy hand. [_Here he ascendeth the throne. Sound trumpets._] Thus high, by thy advice And thy assistance is King Richard seated. But shall we wear these glories for a day, Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them? BUCKINGHAM. Still live they, and for ever let them last! KING RICHARD. Ah, Buckingham, now do I play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed. Young Edward lives; think now what I would speak. BUCKINGHAM. Say on, my loving lord. KING RICHARD. Why, Buckingham, I say I would be King. BUCKINGHAM. Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned lord. KING RICHARD. Ha! Am I King? ’Tis so—but Edward lives. BUCKINGHAM. True, noble Prince. KING RICHARD. O bitter consequence, That Edward still should live “true noble prince!” Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull. Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead, And I would have it suddenly performed. What sayst thou now? Speak suddenly, be brief. BUCKINGHAM. Your Grace may do your pleasure. KING RICHARD. Tut, tut, thou art all ice; thy kindness freezes. Say, have I thy consent that they shall die? BUCKINGHAM. Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord, Before I positively speak in this. I will resolve you herein presently. [_Exit._] CATESBY. [_Aside_.] The King is angry. See, he gnaws his lip. KING RICHARD. [_Aside_.] I will converse with iron-witted fools And unrespective boys; none are for me That look into me with considerate eyes. High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. Boy! PAGE. My lord? KING RICHARD. Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold Will tempt unto a close exploit of death? PAGE. I know a discontented gentleman Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit. Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything. KING RICHARD. What is his name? PAGE. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel. KING RICHARD. I partly know the man. Go, call him hither, boy. [_Exit Page._] [_Aside_.] The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels. Hath he so long held out with me, untired, And stops he now for breath? Well, be it so. Enter Stanley. How now, Lord Stanley, what’s the news? STANLEY. Know, my loving lord, The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled To Richmond, in the parts where he abides. KING RICHARD. Come hither, Catesby. Rumour it abroad That Anne my wife is very grievous sick; I will take order for her keeping close. Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman, Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter. The boy is foolish, and I fear not him. Look how thou dream’st! I say again, give out That Anne, my Queen, is sick and like to die. About it, for it stands me much upon To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me. [_Exit Catesby._] I must be married to my brother’s daughter, Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. Murder her brothers, and then marry her— Uncertain way of gain! But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin. Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. Enter Tyrrel. Is thy name Tyrrel? TYRREL. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject. KING RICHARD. Art thou indeed? TYRREL. Prove me, my gracious lord. KING RICHARD. Dar’st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine? TYRREL. Please you. But I had rather kill two enemies. KING RICHARD. Why then thou hast it; two deep enemies, Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep’s disturbers, Are they that I would have thee deal upon. Tyrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower. TYRREL. Let me have open means to come to them, And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them. KING RICHARD. Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel. Go, by this token. Rise, and lend thine ear. [_Whispers_.] There is no more but so. Say it is done, And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it. TYRREL. I will dispatch it straight. [_Exit._] Enter Buckingham. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I have considered in my mind The late request that you did sound me in. KING RICHARD. Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond. BUCKINGHAM. I hear the news, my lord. KING RICHARD. Stanley, he is your wife’s son. Well, look unto it. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise, For which your honour and your faith is pawned: Th’ earldom of Hereford, and the movables Which you have promised I shall possess. KING RICHARD. Stanley, look to your wife. If she convey Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. BUCKINGHAM. What says your Highness to my just request? KING RICHARD. I do remember me, Henry the Sixth Did prophesy that Richmond should be King, When Richmond was a little peevish boy. A king perhaps— BUCKINGHAM. My lord— KING RICHARD. How chance the prophet could not at that time Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him? BUCKINGHAM. My lord, your promise for the earldom— KING RICHARD. Richmond! When last I was at Exeter, The Mayor in courtesy showed me the castle And called it Rougemount, at which name I started, Because a bard of Ireland told me once I should not live long after I saw Richmond. BUCKINGHAM. My lord— KING RICHARD. Ay, what’s o’clock? BUCKINGHAM. I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind Of what you promised me. KING RICHARD. Well, but what’s o’clock? BUCKINGHAM. Upon the stroke of ten. KING RICHARD. Well, let it strike. BUCKINGHAM. Why let it strike? KING RICHARD. Because that, like a jack, thou keep’st the stroke Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. I am not in the giving vein today. BUCKINGHAM. Why then, resolve me whether you will or no. KING RICHARD. Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein. [_Exit followed by all save Buckingham._] BUCKINGHAM. And is it thus? Repays he my deep service With such contempt? Made I him King for this? O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone To Brecknock while my fearful head is on! [_Exit._] SCENE III. London. Another Room in the Palace Enter Tyrrel. TYRREL. The tyrannous and bloody act is done, The most arch deed of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs, Melted with tenderness and mild compassion, Wept like two children in their deaths’ sad story. “O, thus,” quoth Dighton, “lay the gentle babes;” “Thus, thus,” quoth Forrest, “girdling one another Within their alabaster innocent arms. Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, And in their summer beauty kissed each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay, Which once,” quoth Forrest, “almost changed my mind. But, O, the devil—” There the villain stopped; When Dighton thus told on: “We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature That from the prime creation e’er she framed.” Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse They could not speak; and so I left them both To bear this tidings to the bloody King. Enter King Richard. And here he comes. All health, my sovereign lord. KING RICHARD. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news? TYRREL. If to have done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then, For it is done. KING RICHARD. But didst thou see them dead? TYRREL. I did, my lord. KING RICHARD. And buried, gentle Tyrrel? TYRREL. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them, But where, to say the truth, I do not know. KING RICHARD. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after-supper, When thou shalt tell the process of their death. Meantime, but think how I may do thee good, And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell till then. TYRREL. I humbly take my leave. [_Exit._] KING RICHARD. The son of Clarence have I pent up close; His daughter meanly have I matched in marriage; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom, And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night. Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter, And by that knot looks proudly on the crown, To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter Ratcliffe. RATCLIFFE. My lord! KING RICHARD. Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly? RATCLIFFE. Bad news, my lord. Morton is fled to Richmond, And Buckingham, backed with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. KING RICHARD. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. Come, I have learned that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary; Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king! Go, muster men. My counsel is my shield. We must be brief when traitors brave the field. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. Before the Palace Enter old Queen Margaret. QUEEN MARGARET. So now prosperity begins to mellow, And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurked To watch the waning of mine enemies. A dire induction am I witness to, And will to France, hoping the consequence Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret. Who comes here? [_Retires._] Enter Duchess of York and Queen Elizabeth. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, my poor Princes! Ah, my tender babes, My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air And be not fixed in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings And hear your mother’s lamentation. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] Hover about her; say that right for right Hath dimmed your infant morn to aged night. DUCHESS. So many miseries have crazed my voice That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead? QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet; Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs, And throw them in the entrails of the wolf? When didst Thou sleep when such a deed was done? QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. DUCHESS. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost, Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurped, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth, [_Sitting_.] Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave As thou canst yield a melancholy seat, Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here. [_Sitting_.] Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we? QUEEN MARGARET. [_Coming forward._] If ancient sorrow be most reverend, Give mine the benefit of seigniory, And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. If sorrow can admit society, [_Sitting down with them._] Tell o’er your woes again by viewing mine. I had an Edward, till a Richard killed him; I had a husband, till a Richard killed him. Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard killed him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard killed him. DUCHESS. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him; I had a Rutland too; thou holp’st to kill him. QUEEN MARGARET. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard killed him. From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death: That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes, To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood; That excellent grand tyrant of the earth, That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls; That foul defacer of God’s handiwork Thy womb let loose to chase us to our graves. O upright, just, and true-disposing God, How do I thank thee that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother’s body, And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan! DUCHESS. O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine. QUEEN MARGARET. Bear with me. I am hungry for revenge, And now I cloy me with beholding it. Thy Edward he is dead, that killed my Edward; The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York, he is but boot, because both they Matched not the high perfection of my loss. Thy Clarence he is dead that stabbed my Edward; And the beholders of this frantic play, Th’ adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smothered in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, Only reserved their factor to buy souls And send them thither. But at hand, at hand Ensues his piteous and unpitied end. Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, To have him suddenly conveyed from hence. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live to say “The dog is dead.” QUEEN ELIZABETH. O, thou didst prophesy the time would come That I should wish for thee to help me curse That bottled spider, that foul bunch-backed toad! QUEEN MARGARET. I called thee then, vain flourish of my fortune; I called thee then, poor shadow, painted queen, The presentation of but what I was, The flattering index of a direful pageant; One heaved a-high to be hurled down below, A mother only mocked with two fair babes; A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag, To be the aim of every dangerous shot; A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble; A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. Where is thy husband now? Where be thy brothers? Where are thy two sons? Wherein dost thou joy? Who sues, and kneels, and says, “God save the Queen?” Where be the bending peers that flattered thee? Where be the thronging troops that followed thee? Decline all this, and see what now thou art: For happy wife, a most distressed widow; For joyful mother, one that wails the name; For one being sued to, one that humbly sues; For Queen, a very caitiff crowned with care; For she that scorned at me, now scorned of me; For she being feared of all, now fearing one; For she commanding all, obeyed of none. Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about And left thee but a very prey to time, Having no more but thought of what thou wast To torture thee the more, being what thou art. Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow? Now thy proud neck bears half my burdened yoke, From which even here I slip my weary head, And leave the burden of it all on thee. Farewell, York’s wife, and Queen of sad mischance. These English woes shall make me smile in France. QUEEN ELIZABETH. O thou well skilled in curses, stay awhile, And teach me how to curse mine enemies. QUEEN MARGARET. Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the days; Compare dead happiness with living woe; Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is. Bettering thy loss makes the bad-causer worse. Revolving this will teach thee how to curse. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My words are dull. O, quicken them with thine! QUEEN MARGARET. Thy woes will make them sharp and pierce like mine. [_Exit._] DUCHESS. Why should calamity be full of words? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Windy attorneys to their clients’ woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries, Let them have scope, though what they do impart Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart. DUCHESS. If so, then be not tongue-tied. Go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smothered. [_A trumpet sounds._] The trumpet sounds. Be copious in exclaims. Enter King Richard and his Train, including Catesby, marching. KING RICHARD. Who intercepts me in my expedition? DUCHESS. O, she that might have intercepted thee, By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden crown Where should be branded, if that right were right, The slaughter of the Prince that owed that crown, And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers? Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children? DUCHESS. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence, And little Ned Plantagenet his son? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey? DUCHESS. Where is kind Hastings? KING RICHARD. A flourish, trumpets! Strike alarum, drums! Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women Rail on the Lord’s anointed. Strike, I say! [_Flourish. Alarums._] Either be patient and entreat me fair, Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your exclamations. DUCHESS. Art thou my son? KING RICHARD. Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself. DUCHESS. Then patiently hear my impatience. KING RICHARD. Madam, I have a touch of your condition, That cannot brook the accent of reproof. DUCHESS. O, let me speak! KING RICHARD. Do then, but I’ll not hear. DUCHESS. I will be mild and gentle in my words. KING RICHARD. And brief, good mother, for I am in haste. DUCHESS. Art thou so hasty? I have stayed for thee, God knows, in torment and in agony. KING RICHARD. And came I not at last to comfort you? DUCHESS. No, by the Holy Rood, thou know’st it well Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell. A grievous burden was thy birth to me; Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy; Thy school-days frightful, desp’rate, wild, and furious; Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous; Thy age confirmed, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred. What comfortable hour canst thou name That ever graced me with thy company? KING RICHARD. Faith, none but Humphrey Hower, that called your Grace To breakfast once, forth of my company. If I be so disgracious in your eye, Let me march on and not offend you, madam. Strike up the drum. DUCHESS. I prithee, hear me speak. KING RICHARD. You speak too bitterly. DUCHESS. Hear me a word, For I shall never speak to thee again. KING RICHARD. So. DUCHESS. Either thou wilt die by God’s just ordinance Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror, Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish And never more behold thy face again. Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse, Which in the day of battle tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st. My prayers on the adverse party fight; And there the little souls of Edward’s children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies And promise them success and victory. Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end. Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend. [_Exit._] QUEEN ELIZABETH. Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse Abides in me, I say amen to her. KING RICHARD. Stay, madam, I must talk a word with you. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I have no more sons of the royal blood For thee to slaughter. For my daughters, Richard, They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens, And therefore level not to hit their lives. KING RICHARD. You have a daughter called Elizabeth, Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And must she die for this? O, let her live, And I’ll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty, Slander myself as false to Edward’s bed, Throw over her the veil of infamy. So she may live unscarred of bleeding slaughter, I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter. KING RICHARD. Wrong not her birth; she is a royal princess. QUEEN ELIZABETH. To save her life I’ll say she is not so. KING RICHARD. Her life is safest only in her birth. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And only in that safety died her brothers. KING RICHARD. Lo, at their births good stars were opposite. QUEEN ELIZABETH. No, to their lives ill friends were contrary. KING RICHARD. All unavoided is the doom of destiny. QUEEN ELIZABETH. True, when avoided grace makes destiny. My babes were destined to a fairer death, If grace had blessed thee with a fairer life. KING RICHARD. You speak as if that I had slain my cousins. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Cousins, indeed, and by their uncle cozened Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts, Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction. No doubt the murd’rous knife was dull and blunt Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart, To revel in the entrails of my lambs. But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame, My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys Till that my nails were anchored in thine eyes, And I, in such a desp’rate bay of death, Like a poor bark of sails and tackling reft, Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. KING RICHARD. Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise And dangerous success of bloody wars, As I intend more good to you and yours Than ever you or yours by me were harmed! QUEEN ELIZABETH. What good is covered with the face of heaven, To be discovered, that can do me good? KING RICHARD. Th’ advancement of your children, gentle lady. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads. KING RICHARD. Unto the dignity and height of fortune, The high imperial type of this earth’s glory. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Flatter my sorrows with report of it. Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour, Canst thou demise to any child of mine? KING RICHARD. Even all I have—ay, and myself and all Will I withal endow a child of thine; So in the Lethe of thy angry soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs Which thou supposest I have done to thee. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date. KING RICHARD. Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My daughter’s mother thinks it with her soul. KING RICHARD. What do you think? QUEEN ELIZABETH. That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul. So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her brothers, And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it. KING RICHARD. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning. I mean that with my soul I love thy daughter, And do intend to make her Queen of England. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Well, then, who dost thou mean shall be her king? KING RICHARD. Even he that makes her Queen. Who else should be? QUEEN ELIZABETH. What, thou? KING RICHARD. Even so. How think you of it? QUEEN ELIZABETH. How canst thou woo her? KING RICHARD. That would I learn of you, As one being best acquainted with her humour. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And wilt thou learn of me? KING RICHARD. Madam, with all my heart. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave “Edward” and “York.” Then haply will she weep. Therefore present to her—as sometimes Margaret Did to thy father, steeped in Rutland’s blood— A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain The purple sap from her sweet brothers’ body, And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal. If this inducement move her not to love, Send her a letter of thy noble deeds; Tell her thou mad’st away her uncle Clarence, Her uncle Rivers, ay, and for her sake Mad’st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. KING RICHARD. You mock me, madam; this is not the way To win your daughter. QUEEN ELIZABETH. There is no other way, Unless thou couldst put on some other shape, And not be Richard, that hath done all this. KING RICHARD. Say that I did all this for love of her? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee, Having bought love with such a bloody spoil. KING RICHARD. Look what is done cannot be now amended. Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, Which after-hours gives leisure to repent. If I did take the kingdom from your sons, To make amends I’ll give it to your daughter. If I have killed the issue of your womb, To quicken your increase I will beget Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter. A grandam’s name is little less in love Than is the doting title of a mother; They are as children but one step below, Even of your mettle, of your very blood; Of all one pain, save for a night of groans Endured of her, for whom you bid like sorrow. Your children were vexation to your youth, But mine shall be a comfort to your age. The loss you have is but a son being King, And by that loss your daughter is made Queen. I cannot make you what amends I would; Therefore accept such kindness as I can. Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul Leads discontented steps in foreign soil, This fair alliance quickly shall call home To high promotions and great dignity. The King, that calls your beauteous daughter wife, Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother; Again shall you be mother to a king, And all the ruins of distressful times Repaired with double riches of content. What, we have many goodly days to see. The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transformed to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. Go then, my mother, to thy daughter go. Make bold her bashful years with your experience; Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale; Put in her tender heart th’ aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the Princess With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys, And when this arm of mine hath chastised The petty rebel, dull-brained Buckingham, Bound with triumphant garlands will I come And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed; To whom I will retail my conquest won, And she shall be sole victoress, Caesar’s Caesar. QUEEN ELIZABETH. What were I best to say? Her father’s brother Would be her lord? Or shall I say her uncle? Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles? Under what title shall I woo for thee, That God, the law, my honour, and her love Can make seem pleasing to her tender years? KING RICHARD. Infer fair England’s peace by this alliance. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Which she shall purchase with still-lasting war. KING RICHARD. Tell her the King, that may command, entreats. QUEEN ELIZABETH. That at her hands, which the King’s King forbids. KING RICHARD. Say she shall be a high and mighty queen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. To vail the title, as her mother doth. KING RICHARD. Say I will love her everlastingly. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long shall that title “ever” last? KING RICHARD. Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last? KING RICHARD. As long as heaven and nature lengthens it. QUEEN ELIZABETH. As long as hell and Richard likes of it. KING RICHARD. Say I, her sovereign, am her subject low. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty. KING RICHARD. Be eloquent in my behalf to her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. An honest tale speeds best being plainly told. KING RICHARD. Then plainly to her tell my loving tale. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style. KING RICHARD. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. QUEEN ELIZABETH. O no, my reasons are too deep and dead— Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves. KING RICHARD. Harp not on that string, madam; that is past. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings break. KING RICHARD. Now, by my George, my Garter, and my crown— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Profaned, dishonoured, and the third usurped. KING RICHARD. I swear— QUEEN ELIZABETH. By nothing, for this is no oath. Thy George, profaned, hath lost his lordly honour; Thy Garter, blemished, pawned his knightly virtue; Thy crown, usurped, disgraced his kingly glory. If something thou wouldst swear to be believed, Swear then by something that thou hast not wronged. KING RICHARD. Now, by the world— QUEEN ELIZABETH. ’Tis full of thy foul wrongs. KING RICHARD. My father’s death— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thy life hath that dishonoured. KING RICHARD. Then, by myself— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thyself is self-misused. KING RICHARD. Why, then, by God— QUEEN ELIZABETH. God’s wrong is most of all. If thou didst fear to break an oath with Him, The unity the King my husband made Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died. If thou hadst feared to break an oath by Him, Th’ imperial metal circling now thy head Had graced the tender temples of my child, And both the Princes had been breathing here, Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust, Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms. What canst thou swear by now? KING RICHARD. The time to come. QUEEN ELIZABETH. That thou hast wronged in the time o’erpast; For I myself have many tears to wash Hereafter time, for time past wronged by thee. The children live whose fathers thou hast slaughtered, Ungoverned youth, to wail it in their age; The parents live whose children thou hast butchered, Old barren plants, to wail it with their age. Swear not by time to come, for that thou hast Misused ere used, by times ill-used o’erpast. KING RICHARD. As I intend to prosper and repent, So thrive I in my dangerous affairs Of hostile arms! Myself myself confound! Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours! Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy rest! Be opposite all planets of good luck To my proceeding if with dear heart’s love, Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter. In her consists my happiness and thine; Without her follows to myself and thee, Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul, Death, desolation, ruin, and decay. It cannot be avoided but by this; It will not be avoided but by this. Therefore, dear mother—I must call you so— Be the attorney of my love to her; Plead what I will be, not what I have been; Not my deserts, but what I will deserve. Urge the necessity and state of times, And be not peevish found in great designs. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus? KING RICHARD. Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I forget myself to be myself? KING RICHARD. Ay, if your self’s remembrance wrong yourself. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Yet thou didst kill my children. KING RICHARD. But in your daughter’s womb I bury them, Where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed Selves of themselves, to your recomforture. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will? KING RICHARD. And be a happy mother by the deed. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I go. Write to me very shortly, And you shall understand from me her mind. KING RICHARD. Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so, farewell. [_Kissing her. Exit Queen Elizabeth._] Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman! Enter Ratcliffe. How now, what news? RATCLIFFE. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast Rideth a puissant navy; to our shores Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarmed, and unresolved to beat them back. ’Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral; And there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. KING RICHARD. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk. Ratcliffe, thyself, or Catesby. Where is he? CATESBY. Here, my good lord. KING RICHARD. Catesby, fly to the Duke. CATESBY. I will my lord, with all convenient haste. KING RICHARD. Ratcliffe, come hither. Post to Salisbury. When thou com’st thither— [_To Catesby._] Dull, unmindful villain, Why stay’st thou here, and go’st not to the Duke? CATESBY. First, mighty liege, tell me your Highness’ pleasure, What from your Grace I shall deliver to him. KING RICHARD. O, true, good Catesby. Bid him levy straight The greatest strength and power that he can make, And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. CATESBY. I go. [_Exit._] RATCLIFFE. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury? KING RICHARD. Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go? RATCLIFFE. Your Highness told me I should post before. KING RICHARD. My mind is changed. Enter Stanley Earl of Derby. Stanley, what news with you? STANLEY. None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing; Nor none so bad but well may be reported. KING RICHARD. Hoyday, a riddle! Neither good nor bad. What need’st thou run so many miles about When thou mayst tell thy tale the nearest way? Once more, what news? STANLEY. Richmond is on the seas. KING RICHARD. There let him sink, and be the seas on him! White-livered runagate, what doth he there? STANLEY. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. KING RICHARD. Well, as you guess? STANLEY. Stirred up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, He makes for England, here to claim the crown. KING RICHARD. Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed? Is the King dead? The empire unpossessed? What heir of York is there alive but we? And who is England’s King but great York’s heir? Then tell me, what makes he upon the seas? STANLEY. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess. KING RICHARD. Unless for that he comes to be your liege, You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. Thou wilt revolt and fly to him, I fear. STANLEY. No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not. KING RICHARD. Where is thy power, then, to beat him back? Where be thy tenants and thy followers? Are they not now upon the western shore, Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships? STANLEY. No, my good lord, my friends are in the north. KING RICHARD. Cold friends to me. What do they in the north, When they should serve their sovereign in the west? STANLEY. They have not been commanded, mighty King. Pleaseth your Majesty to give me leave, I’ll muster up my friends, and meet your Grace Where and what time your Majesty shall please. KING RICHARD. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond. But I’ll not trust thee. STANLEY. Most mighty sovereign, You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful. I never was nor never will be false. KING RICHARD. Go then, and muster men, but leave behind Your son George Stanley. Look your heart be firm, Or else his head’s assurance is but frail. STANLEY. So deal with him as I prove true to you. [_Exit._] Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, As I by friends am well advertised, Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate, Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother, With many more confederates, are in arms. Enter another Messenger. SECOND MESSENGER. In Kent, my liege, the Guilfords are in arms, And every hour more competitors Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong. Enter another Messenger. THIRD MESSENGER. My lord, the army of great Buckingham— KING RICHARD. Out on you, owls! Nothing but songs of death? [_He strikes him._] There, take thou that till thou bring better news. THIRD MESSENGER. The news I have to tell your Majesty Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters, Buckingham’s army is dispersed and scattered, And he himself wandered away alone, No man knows whither. KING RICHARD. I cry thee mercy. There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. Hath any well-advised friend proclaimed Reward to him that brings the traitor in? THIRD MESSENGER. Such proclamation hath been made, my lord. Enter another Messenger. FOURTH MESSENGER. Sir Thomas Lovell and Lord Marquess Dorset, ’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. But this good comfort bring I to your Highness: The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest. Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks If they were his assistants, yea or no?— Who answered him they came from Buckingham Upon his party. He, mistrusting them, Hoised sail, and made his course again for Brittany. KING RICHARD. March on, march on, since we are up in arms, If not to fight with foreign enemies, Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. Enter Catesby. CATESBY. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken. That is the best news. That the Earl of Richmond Is with a mighty power landed at Milford Is colder tidings, yet they must be told. KING RICHARD. Away towards Salisbury! While we reason here A royal battle might be won and lost. Someone take order Buckingham be brought To Salisbury; the rest march on with me. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Room in Lord Stanley’s house Enter Stanley Earl of Derby and Sir Christopher Urswick. STANLEY. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me: That in the sty of the most deadly boar My son George Stanley is franked up in hold; If I revolt, off goes young George’s head; The fear of that holds off my present aid. So get thee gone. Commend me to thy lord; Withal say that the Queen hath heartily consented He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter. But tell me, where is princely Richmond now? CHRISTOPHER. At Pembroke, or at Ha’rfordwest in Wales. STANLEY. What men of name resort to him? CHRISTOPHER. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier; Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley, Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt, And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew, And many other of great name and worth; And towards London do they bend their power, If by the way they be not fought withal. STANLEY. Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand. My letter will resolve him of my mind. Farewell. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Salisbury. An open place Enter Sheriff and Halberds, with Buckingham, led to execution. BUCKINGHAM. Will not King Richard let me speak with him? SHERIFF. No, my good lord; therefore be patient. BUCKINGHAM. Hastings, and Edward’s children, Grey, and Rivers, Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, Vaughan, and all that have miscarried By underhand, corrupted foul injustice, If that your moody discontented souls Do through the clouds behold this present hour, Even for revenge mock my destruction. This is All-Souls’ day, fellow, is it not? SHERIFF. It is. BUCKINGHAM. Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday. This is the day which, in King Edward’s time, I wished might fall on me when I was found False to his children and his wife’s allies. This is the day wherein I wished to fall By the false faith of him whom most I trusted. This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul Is the determined respite of my wrongs. That high All-Seer which I dallied with Hath turned my feigned prayer on my head And given in earnest what I begged in jest. Thus doth He force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points in their masters’ bosoms. Thus Margaret’s curse falls heavy on my neck: “When he,” quoth she, “shall split thy heart with sorrow, Remember Margaret was a prophetess.” Come lead me, officers, to the block of shame; Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame. [_Exit with Officers._] SCENE II. Plain near Tamworth Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum and colours. RICHMOND. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we marched on without impediment; And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoiled your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowelled bosoms—this foul swine Is now even in the centre of this isle, Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn. From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march. In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war. OXFORD. Every man’s conscience is a thousand men, To fight against that guilty homicide. HERBERT. I doubt not but his friends will turn to us. BLUNT. He hath no friends but what are friends for fear, Which in his dearest need will fly from him. RICHMOND. All for our vantage. Then in God’s name, march. True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Bosworth Field Enter King Richard in arms, with Norfolk, Ratcliffe and the Earl of Surrey with others. KING RICHARD. Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field. My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad? SURREY. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. KING RICHARD. My lord of Norfolk. NORFOLK. Here, most gracious liege. KING RICHARD. Norfolk, we must have knocks, ha, must we not? NORFOLK. We must both give and take, my loving lord. KING RICHARD. Up with my tent! Here will I lie tonight. But where tomorrow? Well, all’s one for that. Who hath descried the number of the traitors? NORFOLK. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. KING RICHARD. Why, our battalia trebles that account. Besides, the King’s name is a tower of strength Which they upon the adverse faction want. Up with the tent! Come, noble gentlemen, Let us survey the vantage of the ground. Call for some men of sound direction; Let’s lack no discipline, make no delay, For, lords, tomorrow is a busy day. [_The tent is now ready. Exeunt._] Enter Richmond, Sir William Brandon, Oxford, Herbert, Blunt, and others who pitch Richmond’s tent. RICHMOND. The weary sun hath made a golden set, And by the bright track of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day tomorrow. Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard. Give me some ink and paper in my tent; I’ll draw the form and model of our battle, Limit each leader to his several charge, And part in just proportion our small power. My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon, And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me. The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment.— Good Captain Blunt, bear my goodnight to him, And by the second hour in the morning Desire the Earl to see me in my tent. Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me. Where is Lord Stanley quartered, do you know? BLUNT. Unless I have mista’en his colours much, Which well I am assured I have not done, His regiment lies half a mile at least South from the mighty power of the King. RICHMOND. If without peril it be possible, Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with him, And give him from me this most needful note. BLUNT. Upon my life, my lord, I’ll undertake it; And so God give you quiet rest tonight. RICHMOND. Good night, good Captain Blunt. [_Exit Blunt._] Come, gentlemen, Let us consult upon tomorrow’s business; Into my tent. The dew is raw and cold. [_Richmond, Brandon Herbert, and Oxford withdraw into the tent. The others exeunt._] Enter to his tent, King Richard, Ratcliffe, Norfolk and Catesby with Soldiers. KING RICHARD. What is’t o’clock? CATESBY. It’s supper time, my lord. It’s nine o’clock. KING RICHARD. I will not sup tonight. Give me some ink and paper. What, is my beaver easier than it was? And all my armour laid into my tent? CATESBY. It is, my liege, and all things are in readiness. KING RICHARD. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge; Use careful watch; choose trusty sentinels. NORFOLK. I go, my lord. KING RICHARD. Stir with the lark tomorrow, gentle Norfolk. NORFOLK. I warrant you, my lord. [_Exit._] KING RICHARD. Catesby! CATESBY. My lord? KING RICHARD. Send out a pursuivant-at-arms To Stanley’s regiment. Bid him bring his power Before sunrising, lest his son George fall Into the blind cave of eternal night. [_Exit Catesby._] Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch. Saddle white Surrey for the field tomorrow. Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. Ratcliffe! RATCLIFFE. My lord? KING RICHARD. Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland? RATCLIFFE. Thomas the Earl of Surrey and himself, Much about cockshut time, from troop to troop Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers. KING RICHARD. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine. I have not that alacrity of spirit Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have. Set it down. Is ink and paper ready? RATCLIFFE. It is, my lord. KING RICHARD. Bid my guard watch; leave me. Ratcliffe, about the mid of night come to my tent And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. [_Exit Ratcliffe. Richard withdraws into his tent; attendant soldiers guard it_.] Enter Stanley Earl of Derby to Richmond in his tent. STANLEY. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm! RICHMOND. All comfort that the dark night can afford Be to thy person, noble father-in-law. Tell me, how fares our loving mother? STANLEY. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, Who prays continually for Richmond’s good. So much for that. The silent hours steal on, And flaky darkness breaks within the east. In brief, for so the season bids us be, Prepare thy battle early in the morning, And put thy fortune to the arbitrement Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war. I, as I may—that which I would I cannot— With best advantage will deceive the time, And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms. But on thy side I may not be too forward, Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, Be executed in his father’s sight. Farewell; the leisure and the fearful time Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love And ample interchange of sweet discourse, Which so-long-sundered friends should dwell upon. God give us leisure for these rites of love! Once more, adieu. Be valiant, and speed well. RICHMOND. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment. I’ll strive with troubled thoughts to take a nap, Lest leaden slumber peise me down tomorrow When I should mount with wings of victory. Once more, good night, kind lords and gentlemen. [_All but Richmond leave his tent._] [_Kneels_.] O Thou, whose captain I account myself, Look on my forces with a gracious eye; Put in their hands Thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall Th’ usurping helmets of our adversaries; Make us Thy ministers of chastisement, That we may praise Thee in the victory. To Thee I do commend my watchful soul Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes. Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still! [_Sleeps._] Enter the Ghost of young Prince Edward, son to Harry the Sixth. GHOST OF EDWARD. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy on thy soul tomorrow. Think how thou stabbed’st me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury; despair therefore, and die! [_To Richmond._] Be cheerful, Richmond, for the wronged souls Of butchered princes fight in thy behalf. King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghost of Henry the Sixth. GHOST OF HENRY. [_To King Richard._] When I was mortal, my anointed body By thee was punched full of deadly holes. Think on the Tower and me. Despair, and die; Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die. [_To Richmond._] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror. Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be King, Doth comfort thee in thy sleep. Live, and flourish! [_Exit._] Enter the Ghost of Clarence. GHOST OF CLARENCE. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy in thy soul tomorrow, I, that was washed to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed to death. Tomorrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die! [_To Richmond._] Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster, The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee. Good angels guard thy battle; live, and flourish. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Grey and Vaughan. GHOST OF RIVERS. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy in thy soul tomorrow, Rivers that died at Pomfret. Despair and die! GHOST OF GREY. [_To King Richard._] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair! GHOST OF VAUGHAN. [_To King Richard._] Think upon Vaughan, and with guilty fear Let fall thy lance. Despair and die! ALL THREE. [_To Richmond._] Awake, and think our wrongs in Richard’s bosom Will conquer him. Awake, and win the day. [_Exeunt._] Enter the Ghost of Hastings. GHOST OF HASTINGS. [_To King Richard._] Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake, And in a bloody battle end thy days. Think on Lord Hastings. Despair and die! [_To Richmond._] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake. Arm, fight, and conquer for fair England’s sake. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes. GHOSTS OF PRINCES. [_To King Richard._] Dream on thy cousins smothered in the Tower. Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death; Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair and die. [_To Richmond._] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy; Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy. Live, and beget a happy race of kings; Edward’s unhappy sons do bid thee flourish. [_Exeunt._] Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne, his wife. GHOST OF ANNE. [_To King Richard._] Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife, That never slept a quiet hour with thee, Now fills thy sleep with perturbations. Tomorrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair and die! [_To Richmond._] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep; Dream of success and happy victory. Thy adversary’s wife doth pray for thee. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghost of Buckingham. GHOST OF BUCKINGHAM. [_To King Richard._] The first was I that helped thee to the crown; The last was I that felt thy tyranny. O, in the battle think on Buckingham, And die in terror of thy guiltiness. Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death. Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath. [_To Richmond._] I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid, But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismayed. God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side; And Richard fall in height of all his pride. [_Exit._] [_King Richard starts up out of his dream._] KING RICHARD. Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds! Have mercy, Jesu!—Soft! I did but dream. O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! The lights burn blue; it is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by. Richard loves Richard, that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am. Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why, Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself? Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good That I myself have done unto myself? O, no, alas, I rather hate myself For hateful deeds committed by myself. I am a villain. Yet I lie, I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree; Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree; All several sins, all used in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all “Guilty, guilty!” I shall despair. There is no creature loves me, And if I die no soul will pity me. And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself? Methought the souls of all that I had murdered Came to my tent, and everyone did threat Tomorrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter Ratcliffe. RATCLIFFE. My lord! KING RICHARD. Zounds! Who’s there? RATCLIFFE. Ratcliffe, my lord; ’tis I. The early village cock Hath twice done salutation to the morn; Your friends are up and buckle on their armour. KING RICHARD. O Ratcliffe, I have dreamed a fearful dream! What think’st thou, will our friends prove all true? RATCLIFFE. No doubt, my lord. KING RICHARD. O Ratcliffe, I fear, I fear! RATCLIFFE. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows. KING RICHARD. By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers Armed in proof and led by shallow Richmond. ’Tis not yet near day. Come, go with me. Under our tents I’ll play the eavesdropper, To see if any mean to shrink from me. [_Exeunt Richard and Ratcliffe._] Enter the Lords to Richmond in his tent. LORDS. Good morrow, Richmond. RICHMOND. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen, That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here. LORDS. How have you slept, my lord? RICHMOND. The sweetest sleep and fairest-boding dreams That ever entered in a drowsy head Have I since your departure had, my lords. Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murdered Came to my tent and cried on victory. I promise you, my heart is very jocund In the remembrance of so fair a dream. How far into the morning is it, lords? LORDS. Upon the stroke of four. RICHMOND. Why, then ’tis time to arm and give direction. His oration to his soldiers. More than I have said, loving countrymen, The leisure and enforcement of the time Forbids to dwell upon. Yet remember this: God, and our good cause, fight upon our side; The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, Like high-reared bulwarks, stand before our faces. Richard except, those whom we fight against Had rather have us win than him they follow. For what is he they follow? Truly, gentlemen, A bloody tyrant and a homicide; One raised in blood, and one in blood established; One that made means to come by what he hath, And slaughtered those that were the means to help him; A base foul stone, made precious by the foil Of England’s chair, where he is falsely set; One that hath ever been God’s enemy. Then, if you fight against God’s enemy, God will, in justice, ward you as his soldiers; If you do sweat to put a tyrant down, You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain; If you do fight against your country’s foes, Your country’s fat shall pay your pains the hire; If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors; If you do free your children from the sword, Your children’s children quits it in your age. Then, in the name of God and all these rights, Advance your standards, draw your willing swords. For me, the ransom of my bold attempt Shall be this cold corpse on the earth’s cold face; But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part thereof. Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully! God, and Saint George! Richmond and victory! [_Exeunt._] Enter King Richard, Ratcliffe and Soldiers. KING RICHARD. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond? RATCLIFFE. That he was never trained up in arms. KING RICHARD. He said the truth. And what said Surrey then? RATCLIFFE. He smiled, and said, “The better for our purpose.” KING RICHARD. He was in the right, and so indeed it is. [_The clock striketh._] Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. Who saw the sun today? RATCLIFFE. Not I, my lord. KING RICHARD. Then he disdains to shine, for by the book He should have braved the east an hour ago. A black day will it be to somebody. Ratcliffe! RATCLIFFE. My lord? KING RICHARD. The sun will not be seen today! The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. I would these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine today? Why, what is that to me More than to Richmond? For the selfsame heaven That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. Enter Norfolk. NORFOLK. Arm, arm, my lord. The foe vaunts in the field. KING RICHARD. Come, bustle, bustle! Caparison my horse. Call up Lord Stanley; bid him bring his power. I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, And thus my battle shall be ordered: My foreward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and foot; Our archers shall be placed in the midst. John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey, Shall have the leading of this foot and horse. They thus directed, we will follow In the main battle, whose puissance on either side Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st thou, Norfolk? NORFOLK. A good direction, warlike sovereign. [_He sheweth him a paper._] This found I on my tent this morning. KING RICHARD. [_Reads_.] “Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold. For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.” A thing devised by the enemy. Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge. Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe. Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. March on. Join bravely. Let us to it pell-mell, If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell. His oration to his army. What shall I say more than I have inferred? Remember whom you are to cope withal, A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants, Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate adventures and assured destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest; You having lands, and blessed with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, Long kept in Brittany at our mother’s cost? A milksop, one that never in his life Felt so much cold as over-shoes in snow? Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again, Lash hence these overweening rags of France, These famished beggars, weary of their lives, Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means, poor rats, had hanged themselves. If we be conquered, let men conquer us, And not these bastard Bretons, whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobbed, and thumped, And in record left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands? Lie with our wives, Ravish our daughters? [_Drum afar off._] Hark, I hear their drum. Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood! Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! Enter a Messenger. What says Lord Stanley? Will he bring his power? MESSENGER. My lord, he doth deny to come. KING RICHARD. Off with his son George’s head! NORFOLK. My lord, the enemy is past the marsh. After the battle let George Stanley die. KING RICHARD. A thousand hearts are great within my bosom. Advance our standards! Set upon our foes! Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! Upon them! Victory sits on our helms. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Another part of the Field Alarum. Excursions. Enter Norfolk and Soldiers; to him Catesby. CATESBY. Rescue, my lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue! The King enacts more wonders than a man, Daring an opposite to every danger. His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost! [_Exeunt Norfolk and Soldiers._] Alarum. Enter King Richard. KING RICHARD. A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! CATESBY. Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to a horse. KING RICHARD. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die. I think there be six Richmonds in the field; Five have I slain today instead of him. A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Another part of the Field Alarum. Enter King Richard and Richmond. They fight. Richard is slain. Then retreat being sounded. Richmond exits, and Richard’s body is carried off. Flourish. Enter Richmond, Stanley Earl of Derby, bearing the crown, with other Lords and Soldiers. RICHMOND. God and your arms be praised, victorious friends! The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead. STANLEY. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee! Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I plucked off, to grace thy brows withal. Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. RICHMOND. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all! But tell me, is young George Stanley living? STANLEY. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town, Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us. RICHMOND. What men of name are slain on either side? STANLEY. John, Duke of Norfolk, Walter, Lord Ferrers, Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon. RICHMOND. Inter their bodies as becomes their births. Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled That in submission will return to us. And then, as we have ta’en the sacrament, We will unite the white rose and the red. Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, That long have frowned upon their enmity. What traitor hears me and says not Amen? England hath long been mad, and scarred herself: The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood; The father rashly slaughtered his own son; The son, compelled, been butcher to the sire. All this divided York and Lancaster, Divided in their dire division. O, now let Richmond and Elizabeth, The true succeeders of each royal house, By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together, And let their heirs, God, if Thy will be so, Enrich the time to come with smoothed-faced peace, With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days. Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, That would reduce these bloody days again, And make poor England weep in streams of blood. Let them not live to taste this land’s increase, That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace. Now civil wounds are stopped, peace lives again. That she may long live here, God say Amen. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET Contents THE PROLOGUE. ACT I Scene I. A public place. Scene II. A Street. Scene III. Room in Capulet’s House. Scene IV. A Street. Scene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House. ACT II CHORUS. Scene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden. Scene II. Capulet’s Garden. Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Scene IV. A Street. Scene V. Capulet’s Garden. Scene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. ACT III Scene I. A public Place. Scene II. A Room in Capulet’s House. Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell. Scene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House. Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden. ACT IV Scene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Scene II. Hall in Capulet’s House. Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber. Scene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House. Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed. ACT V Scene I. Mantua. A Street. Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets. Dramatis Personæ ESCALUS, Prince of Verona. MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo. PARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince. Page to Paris. MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets. LADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague. ROMEO, son to Montague. BENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo. ABRAM, servant to Montague. BALTHASAR, servant to Romeo. CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues. LADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet. JULIET, daughter to Capulet. TYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet. CAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man. NURSE to Juliet. PETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse. SAMPSON, servant to Capulet. GREGORY, servant to Capulet. Servants. FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan. FRIAR JOHN, of the same Order. An Apothecary. CHORUS. Three Musicians. An Officer. Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants. SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the Fifth Act, at Mantua. THE PROLOGUE Enter Chorus. CHORUS. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, And the continuance of their parents’ rage, Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove, Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage; The which, if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. [_Exit._] ACT I SCENE I. A public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers. SAMPSON. Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals. GREGORY. No, for then we should be colliers. SAMPSON. I mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw. GREGORY. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar. SAMPSON. I strike quickly, being moved. GREGORY. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. SAMPSON. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. GREGORY. To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st away. SAMPSON. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s. GREGORY. That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall. SAMPSON. True, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall. GREGORY. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men. SAMPSON. ’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads. GREGORY. The heads of the maids? SAMPSON. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt. GREGORY. They must take it in sense that feel it. SAMPSON. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh. GREGORY. ’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues. Enter Abram and Balthasar. SAMPSON. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee. GREGORY. How? Turn thy back and run? SAMPSON. Fear me not. GREGORY. No, marry; I fear thee! SAMPSON. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. GREGORY. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. SAMPSON. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to them if they bear it. ABRAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? SAMPSON. I do bite my thumb, sir. ABRAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? SAMPSON. Is the law of our side if I say ay? GREGORY. No. SAMPSON. No sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. GREGORY. Do you quarrel, sir? ABRAM. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. SAMPSON. But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you. ABRAM. No better. SAMPSON. Well, sir. Enter Benvolio. GREGORY. Say better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen. SAMPSON. Yes, better, sir. ABRAM. You lie. SAMPSON. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow. [_They fight._] BENVOLIO. Part, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do. [_Beats down their swords._] Enter Tybalt. TYBALT. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death. BENVOLIO. I do but keep the peace, put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. TYBALT. What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: Have at thee, coward. [_They fight._] Enter three or four Citizens with clubs. FIRST CITIZEN. Clubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues! Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet. CAPULET. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho! LADY CAPULET. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword? CAPULET. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Montague and his Lady Montague. MONTAGUE. Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go. LADY MONTAGUE. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants. PRINCE. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,— Will they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground And hear the sentence of your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets, And made Verona’s ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate. If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time all the rest depart away: You, Capulet, shall go along with me, And Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our farther pleasure in this case, To old Free-town, our common judgement-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt, Citizens and Servants._] MONTAGUE. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? BENVOLIO. Here were the servants of your adversary And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. I drew to part them, in the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d, Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears, He swung about his head, and cut the winds, Who nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows Came more and more, and fought on part and part, Till the Prince came, who parted either part. LADY MONTAGUE. O where is Romeo, saw you him today? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. BENVOLIO. Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun Peer’d forth the golden window of the east, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad, Where underneath the grove of sycamore That westward rooteth from this city side, So early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made, but he was ware of me, And stole into the covert of the wood. I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursu’d my humour, not pursuing his, And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me. MONTAGUE. Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew, Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; But all so soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the farthest east begin to draw The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed, Away from light steals home my heavy son, And private in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove. BENVOLIO. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? MONTAGUE. I neither know it nor can learn of him. BENVOLIO. Have you importun’d him by any means? MONTAGUE. Both by myself and many other friends; But he, his own affections’ counsellor, Is to himself—I will not say how true— But to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know. Enter Romeo. BENVOLIO. See, where he comes. So please you step aside; I’ll know his grievance or be much denied. MONTAGUE. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away, [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._] BENVOLIO. Good morrow, cousin. ROMEO. Is the day so young? BENVOLIO. But new struck nine. ROMEO. Ay me, sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? BENVOLIO. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours? ROMEO. Not having that which, having, makes them short. BENVOLIO. In love? ROMEO. Out. BENVOLIO. Of love? ROMEO. Out of her favour where I am in love. BENVOLIO. Alas that love so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof. ROMEO. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love: Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? BENVOLIO. No coz, I rather weep. ROMEO. Good heart, at what? BENVOLIO. At thy good heart’s oppression. ROMEO. Why such is love’s transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz. [_Going._] BENVOLIO. Soft! I will go along: And if you leave me so, you do me wrong. ROMEO. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here. This is not Romeo, he’s some other where. BENVOLIO. Tell me in sadness who is that you love? ROMEO. What, shall I groan and tell thee? BENVOLIO. Groan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who. ROMEO. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will, A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. BENVOLIO. I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d. ROMEO. A right good markman, and she’s fair I love. BENVOLIO. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. ROMEO. Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit; And in strong proof of chastity well arm’d, From love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d. She will not stay the siege of loving terms Nor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O she’s rich in beauty, only poor That when she dies, with beauty dies her store. BENVOLIO. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste? ROMEO. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty starv’d with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair. She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead, that live to tell it now. BENVOLIO. Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her. ROMEO. O teach me how I should forget to think. BENVOLIO. By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties. ROMEO. ’Tis the way To call hers, exquisite, in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows, Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair; He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair? Farewell, thou canst not teach me to forget. BENVOLIO. I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Street. Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant. CAPULET. But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace. PARIS. Of honourable reckoning are you both, And pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long. But now my lord, what say you to my suit? CAPULET. But saying o’er what I have said before. My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. PARIS. Younger than she are happy mothers made. CAPULET. And too soon marr’d are those so early made. The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she, She is the hopeful lady of my earth: But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, My will to her consent is but a part; And she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice. This night I hold an old accustom’d feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love, and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor house look to behold this night Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light: Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well apparell’d April on the heel Of limping winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see, And like her most whose merit most shall be: Which, on more view of many, mine, being one, May stand in number, though in reckoning none. Come, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._] SERVANT. Find them out whose names are written here! It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time! Enter Benvolio and Romeo. BENVOLIO. Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning, One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another’s languish: Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. ROMEO. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. BENVOLIO. For what, I pray thee? ROMEO. For your broken shin. BENVOLIO. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? ROMEO. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is: Shut up in prison, kept without my food, Whipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow. SERVANT. God gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read? ROMEO. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. SERVANT. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see? ROMEO. Ay, If I know the letters and the language. SERVANT. Ye say honestly, rest you merry! ROMEO. Stay, fellow; I can read. [_He reads the letter._] _Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Utruvio; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline and Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena. _ A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come? SERVANT. Up. ROMEO. Whither to supper? SERVANT. To our house. ROMEO. Whose house? SERVANT. My master’s. ROMEO. Indeed I should have ask’d you that before. SERVANT. Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet, and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry. [_Exit._] BENVOLIO. At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st; With all the admired beauties of Verona. Go thither and with unattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. ROMEO. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire; And these who, often drown’d, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars. One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun. BENVOLIO. Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois’d with herself in either eye: But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d Your lady’s love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now shows best. ROMEO. I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. LADY CAPULET. Nurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me. NURSE. Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird! God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet! Enter Juliet. JULIET. How now, who calls? NURSE. Your mother. JULIET. Madam, I am here. What is your will? LADY CAPULET. This is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again, I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel. Thou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age. NURSE. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. LADY CAPULET. She’s not fourteen. NURSE. I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth, And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four, She is not fourteen. How long is it now To Lammas-tide? LADY CAPULET. A fortnight and odd days. NURSE. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!— Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me. But as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen; That shall she, marry; I remember it well. ’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—, Of all the days of the year, upon that day: For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall; My lord and you were then at Mantua: Nay, I do bear a brain. But as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug! Shake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years; For then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood She could have run and waddled all about; For even the day before she broke her brow, And then my husband,—God be with his soul! A was a merry man,—took up the child: ‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame, The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’. To see now how a jest shall come about. I warrant, and I should live a thousand years, I never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he; And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’ LADY CAPULET. Enough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace. NURSE. Yes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh, To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’; And yet I warrant it had upon it brow A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone; A perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. ‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’. JULIET. And stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I. NURSE. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d: And I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. LADY CAPULET. Marry, that marry is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married? JULIET. It is an honour that I dream not of. NURSE. An honour! Were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat. LADY CAPULET. Well, think of marriage now: younger than you, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my count I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief; The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. NURSE. A man, young lady! Lady, such a man As all the world—why he’s a man of wax. LADY CAPULET. Verona’s summer hath not such a flower. NURSE. Nay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower. LADY CAPULET. What say you, can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast; Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face, And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen. Examine every married lineament, And see how one another lends content; And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies, Find written in the margent of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him, only lacks a cover: The fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him, making yourself no less. NURSE. No less, nay bigger. Women grow by men. LADY CAPULET. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love? JULIET. I’ll look to like, if looking liking move: But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight. LADY CAPULET. We follow thee. [_Exit Servant._] Juliet, the County stays. NURSE. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers; Torch-bearers and others. ROMEO. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology? BENVOLIO. The date is out of such prolixity: We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance: But let them measure us by what they will, We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone. ROMEO. Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy I will bear the light. MERCUTIO. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. ROMEO. Not I, believe me, you have dancing shoes, With nimble soles, I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. MERCUTIO. You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings, And soar with them above a common bound. ROMEO. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers, and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love’s heavy burden do I sink. MERCUTIO. And, to sink in it, should you burden love; Too great oppression for a tender thing. ROMEO. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn. MERCUTIO. If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._] A visor for a visor. What care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me. BENVOLIO. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs. ROMEO. A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart, Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels; For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase, I’ll be a candle-holder and look on, The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done. MERCUTIO. Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word: If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire Or save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho. ROMEO. Nay, that’s not so. MERCUTIO. I mean sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, light lights by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. ROMEO. And we mean well in going to this mask; But ’tis no wit to go. MERCUTIO. Why, may one ask? ROMEO. I dreamt a dream tonight. MERCUTIO. And so did I. ROMEO. Well what was yours? MERCUTIO. That dreamers often lie. ROMEO. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. MERCUTIO. O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Over men’s noses as they lie asleep: Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, of the smallest spider’s web; The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams; Her whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film; Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid: Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love; O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight; O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail, Tickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice: Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs, Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes: This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them, and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage: This is she,— ROMEO. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, Thou talk’st of nothing. MERCUTIO. True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south. BENVOLIO. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves: Supper is done, and we shall come too late. ROMEO. I fear too early: for my mind misgives Some consequence yet hanging in the stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night’s revels; and expire the term Of a despised life, clos’d in my breast By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But he that hath the steerage of my course Direct my suit. On, lusty gentlemen! BENVOLIO. Strike, drum. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House. Musicians waiting. Enter Servants. FIRST SERVANT. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher! SECOND SERVANT. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing. FIRST SERVANT. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan! SECOND SERVANT. Ay, boy, ready. FIRST SERVANT. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the great chamber. SECOND SERVANT. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. [_Exeunt._] Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers. CAPULET. Welcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes Unplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you. Ah my mistresses, which of you all Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, She I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now? Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day That I have worn a visor, and could tell A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear, Such as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone, You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls. [_Music plays, and they dance._] More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well. Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet, For you and I are past our dancing days; How long is’t now since last yourself and I Were in a mask? CAPULET’S COUSIN. By’r Lady, thirty years. CAPULET. What, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much: ’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecost as quickly as it will, Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d. CAPULET’S COUSIN. ’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. CAPULET. Will you tell me that? His son was but a ward two years ago. ROMEO. What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? SERVANT. I know not, sir. ROMEO. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night. TYBALT. This by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. CAPULET. Why how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so? TYBALT. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe; A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night. CAPULET. Young Romeo, is it? TYBALT. ’Tis he, that villain Romeo. CAPULET. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone, A bears him like a portly gentleman; And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth. I would not for the wealth of all the town Here in my house do him disparagement. Therefore be patient, take no note of him, It is my will; the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. TYBALT. It fits when such a villain is a guest: I’ll not endure him. CAPULET. He shall be endur’d. What, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to; Am I the master here, or you? Go to. You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul, You’ll make a mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man! TYBALT. Why, uncle, ’tis a shame. CAPULET. Go to, go to! You are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what. You must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time. Well said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go: Be quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame! I’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts. TYBALT. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall. [_Exit._] ROMEO. [_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. JULIET. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. ROMEO. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? JULIET. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. ROMEO. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. JULIET. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. ROMEO. Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d. [_Kissing her._] JULIET. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. ROMEO. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d! Give me my sin again. JULIET. You kiss by the book. NURSE. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. ROMEO. What is her mother? NURSE. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. I nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal. I tell you, he that can lay hold of her Shall have the chinks. ROMEO. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! My life is my foe’s debt. BENVOLIO. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. ROMEO. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest. CAPULET. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone, We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all; I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night. More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late, I’ll to my rest. [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._] JULIET. Come hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman? NURSE. The son and heir of old Tiberio. JULIET. What’s he that now is going out of door? NURSE. Marry, that I think be young Petruchio. JULIET. What’s he that follows here, that would not dance? NURSE. I know not. JULIET. Go ask his name. If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed. NURSE. His name is Romeo, and a Montague, The only son of your great enemy. JULIET. My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy. NURSE. What’s this? What’s this? JULIET. A rhyme I learn’d even now Of one I danc’d withal. [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._] NURSE. Anon, anon! Come let’s away, the strangers all are gone. [_Exeunt._] ACT II Enter Chorus. CHORUS. Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan’d for and would die, With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov’d, and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe suppos’d he must complain, And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks: Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear; And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new beloved anywhere. But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. [_Exit._] SCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._] Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. BENVOLIO. Romeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo! MERCUTIO. He is wise, And on my life hath stol’n him home to bed. BENVOLIO. He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall: Call, good Mercutio. MERCUTIO. Nay, I’ll conjure too. Romeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh, Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove; Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname for her purblind son and heir, Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid. He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, By her high forehead and her scarlet lip, By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy likeness thou appear to us. BENVOLIO. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. MERCUTIO. This cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle, Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it, and conjur’d it down; That were some spite. My invocation Is fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name, I conjure only but to raise up him. BENVOLIO. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees To be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. MERCUTIO. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. O Romeo, that she were, O that she were An open-arse and thou a poperin pear! Romeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed. This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come, shall we go? BENVOLIO. Go then; for ’tis in vain To seek him here that means not to be found. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Capulet’s Garden. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Juliet appears above at a window. But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my lady, O it is my love! O, that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses, I will answer it. I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek. JULIET. Ay me. ROMEO. She speaks. O speak again bright angel, for thou art As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air. JULIET. O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. ROMEO. [_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? JULIET. ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O be some other name. What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. ROMEO. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. JULIET. What man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night So stumblest on my counsel? ROMEO. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word. JULIET. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? ROMEO. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike. JULIET. How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. ROMEO. With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. JULIET. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. ROMEO. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. JULIET. I would not for the world they saw thee here. ROMEO. I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. JULIET. By whose direction found’st thou out this place? ROMEO. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise. JULIET. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but farewell compliment. Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay, And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries, They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light: But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware, My true-love passion; therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,— JULIET. O swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. ROMEO. What shall I swear by? JULIET. Do not swear at all. Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I’ll believe thee. ROMEO. If my heart’s dear love,— JULIET. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight; It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say “It lightens.” Sweet, good night. This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast. ROMEO. O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? ROMEO. Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine. JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again. ROMEO. Would’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? JULIET. But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have; My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu. [_Nurse calls within._] Anon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit._] ROMEO. O blessed, blessed night. I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering sweet to be substantial. Enter Juliet above. JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world. NURSE. [_Within._] Madam. JULIET. I come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee,— NURSE. [_Within._] Madam. JULIET. By and by I come— To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief. Tomorrow will I send. ROMEO. So thrive my soul,— JULIET. A thousand times good night. [_Exit._] ROMEO. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. [_Retiring slowly._] Re-enter Juliet, above. JULIET. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again. Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud, Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my Romeo’s name. ROMEO. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears. JULIET. Romeo. ROMEO. My nyas? JULIET. What o’clock tomorrow Shall I send to thee? ROMEO. By the hour of nine. JULIET. I will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. ROMEO. Let me stand here till thou remember it. JULIET. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company. ROMEO. And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. JULIET. ’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone, And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. ROMEO. I would I were thy bird. JULIET. Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [_Exit._] ROMEO. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast. Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest. Hence will I to my ghostly Sire’s cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket. FRIAR LAWRENCE. The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s fiery wheels Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry, I must upfill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. The earth that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb; What is her burying grave, that is her womb: And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find. Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some, and yet all different. O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities. For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. Virtue itself turns vice being misapplied, And vice sometime’s by action dignified. Enter Romeo. Within the infant rind of this weak flower Poison hath residence, and medicine power: For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will; And where the worser is predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. ROMEO. Good morrow, father. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper’d head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art uprous’d with some distemperature; Or if not so, then here I hit it right, Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight. ROMEO. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. FRIAR LAWRENCE. God pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline? ROMEO. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No. I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s my good son. But where hast thou been then? ROMEO. I’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again. I have been feasting with mine enemy, Where on a sudden one hath wounded me That’s by me wounded. Both our remedies Within thy help and holy physic lies. I bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. ROMEO. Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet. As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; And all combin’d, save what thou must combine By holy marriage. When, and where, and how We met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow, I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, That thou consent to marry us today. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! How much salt water thrown away in waste, To season love, that of it doth not taste. The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears. Lo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet. If ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline, And art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then, Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men. ROMEO. Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline. FRIAR LAWRENCE. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. ROMEO. And bad’st me bury love. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Not in a grave To lay one in, another out to have. ROMEO. I pray thee chide me not, her I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow. The other did not so. FRIAR LAWRENCE. O, she knew well Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell. But come young waverer, come go with me, In one respect I’ll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households’ rancour to pure love. ROMEO. O let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. MERCUTIO. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight? BENVOLIO. Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man. MERCUTIO. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad. BENVOLIO. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s house. MERCUTIO. A challenge, on my life. BENVOLIO. Romeo will answer it. MERCUTIO. Any man that can write may answer a letter. BENVOLIO. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared. MERCUTIO. Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; run through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft. And is he a man to encounter Tybalt? BENVOLIO. Why, what is Tybalt? MERCUTIO. More than Prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion. He rests his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado, the punto reverso, the hay. BENVOLIO. The what? MERCUTIO. The pox of such antic lisping, affecting phantasies; these new tuners of accent. By Jesu, a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good whore. Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardon-me’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O their bones, their bones! Enter Romeo. BENVOLIO. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo! MERCUTIO. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench,—marry, she had a better love to berhyme her: Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bonjour! There’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. ROMEO. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? MERCUTIO. The slip sir, the slip; can you not conceive? ROMEO. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. MERCUTIO. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. ROMEO. Meaning, to curtsy. MERCUTIO. Thou hast most kindly hit it. ROMEO. A most courteous exposition. MERCUTIO. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. ROMEO. Pink for flower. MERCUTIO. Right. ROMEO. Why, then is my pump well flowered. MERCUTIO. Sure wit, follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing, solely singular. ROMEO. O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness! MERCUTIO. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint. ROMEO. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match. MERCUTIO. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done. For thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits, than I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose? ROMEO. Thou wast never with me for anything, when thou wast not there for the goose. MERCUTIO. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. ROMEO. Nay, good goose, bite not. MERCUTIO. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce. ROMEO. And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose? MERCUTIO. O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad. ROMEO. I stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. MERCUTIO. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. BENVOLIO. Stop there, stop there. MERCUTIO. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. BENVOLIO. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. MERCUTIO. O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short, for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. Enter Nurse and Peter. ROMEO. Here’s goodly gear! A sail, a sail! MERCUTIO. Two, two; a shirt and a smock. NURSE. Peter! PETER. Anon. NURSE. My fan, Peter. MERCUTIO. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face. NURSE. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. MERCUTIO. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. NURSE. Is it good-den? MERCUTIO. ’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. NURSE. Out upon you! What a man are you? ROMEO. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. NURSE. By my troth, it is well said; for himself to mar, quoth a? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo? ROMEO. I can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. NURSE. You say well. MERCUTIO. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely. NURSE. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. BENVOLIO. She will endite him to some supper. MERCUTIO. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! ROMEO. What hast thou found? MERCUTIO. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent. [_Sings._] An old hare hoar, And an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent; But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score When it hoars ere it be spent. Romeo, will you come to your father’s? We’ll to dinner thither. ROMEO. I will follow you. MERCUTIO. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady. [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._] NURSE. I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? ROMEO. A gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. NURSE. And a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and a were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks. And if I cannot, I’ll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure! PETER. I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. NURSE. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave. Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young. And therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. ROMEO. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee,— NURSE. Good heart, and i’faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman. ROMEO. What wilt thou tell her, Nurse? Thou dost not mark me. NURSE. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. ROMEO. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon, And there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains. NURSE. No truly, sir; not a penny. ROMEO. Go to; I say you shall. NURSE. This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there. ROMEO. And stay, good Nurse, behind the abbey wall. Within this hour my man shall be with thee, And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair, Which to the high topgallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell, be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains; Farewell; commend me to thy mistress. NURSE. Now God in heaven bless thee. Hark you, sir. ROMEO. What say’st thou, my dear Nurse? NURSE. Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away? ROMEO. I warrant thee my man’s as true as steel. NURSE. Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! When ’twas a little prating thing,—O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man, but I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter? ROMEO. Ay, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R. NURSE. Ah, mocker! That’s the dog’s name. R is for the—no, I know it begins with some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. ROMEO. Commend me to thy lady. NURSE. Ay, a thousand times. Peter! [_Exit Romeo._] PETER. Anon. NURSE. Before and apace. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Capulet’s Garden. Enter Juliet. JULIET. The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse, In half an hour she promised to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so. O, she is lame. Love’s heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glides than the sun’s beams, Driving back shadows over lowering hills: Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve Is three long hours, yet she is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She’d be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me. But old folks, many feign as they were dead; Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. Enter Nurse and Peter. O God, she comes. O honey Nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. NURSE. Peter, stay at the gate. [_Exit Peter._] JULIET. Now, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. NURSE. I am aweary, give me leave awhile; Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had! JULIET. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news: Nay come, I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak. NURSE. Jesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while? Do you not see that I am out of breath? JULIET. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that; Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance. Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad? NURSE. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home? JULIET. No, no. But all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? What of that? NURSE. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down. JULIET. I’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love? NURSE. Your love says like an honest gentleman, And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, And I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother? JULIET. Where is my mother? Why, she is within. Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest. ‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman, ‘Where is your mother?’ NURSE. O God’s lady dear, Are you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself. JULIET. Here’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo? NURSE. Have you got leave to go to shrift today? JULIET. I have. NURSE. Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell; There stays a husband to make you a wife. Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, They’ll be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church. I must another way, To fetch a ladder by the which your love Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burden soon at night. Go. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell. JULIET. Hie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo. FRIAR LAWRENCE. So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not. ROMEO. Amen, amen, but come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare, It is enough I may but call her mine. FRIAR LAWRENCE. These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die; like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately: long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. Enter Juliet. Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamers That idles in the wanton summer air And yet not fall; so light is vanity. JULIET. Good even to my ghostly confessor. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. JULIET. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. ROMEO. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter. JULIET. Conceit more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Come, come with me, and we will make short work, For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till holy church incorporate two in one. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. A public Place. Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants. BENVOLIO. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire: The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. MERCUTIO. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. BENVOLIO. Am I like such a fellow? MERCUTIO. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. BENVOLIO. And what to? MERCUTIO. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! BENVOLIO. And I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. MERCUTIO. The fee simple! O simple! Enter Tybalt and others. BENVOLIO. By my head, here comes the Capulets. MERCUTIO. By my heel, I care not. TYBALT. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you. MERCUTIO. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. TYBALT. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me occasion. MERCUTIO. Could you not take some occasion without giving? TYBALT. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. MERCUTIO. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! BENVOLIO. We talk here in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us. MERCUTIO. Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I. Enter Romeo. TYBALT. Well, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man. MERCUTIO. But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery. Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower; Your worship in that sense may call him man. TYBALT. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: Thou art a villain. ROMEO. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting. Villain am I none; Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not. TYBALT. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw. ROMEO. I do protest I never injur’d thee, But love thee better than thou canst devise Till thou shalt know the reason of my love. And so good Capulet, which name I tender As dearly as mine own, be satisfied. MERCUTIO. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! [_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away. Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk? TYBALT. What wouldst thou have with me? MERCUTIO. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. TYBALT. [_Drawing._] I am for you. ROMEO. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. MERCUTIO. Come, sir, your passado. [_They fight._] ROMEO. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage, Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio! [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._] MERCUTIO. I am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses. I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing? BENVOLIO. What, art thou hurt? MERCUTIO. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough. Where is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon. [_Exit Page._] ROMEO. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. MERCUTIO. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both your houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. ROMEO. I thought all for the best. MERCUTIO. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses. They have made worms’ meat of me. I have it, and soundly too. Your houses! [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._] ROMEO. This gentleman, the Prince’s near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain’d With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel. Re-enter Benvolio. BENVOLIO. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead, That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. ROMEO. This day’s black fate on mo days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end. Re-enter Tybalt. BENVOLIO. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. ROMEO. Again in triumph, and Mercutio slain? Away to heaven respective lenity, And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again That late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I, or both, must go with him. TYBALT. Thou wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence. ROMEO. This shall determine that. [_They fight; Tybalt falls._] BENVOLIO. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away! ROMEO. O, I am fortune’s fool! BENVOLIO. Why dost thou stay? [_Exit Romeo._] Enter Citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio? Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he? BENVOLIO. There lies that Tybalt. FIRST CITIZEN. Up, sir, go with me. I charge thee in the Prince’s name obey. Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others. PRINCE. Where are the vile beginners of this fray? BENVOLIO. O noble Prince, I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. LADY CAPULET. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child! O Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin. PRINCE. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? BENVOLIO. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay; Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal Your high displeasure. All this uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast, Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, ‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm beats down their fatal points, And ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled. But by and by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain’d revenge, And to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain; And as he fell did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. LADY CAPULET. He is a kinsman to the Montague. Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give; Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live. PRINCE. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio. Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? MONTAGUE. Not Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. PRINCE. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding, My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding. But I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine That you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House. Enter Juliet. JULIET. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner As Phaeton would whip you to the west And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties: or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back. Come gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night, Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess’d it; and though I am sold, Not yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse, And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. Enter Nurse, with cords. Now, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there? The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch? NURSE. Ay, ay, the cords. [_Throws them down._] JULIET. Ay me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands? NURSE. Ah, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone. Alack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead. JULIET. Can heaven be so envious? NURSE. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo. Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! JULIET. What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay, And that bare vowel I shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I if there be such an I; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay. If he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No. Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. NURSE. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, God save the mark!—here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight. JULIET. O, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once. To prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty. Vile earth to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier. NURSE. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had. O courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead. JULIET. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead? My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord? Then dreadful trumpet sound the general doom, For who is living, if those two are gone? NURSE. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished, Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished. JULIET. O God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood? NURSE. It did, it did; alas the day, it did. JULIET. O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, Dove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st, A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace. NURSE. There’s no trust, No faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo. JULIET. Blister’d be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit; For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him! NURSE. Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin? JULIET. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, When I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring, Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you mistaking offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain, And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death, That murder’d me. I would forget it fain, But O, it presses to my memory Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds. Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished. That ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’ Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death Was woe enough, if it had ended there. Or if sour woe delights in fellowship, And needly will be rank’d with other griefs, Why follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead, Thy father or thy mother, nay or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov’d? But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death, ‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. Romeo is banished, There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word’s death, no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, Nurse? NURSE. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. JULIET. Wash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d, Both you and I; for Romeo is exil’d. He made you for a highway to my bed, But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed, And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead. NURSE. Hie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell. JULIET. O find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell. Enter Friar Lawrence. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour’d of thy parts And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not? FRIAR LAWRENCE. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom. ROMEO. What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom? FRIAR LAWRENCE. A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. ROMEO. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say banishment. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. ROMEO. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death. Then banished Is death misterm’d. Calling death banished, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. FRIAR LAWRENCE. O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law, And turn’d that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not. ROMEO. ’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog, And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her, But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand, And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. But Romeo may not, he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly. They are free men but I am banished. And say’st thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean, But banished to kill me? Banished? O Friar, the damned use that word in hell. Howling attends it. How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d, To mangle me with that word banished? FRIAR LAWRENCE. Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little, ROMEO. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. FRIAR LAWRENCE. I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word, Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. ROMEO. Yet banished? Hang up philosophy. Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom, It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more. FRIAR LAWRENCE. O, then I see that mad men have no ears. ROMEO. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? FRIAR LAWRENCE. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. ROMEO. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. [_Knocking within._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. ROMEO. Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. [_Knocking._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise, Thou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up. [_Knocking._] Run to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will, What simpleness is this.—I come, I come. [_Knocking._] Who knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will? NURSE. [_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. NURSE. O holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar, Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo? FRIAR LAWRENCE. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. NURSE. O, he is even in my mistress’ case. Just in her case! O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament. Even so lies she, Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man. For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand. Why should you fall into so deep an O? ROMEO. Nurse. NURSE. Ah sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all. ROMEO. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murderer, Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy With blood remov’d but little from her own? Where is she? And how doth she? And what says My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love? NURSE. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. ROMEO. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder her, as that name’s cursed hand Murder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [_Drawing his sword._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art. Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man, And ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz’d me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper’d. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady, that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth? Since birth, and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask, Is set afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismember’d with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man. Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy. The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend, And turns it to exile; there art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But like a misshaped and sullen wench, Thou putt’st up thy Fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go, get thee to thy love as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua; Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went’st forth in lamentation. Go before, Nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. NURSE. O Lord, I could have stay’d here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come. ROMEO. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. NURSE. Here sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. [_Exit._] ROMEO. How well my comfort is reviv’d by this. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Go hence, good night, and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis’d from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night. ROMEO. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris. CAPULET. Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. ’Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago. PARIS. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. LADY CAPULET. I will, and know her mind early tomorrow; Tonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness. CAPULET. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed, Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love, And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next, But, soft, what day is this? PARIS. Monday, my lord. CAPULET. Monday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon, A Thursday let it be; a Thursday, tell her, She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? We’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two, For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? PARIS. My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. CAPULET. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho! Afore me, it is so very very late that we May call it early by and by. Good night. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden. Enter Romeo and Juliet. JULIET. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. ROMEO. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. JULIET. Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone. ROMEO. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death, I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye, ’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow. Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so. How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day. JULIET. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away. It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes. O, now I would they had chang’d voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. O now be gone, more light and light it grows. ROMEO. More light and light, more dark and dark our woes. Enter Nurse. NURSE. Madam. JULIET. Nurse? NURSE. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke, be wary, look about. [_Exit._] JULIET. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. ROMEO. Farewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend. [_Descends._] JULIET. Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend, I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo. ROMEO. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. JULIET. O thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? ROMEO. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. JULIET. O God! I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale. ROMEO. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu. [_Exit below._] JULIET. O Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle, If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune; For then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. LADY CAPULET. [_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up? JULIET. Who is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother? Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither? Enter Lady Capulet. LADY CAPULET. Why, how now, Juliet? JULIET. Madam, I am not well. LADY CAPULET. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Therefore have done: some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit. JULIET. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. LADY CAPULET. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. JULIET. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. LADY CAPULET. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him. JULIET. What villain, madam? LADY CAPULET. That same villain Romeo. JULIET. Villain and he be many miles asunder. God pardon him. I do, with all my heart. And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. LADY CAPULET. That is because the traitor murderer lives. JULIET. Ay madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death. LADY CAPULET. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish’d runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company: And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. JULIET. Indeed I never shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him—dead— Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it, That Romeo should upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him. LADY CAPULET. Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man. But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. JULIET. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? LADY CAPULET. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; One who to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, That thou expects not, nor I look’d not for. JULIET. Madam, in happy time, what day is that? LADY CAPULET. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. JULIET. Now by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste, that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed. LADY CAPULET. Here comes your father, tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. CAPULET. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; But for the sunset of my brother’s son It rains downright. How now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears? Evermore showering? In one little body Thou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind. For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is, Sailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs, Who raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you deliver’d to her our decree? LADY CAPULET. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave. CAPULET. Soft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife. How, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? JULIET. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate; But thankful even for hate that is meant love. CAPULET. How now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this? Proud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not; And yet not proud. Mistress minion you, Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage! You tallow-face! LADY CAPULET. Fie, fie! What, are you mad? JULIET. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. CAPULET. Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch! I tell thee what,—get thee to church a Thursday, Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me. My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding. NURSE. God in heaven bless her. You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. CAPULET. And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go. NURSE. I speak no treason. CAPULET. O God ye good-en! NURSE. May not one speak? CAPULET. Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl, For here we need it not. LADY CAPULET. You are too hot. CAPULET. God’s bread, it makes me mad! Day, night, hour, ride, time, work, play, Alone, in company, still my care hath been To have her match’d, and having now provided A gentleman of noble parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied, Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man, And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender, To answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love, I am too young, I pray you pardon me.’ But, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise. And you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend; And you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn. [_Exit._] JULIET. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away, Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. LADY CAPULET. Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [_Exit._] JULIET. O God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth, Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself. What say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, Nurse. NURSE. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banished; and all the world to nothing That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you. Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the County. O, he’s a lovely gentleman. Romeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, For it excels your first: or if it did not, Your first is dead, or ’twere as good he were, As living here and you no use of him. JULIET. Speakest thou from thy heart? NURSE. And from my soul too, Or else beshrew them both. JULIET. Amen. NURSE. What? JULIET. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in, and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell, To make confession and to be absolv’d. NURSE. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. [_Exit._] JULIET. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath prais’d him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor. Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I’ll to the Friar to know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die. [_Exit._] ACT IV SCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris. FRIAR LAWRENCE. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. PARIS. My father Capulet will have it so; And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. You say you do not know the lady’s mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. PARIS. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death, And therefore have I little talk’d of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway; And in his wisdom, hastes our marriage, To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. [_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.— Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. PARIS. Happily met, my lady and my wife! JULIET. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. PARIS. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday next. JULIET. What must be shall be. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s a certain text. PARIS. Come you to make confession to this father? JULIET. To answer that, I should confess to you. PARIS. Do not deny to him that you love me. JULIET. I will confess to you that I love him. PARIS. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. JULIET. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back than to your face. PARIS. Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears. JULIET. The tears have got small victory by that; For it was bad enough before their spite. PARIS. Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that report. JULIET. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth, And what I spake, I spake it to my face. PARIS. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it. JULIET. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass? FRIAR LAWRENCE. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.— My lord, we must entreat the time alone. PARIS. God shield I should disturb devotion!— Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye, Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss. [_Exit._] JULIET. O shut the door, and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help! FRIAR LAWRENCE. O Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. JULIET. Tell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise, And with this knife I’ll help it presently. God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time, Give me some present counsel, or behold ’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die, If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame, That cop’st with death himself to scape from it. And if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy. JULIET. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears; Or hide me nightly in a charnel-house, O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls. Or bid me go into a new-made grave, And hide me with a dead man in his shroud; Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble, And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow; Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone, Let not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off, When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease. No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest, The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall, Like death when he shuts up the day of life. Each part depriv’d of supple government, Shall stiff and stark and cold appear like death. And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two and forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier, Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the meantime, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift, And hither shall he come, and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the acting it. JULIET. Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear! FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. JULIET. Love give me strength, and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants. CAPULET. So many guests invite as here are writ. [_Exit first Servant._] Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. SECOND SERVANT. You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their fingers. CAPULET. How canst thou try them so? SECOND SERVANT. Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers; therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. CAPULET. Go, begone. [_Exit second Servant._] We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence? NURSE. Ay, forsooth. CAPULET. Well, he may chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. NURSE. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. CAPULET. How now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding? JULIET. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests; and am enjoin’d By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here, To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you. Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you. CAPULET. Send for the County, go tell him of this. I’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning. JULIET. I met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell, And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. CAPULET. Why, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up. This is as’t should be. Let me see the County. Ay, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now afore God, this reverend holy Friar, All our whole city is much bound to him. JULIET. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me tomorrow? LADY CAPULET. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. CAPULET. Go, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow. [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._] LADY CAPULET. We shall be short in our provision, ’Tis now near night. CAPULET. Tush, I will stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. I’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone. I’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!— They are all forth: well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber. Enter Juliet and Nurse. JULIET. Ay, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself tonight; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin. Enter Lady Capulet. LADY CAPULET. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? JULIET. No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries As are behoveful for our state tomorrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you, For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden business. LADY CAPULET. Good night. Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need. [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._] JULIET. Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the heat of life. I’ll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!—What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. [_Laying down her dagger._] What if it be a poison, which the Friar Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d, Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is. And yet methinks it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? There’s a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place, As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d, Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort— Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking, what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad. O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers’ joints? And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? O look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost Seeking out Romeo that did spit his body Upon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee. [_Throws herself on the bed._] SCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. LADY CAPULET. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse. NURSE. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Capulet. CAPULET. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d, The curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock. Look to the bak’d meats, good Angelica; Spare not for cost. NURSE. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick tomorrow For this night’s watching. CAPULET. No, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick. LADY CAPULET. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now. [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._] CAPULET. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood! Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets. Now, fellow, what’s there? FIRST SERVANT. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what. CAPULET. Make haste, make haste. [_Exit First Servant._] —Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. SECOND SERVANT. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. [_Exit._] CAPULET. Mass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha. Thou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day. The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. I hear him near. [_Play music._] Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say! Re-enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up. I’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste, Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already. Make haste I say. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed. Enter Nurse. NURSE. Mistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now. Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! Marry and amen. How sound is she asleep! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the County take you in your bed, He’ll fright you up, i’faith. Will it not be? What, dress’d, and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead! O, well-a-day that ever I was born. Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady! Enter Lady Capulet. LADY CAPULET. What noise is here? NURSE. O lamentable day! LADY CAPULET. What is the matter? NURSE. Look, look! O heavy day! LADY CAPULET. O me, O me! My child, my only life. Revive, look up, or I will die with thee. Help, help! Call help. Enter Capulet. CAPULET. For shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come. NURSE. She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day! LADY CAPULET. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead! CAPULET. Ha! Let me see her. Out alas! She’s cold, Her blood is settled and her joints are stiff. Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. NURSE. O lamentable day! LADY CAPULET. O woful time! CAPULET. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? CAPULET. Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath death lain with thy bride. There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die And leave him all; life, living, all is death’s. PARIS. Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? LADY CAPULET. Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day. Most miserable hour that e’er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage. But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight. NURSE. O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day. Most lamentable day, most woeful day That ever, ever, I did yet behold! O day, O day, O day, O hateful day. Never was seen so black a day as this. O woeful day, O woeful day. PARIS. Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain. Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. O love! O life! Not life, but love in death! CAPULET. Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d. Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now To murder, murder our solemnity? O child! O child! My soul, and not my child, Dead art thou. Alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Peace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d, And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She’s not well married that lives married long, But she’s best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, And in her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. CAPULET. All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral: Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, And all things change them to the contrary. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with him, And go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do lower upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._] FIRST MUSICIAN. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. NURSE. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up, For well you know this is a pitiful case. FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. [_Exit Nurse._] Enter Peter. PETER. Musicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’ FIRST MUSICIAN. Why ‘Heart’s ease’? PETER. O musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play me some merry dump to comfort me. FIRST MUSICIAN. Not a dump we, ’tis no time to play now. PETER. You will not then? FIRST MUSICIAN. No. PETER. I will then give it you soundly. FIRST MUSICIAN. What will you give us? PETER. No money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel. FIRST MUSICIAN. Then will I give you the serving-creature. PETER. Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me? FIRST MUSICIAN. And you re us and fa us, you note us. SECOND MUSICIAN. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. PETER. Then have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound’— Why ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you, Simon Catling? FIRST MUSICIAN. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. PETER. Prates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck? SECOND MUSICIAN. I say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver. PETER. Prates too! What say you, James Soundpost? THIRD MUSICIAN. Faith, I know not what to say. PETER. O, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is ‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for sounding. ‘Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.’ [_Exit._] FIRST MUSICIAN. What a pestilent knave is this same! SECOND MUSICIAN. Hang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Mantua. A Street. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne; And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,— Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!— And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips, That I reviv’d, and was an emperor. Ah me, how sweet is love itself possess’d, When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy. Enter Balthasar. News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the Friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again; For nothing can be ill if she be well. BALTHASAR. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault, And presently took post to tell it you. O pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. ROMEO. Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses. I will hence tonight. BALTHASAR. I do beseech you sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. ROMEO. Tush, thou art deceiv’d. Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the Friar? BALTHASAR. No, my good lord. ROMEO. No matter. Get thee gone, And hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight. [_Exit Balthasar._] Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight. Let’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men. I do remember an apothecary,— And hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples, meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff’d, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, And if a man did need a poison now, Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. O, this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut. What, ho! Apothecary! Enter Apothecary. APOTHECARY. Who calls so loud? ROMEO. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins, That the life-weary taker may fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath As violently as hasty powder fir’d Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb. APOTHECARY. Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law Is death to any he that utters them. ROMEO. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, And fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back. The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. APOTHECARY. My poverty, but not my will consents. ROMEO. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. APOTHECARY. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight. ROMEO. There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none. Farewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar John. FRIAR JOHN. Holy Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho! Enter Friar Lawrence. FRIAR LAWRENCE. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. FRIAR JOHN. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me, Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Who bare my letter then to Romeo? FRIAR JOHN. I could not send it,—here it is again,— Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, The letter was not nice, but full of charge, Of dear import, and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence, Get me an iron crow and bring it straight Unto my cell. FRIAR JOHN. Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee. [_Exit._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. Now must I to the monument alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come. Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets. Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch. PARIS. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under yond yew tree lay thee all along, Holding thy ear close to the hollow ground; So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear’st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. PAGE. [_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. [_Retires._] PARIS. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew. O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones, Which with sweet water nightly I will dew, Or wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans. The obsequies that I for thee will keep, Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. [_The Page whistles._] The boy gives warning something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way tonight, To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite? What, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile. [_Retires._] Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c. ROMEO. Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter; early in the morning See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light; upon thy life I charge thee, Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof And do not interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into this bed of death Is partly to behold my lady’s face, But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger A precious ring, a ring that I must use In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone. But if thou jealous dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do, By heaven I will tear thee joint by joint, And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my intents are savage-wild; More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. BALTHASAR. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. ROMEO. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow. BALTHASAR. For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [_Retires_] ROMEO. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, [_Breaking open the door of the monument._] And in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food. PARIS. This is that banish’d haughty Montague That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, It is supposed, the fair creature died,— And here is come to do some villainous shame To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. [_Advances._] Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague. Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey, and go with me, for thou must die. ROMEO. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man. Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone; Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, Put not another sin upon my head By urging me to fury. O be gone. By heaven I love thee better than myself; For I come hither arm’d against myself. Stay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say, A madman’s mercy bid thee run away. PARIS. I do defy thy conjuration, And apprehend thee for a felon here. ROMEO. Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy! [_They fight._] PAGE. O lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. [_Exit._] PARIS. O, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [_Dies._] ROMEO. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man, when my betossed soul Did not attend him as we rode? I think He told me Paris should have married Juliet. Said he not so? Or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book. I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d. [_Laying Paris in the monument._] How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! Which their keepers call A lightning before death. O, how may I Call this a lightning? O my love, my wife, Death that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death’s pale flag is not advanced there. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? O, what more favour can I do to thee Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy? Forgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe That unsubstantial death is amorous; And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee, And never from this palace of dim night Depart again. Here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest; And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last. Arms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death. Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide. Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark. Here’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. [_Dies._] Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a lantern, crow, and spade. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Saint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight Have my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there? Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead? BALTHASAR. Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Bliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend, What torch is yond that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern, It burneth in the Capels’ monument. BALTHASAR. It doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master, One that you love. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Who is it? BALTHASAR. Romeo. FRIAR LAWRENCE. How long hath he been there? BALTHASAR. Full half an hour. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Go with me to the vault. BALTHASAR. I dare not, sir; My master knows not but I am gone hence, And fearfully did menace me with death If I did stay to look on his intents. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Stay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me. O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing. BALTHASAR. As I did sleep under this yew tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, And that my master slew him. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo! [_Advances._] Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour’d by this place of peace? [_Enters the monument._] Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too? And steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance? The lady stirs. [_Juliet wakes and stirs._] JULIET. O comfortable Friar, where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, And there I am. Where is my Romeo? [_Noise within._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. Come, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay. JULIET. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. [_Exit Friar Lawrence._] What’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop To help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, To make me die with a restorative. [_Kisses him._] Thy lips are warm! FIRST WATCH. [_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way? JULIET. Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger. [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._] This is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die. [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._] Enter Watch with the Page of Paris. PAGE. This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn. FIRST WATCH. The ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach. [_Exeunt some of the Watch._] Pitiful sight! Here lies the County slain, And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain this two days buried. Go tell the Prince; run to the Capulets. Raise up the Montagues, some others search. [_Exeunt others of the Watch._] We see the ground whereon these woes do lie, But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry. Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar. SECOND WATCH. Here’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard. FIRST WATCH. Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither. Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence. THIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. We took this mattock and this spade from him As he was coming from this churchyard side. FIRST WATCH. A great suspicion. Stay the Friar too. Enter the Prince and Attendants. PRINCE. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning’s rest? Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others. CAPULET. What should it be that they so shriek abroad? LADY CAPULET. O the people in the street cry Romeo, Some Juliet, and some Paris, and all run With open outcry toward our monument. PRINCE. What fear is this which startles in our ears? FIRST WATCH. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain, And Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill’d. PRINCE. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. FIRST WATCH. Here is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man, With instruments upon them fit to open These dead men’s tombs. CAPULET. O heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds! This dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house Is empty on the back of Montague, And it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom. LADY CAPULET. O me! This sight of death is as a bell That warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague and others. PRINCE. Come, Montague, for thou art early up, To see thy son and heir more early down. MONTAGUE. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight. Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age? PRINCE. Look, and thou shalt see. MONTAGUE. O thou untaught! What manners is in this, To press before thy father to a grave? PRINCE. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities, And know their spring, their head, their true descent, And then will I be general of your woes, And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. FRIAR LAWRENCE. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murder. And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excus’d. PRINCE. Then say at once what thou dost know in this. FRIAR LAWRENCE. I will be brief, for my short date of breath Is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet, And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife. I married them; and their stol’n marriage day Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city; For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d. You, to remove that siege of grief from her, Betroth’d, and would have married her perforce To County Paris. Then comes she to me, And with wild looks, bid me devise some means To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her, so tutored by my art, A sleeping potion, which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her The form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo That he should hither come as this dire night To help to take her from her borrow’d grave, Being the time the potion’s force should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar John, Was stay’d by accident; and yesternight Return’d my letter back. Then all alone At the prefixed hour of her waking Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault, Meaning to keep her closely at my cell Till I conveniently could send to Romeo. But when I came, some minute ere the time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. She wakes; and I entreated her come forth And bear this work of heaven with patience. But then a noise did scare me from the tomb; And she, too desperate, would not go with me, But, as it seems, did violence on herself. All this I know; and to the marriage Her Nurse is privy. And if ought in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law. PRINCE. We still have known thee for a holy man. Where’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this? BALTHASAR. I brought my master news of Juliet’s death, And then in post he came from Mantua To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father, And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault, If I departed not, and left him there. PRINCE. Give me the letter, I will look on it. Where is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch? Sirrah, what made your master in this place? PAGE. He came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave, And bid me stand aloof, and so I did. Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb, And by and by my master drew on him, And then I ran away to call the watch. PRINCE. This letter doth make good the Friar’s words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death. And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montague, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d. CAPULET. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more Can I demand. MONTAGUE. But I can give thee more, For I will raise her statue in pure gold, That whiles Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet. CAPULET. As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie, Poor sacrifices of our enmity. PRINCE. A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things. Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished, For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. [_Exeunt._] THE TAMING OF THE SHREW Contents INDUCTION Scene I. Before an alehouse on a heath. Scene II. A bedchamber in the Lord’s house. ACT I Scene I. Padua. A public place. Scene II. Padua. Before Hortensio’s house. ACT II Scene I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. ACT III Scene I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. Scene II. The same. Before Baptista’s house. ACT IV Scene I. A hall in Petruchio’s country house. Scene II. Padua. Before Baptista’s house. Scene III. A room in Petruchio’s house. Scene IV. Before Baptista’s house. Scene V. A public road. ACT V Scene I. Padua. Before Lucentio’s house. Scene II. A room in Lucentio’s house. Dramatis Personæ Persons in the Induction A LORD CHRISTOPHER SLY, a tinker HOSTESS PAGE PLAYERS HUNTSMEN SERVANTS BAPTISTA MINOLA, a rich gentleman of Padua VINCENTIO, an old gentleman of Pisa LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio; in love with Bianca PETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Verona; suitor to Katherina Suitors to Bianca GREMIO HORTENSIO Servants to Lucentio TRANIO BIONDELLO Servants to Petruchio GRUMIO CURTIS PEDANT, set up to personate Vincentio Daughters to Baptista KATHERINA, the shrew BIANCA WIDOW Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio SCENE: Sometimes in Padua, and sometimes in Petruchio’s house in the country. INDUCTION SCENE I. Before an alehouse on a heath. Enter Hostess and Sly SLY. I’ll pheeze you, in faith. HOSTESS. A pair of stocks, you rogue! SLY. Y’are a baggage; the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles: we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, _paucas pallabris_; let the world slide. Sessa! HOSTESS. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? SLY. No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed and warm thee. HOSTESS. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough. [_Exit_] SLY. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I’ll answer him by law. I’ll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly. [_Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep._] Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants. LORD. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds; Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d, And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach. Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. FIRST HUNTSMAN. Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice today pick’d out the dullest scent; Trust me, I take him for the better dog. LORD. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well, and look unto them all; Tomorrow I intend to hunt again. FIRST HUNTSMAN. I will, my lord. LORD. [_Sees Sly_.] What’s here? One dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe? SECOND HUNTSMAN. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale, This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. LORD. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey’d to bed, Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most delicious banquet by his bed, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself? FIRST HUNTSMAN. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. SECOND HUNTSMAN. It would seem strange unto him when he wak’d. LORD. Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest. Carry him gently to my fairest chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton pictures; Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters, And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet. Procure me music ready when he wakes, To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound; And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, And with a low submissive reverence Say ‘What is it your honour will command?’ Let one attend him with a silver basin Full of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers; Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, And say ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your hands?’ Someone be ready with a costly suit, And ask him what apparel he will wear; Another tell him of his hounds and horse, And that his lady mourns at his disease. Persuade him that he hath been lunatic; And, when he says he is—say that he dreams, For he is nothing but a mighty lord. This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs; It will be pastime passing excellent, If it be husbanded with modesty. FIRST HUNTSMAN. My lord, I warrant you we will play our part, As he shall think by our true diligence, He is no less than what we say he is. LORD. Take him up gently, and to bed with him, And each one to his office when he wakes. [Sly _is borne out. A trumpet sounds._] Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds. [_Exit_ Servant.] Belike some noble gentleman that means, Travelling some journey, to repose him here. Re-enter Servant. How now! who is it? SERVANT. An it please your honour, players That offer service to your lordship. LORD. Bid them come near. Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome. PLAYERS. We thank your honour. LORD. Do you intend to stay with me tonight? PLAYER. So please your lordship to accept our duty. LORD. With all my heart. This fellow I remember Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son; ’Twas where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well. I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d. PLAYER. I think ’twas Soto that your honour means. LORD. ’Tis very true; thou didst it excellent. Well, you are come to me in happy time, The rather for I have some sport in hand Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play tonight; But I am doubtful of your modesties, Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,— For yet his honour never heard a play,— You break into some merry passion And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile, he grows impatient. PLAYER. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antick in the world. LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome everyone: Let them want nothing that my house affords. [_Exit one with the Players._] Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady; That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber, And call him ‘madam,’ do him obeisance. Tell him from me—as he will win my love,— He bear himself with honourable action, Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies Unto their lords, by them accomplished; Such duty to the drunkard let him do, With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, And say ‘What is’t your honour will command, Wherein your lady and your humble wife May show her duty and make known her love?’ And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, And with declining head into his bosom, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d To see her noble lord restor’d to health, Who for this seven years hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar. And if the boy have not a woman’s gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift, Which, in a napkin being close convey’d, Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst; Anon I’ll give thee more instructions. [_Exit Servant._] I know the boy will well usurp the grace, Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman; I long to hear him call the drunkard husband; And how my men will stay themselves from laughter When they do homage to this simple peasant. I’ll in to counsel them; haply my presence May well abate the over-merry spleen, Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A bedchamber in the Lord’s house. Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some with apparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressed like a servant. SLY. For God’s sake! a pot of small ale. FIRST SERVANT. Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack? SECOND SERVANT. Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves? THIRD SERVANT. What raiment will your honour wear today? SLY. I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour nor lordship. I ne’er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef. Ne’er ask me what raiment I’ll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather. LORD. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! O, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit! SLY. What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. Here’s— THIRD SERVANT. O! this it is that makes your lady mourn. SECOND SERVANT. O! this is it that makes your servants droop. LORD. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at thy beck: Wilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays, [_Music._] And twenty caged nightingales do sing: Or wilt thou sleep? We’ll have thee to a couch Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the ground: Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapp’d, Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. FIRST SERVANT. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe. SECOND SERVANT. Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, And Cytherea all in sedges hid, Which seem to move and wanton with her breath Even as the waving sedges play with wind. LORD. We’ll show thee Io as she was a maid And how she was beguiled and surpris’d, As lively painted as the deed was done. THIRD SERVANT. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. LORD. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord: Thou hast a lady far more beautiful Than any woman in this waning age. FIRST SERVANT. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world; And yet she is inferior to none. SLY. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? Or do I dream? Or have I dream’d till now? I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak; I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things: Upon my life, I am a lord indeed; And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale. SECOND SERVANT. Will’t please your mightiness to wash your hands? [_Servants present a ewer, basin and napkin._] O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d! O, that once more you knew but what you are! These fifteen years you have been in a dream, Or, when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept. SLY. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time? FIRST SERVANT. O! yes, my lord, but very idle words; For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door, And rail upon the hostess of the house, And say you would present her at the leet, Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts. Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. SLY. Ay, the woman’s maid of the house. THIRD SERVANT. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid, Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up, As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell; And twenty more such names and men as these, Which never were, nor no man ever saw. SLY. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends! ALL. Amen. Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants. SLY. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it. PAGE. How fares my noble lord? SLY. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife? PAGE. Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her? SLY. Are you my wife, and will not call me husband? My men should call me lord: I am your goodman. PAGE. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband; I am your wife in all obedience. SLY. I know it well. What must I call her? LORD. Madam. SLY. Alice madam, or Joan madam? LORD. Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies. SLY. Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d And slept above some fifteen year or more. PAGE. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. SLY. ’Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. PAGE. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you To pardon me yet for a night or two; Or, if not so, until the sun be set: For your physicians have expressly charg’d, In peril to incur your former malady, That I should yet absent me from your bed: I hope this reason stands for my excuse. SLY. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the blood. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment, Are come to play a pleasant comedy; For so your doctors hold it very meet, Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood, And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy: Therefore they thought it good you hear a play, And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. SLY. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick? PAGE. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff. SLY. What! household stuff? PAGE. It is a kind of history. SLY. Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger. ACT I SCENE I. Padua. A public place. Flourish. Enter Lucentio and Tranio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, since for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy, And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d With his good will and thy good company, My trusty servant well approv’d in all, Here let us breathe, and haply institute A course of learning and ingenious studies. Pisa, renowned for grave citizens, Gave me my being and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence, It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d, To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds: And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, Virtue and that part of philosophy Will I apply that treats of happiness By virtue specially to be achiev’d. Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left And am to Padua come as he that leaves A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep, And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. TRANIO. _Mi perdonato_, gentle master mine; I am in all affected as yourself; Glad that you thus continue your resolve To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. Only, good master, while we do admire This virtue and this moral discipline, Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray; Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d. Balk logic with acquaintance that you have, And practise rhetoric in your common talk; Music and poesy use to quicken you; The mathematics and the metaphysics, Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you: No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en; In brief, sir, study what you most affect. LUCENTIO. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging fit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. But stay awhile; what company is this? TRANIO. Master, some show to welcome us to town. [_Lucentio and Tranio stand aside._] Enter Baptista, Katherina, Bianca, Gremio and Hortensio. BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, For how I firmly am resolv’d you know; That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter Before I have a husband for the elder. If either of you both love Katherina, Because I know you well and love you well, Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure. GREMIO. To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me. There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? KATHERINA. [_To Baptista_] I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates? HORTENSIO. Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you, Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. KATHERINA. I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to fear; I wis it is not half way to her heart; But if it were, doubt not her care should be To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool, And paint your face, and use you like a fool. HORTENSIO. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us! GREMIO. And me, too, good Lord! TRANIO. Husht, master! Here’s some good pastime toward: That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward. LUCENTIO. But in the other’s silence do I see Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio! TRANIO. Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill. BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good What I have said,—Bianca, get you in: And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl. KATHERINA. A pretty peat! it is best put finger in the eye, and she knew why. BIANCA. Sister, content you in my discontent. Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: My books and instruments shall be my company, On them to look, and practise by myself. LUCENTIO. Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak. HORTENSIO. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange? Sorry am I that our good will effects Bianca’s grief. GREMIO. Why will you mew her up, Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue? BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d. Go in, Bianca. [_Exit Bianca._] And for I know she taketh most delight In music, instruments, and poetry, Schoolmasters will I keep within my house Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such, Prefer them hither; for to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing up; And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay; For I have more to commune with Bianca. [_Exit._] KATHERINA. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike, I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha! [_Exit._] GREMIO. You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are so good here’s none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out; our cake’s dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father. HORTENSIO. So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both,—that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love,—to labour and effect one thing specially. GREMIO. What’s that, I pray? HORTENSIO. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. GREMIO. A husband! a devil. HORTENSIO. I say, a husband. GREMIO. I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell? HORTENSIO. Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, and a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough. GREMIO. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition: to be whipp’d at the high cross every morning. HORTENSIO. Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rotten apples. But come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained, till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to’t afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio? GREMIO. I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her. Come on. [_Exeunt Gremio and Hortensio._] TRANIO. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold? LUCENTIO. O Tranio! till I found it to be true, I never thought it possible or likely; But see, while idly I stood looking on, I found the effect of love in idleness; And now in plainness do confess to thee, That art to me as secret and as dear As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, If I achieve not this young modest girl. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst: Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. TRANIO. Master, it is no time to chide you now; Affection is not rated from the heart: If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so: _Redime te captum quam queas minimo._ LUCENTIO. Gramercies, lad; go forward; this contents; The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound. TRANIO. Master, you look’d so longly on the maid. Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all. LUCENTIO. O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face, Such as the daughter of Agenor had, That made great Jove to humble him to her hand, When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand. TRANIO. Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister Began to scold and raise up such a storm That mortal ears might hardly endure the din? LUCENTIO. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move, And with her breath she did perfume the air; Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. TRANIO. Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his trance. I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid, Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands: Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd, That till the father rid his hands of her, Master, your love must live a maid at home; And therefore has he closely mew’d her up, Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. LUCENTIO. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he! But art thou not advis’d he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her? TRANIO. Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now ’tis plotted. LUCENTIO. I have it, Tranio. TRANIO. Master, for my hand, Both our inventions meet and jump in one. LUCENTIO. Tell me thine first. TRANIO. You will be schoolmaster, And undertake the teaching of the maid: That’s your device. LUCENTIO. It is: may it be done? TRANIO. Not possible; for who shall bear your part And be in Padua here Vincentio’s son; Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends; Visit his countrymen, and banquet them? LUCENTIO. _Basta_, content thee, for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house, Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces For man or master: then it follows thus: Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, Keep house and port and servants, as I should; I will some other be; some Florentine, Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. ’Tis hatch’d, and shall be so: Tranio, at once Uncase thee; take my colour’d hat and cloak. When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. [_They exchange habits_] TRANIO. So had you need. In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, And I am tied to be obedient; For so your father charg’d me at our parting, ‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he, Although I think ’twas in another sense: I am content to be Lucentio, Because so well I love Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves; And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye. Enter Biondello. Here comes the rogue. Sirrah, where have you been? BIONDELLO. Where have I been? Nay, how now! where are you? Master, has my fellow Tranio stol’n your clothes? Or you stol’n his? or both? Pray, what’s the news? LUCENTIO. Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest, And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, Puts my apparel and my count’nance on, And I for my escape have put on his; For in a quarrel since I came ashore I kill’d a man, and fear I was descried. Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, While I make way from hence to save my life. You understand me? BIONDELLO. I, sir! Ne’er a whit. LUCENTIO. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth: Tranio is changed to Lucentio. BIONDELLO. The better for him: would I were so too! TRANIO. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after, That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest daughter. But, sirrah, not for my sake but your master’s, I advise You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies: When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio; But in all places else your master, Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, let’s go. One thing more rests, that thyself execute, To make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why, Sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty. [_Exeunt._] [_The Presenters above speak._] FIRST SERVANT. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. SLY. Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it? PAGE. My lord, ’tis but begun. SLY. ’Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would ’twere done! [_They sit and mark._] SCENE II. Padua. Before Hortensio’s house. Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio. PETRUCHIO. Verona, for a while I take my leave, To see my friends in Padua; but of all My best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio; and I trow this is his house. Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say. GRUMIO. Knock, sir? Whom should I knock? Is there any man has rebused your worship? PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. GRUMIO. Knock you here, sir? Why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir? PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate; And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate. GRUMIO. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first, And then I know after who comes by the worst. PETRUCHIO. Will it not be? Faith, sirrah, and you’ll not knock, I’ll ring it; I’ll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. [_He wrings Grumio by the ears._] GRUMIO. Help, masters, help! my master is mad. PETRUCHIO. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain! Enter Hortensio. HORTENSIO. How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona? PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray? _Con tutto il cuore ben trovato_, may I say. HORTENSIO. _Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signor mio Petruchio._ Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel. GRUMIO. Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see, two-and-thirty, a pip out? Whom would to God I had well knock’d at first, then had not Grumio come by the worst. PETRUCHIO. A senseless villain! Good Hortensio, I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, And could not get him for my heart to do it. GRUMIO. Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain: ‘Sirrah knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly’? And come you now with ‘knocking at the gate’? PETRUCHIO. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge; Why, this’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and you, Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale Blows you to Padua here from old Verona? PETRUCHIO. Such wind as scatters young men through the world To seek their fortunes farther than at home, Where small experience grows. But in a few, Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me: Antonio, my father, is deceas’d, And I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may; Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, And so am come abroad to see the world. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife? Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel; And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich, And very rich: but th’art too much my friend, And I’ll not wish thee to her. PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife, As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love, As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd As Socrates’ Xanthippe or a worse, She moves me not, or not removes, at least, Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough As are the swelling Adriatic seas: I come to wive it wealthily in Padua; If wealthily, then happily in Padua. GRUMIO. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in, I will continue that I broach’d in jest. I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife With wealth enough, and young and beauteous; Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman: Her only fault,—and that is faults enough,— Is, that she is intolerable curst, And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure, That, were my state far worser than it is, I would not wed her for a mine of gold. PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s effect: Tell me her father’s name, and ’tis enough; For I will board her, though she chide as loud As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack. HORTENSIO. Her father is Baptista Minola, An affable and courteous gentleman; Her name is Katherina Minola, Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue. PETRUCHIO. I know her father, though I know not her; And he knew my deceased father well. I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; And therefore let me be thus bold with you, To give you over at this first encounter, Unless you will accompany me thither. GRUMIO. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ my word, and she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him. She may perhaps call him half a score knaves or so; why, that’s nothing; and he begin once, he’ll rail in his rope-tricks. I’ll tell you what, sir, and she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir. HORTENSIO. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee, For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is: He hath the jewel of my life in hold, His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca, And her withholds from me and other more, Suitors to her and rivals in my love; Supposing it a thing impossible, For those defects I have before rehears’d, That ever Katherina will be woo’d: Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, That none shall have access unto Bianca Till Katherine the curst have got a husband. GRUMIO. Katherine the curst! A title for a maid of all titles the worst. HORTENSIO. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace, And offer me disguis’d in sober robes, To old Baptista as a schoolmaster Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca; That so I may, by this device at least Have leave and leisure to make love to her, And unsuspected court her by herself. GRUMIO. Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together! Enter Gremio and Lucentio disguised, with books under his arm. Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha? HORTENSIO. Peace, Grumio! It is the rival of my love. Petruchio, stand by awhile. GRUMIO. A proper stripling, and an amorous! GREMIO. O! very well; I have perus’d the note. Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound: All books of love, see that at any hand, And see you read no other lectures to her. You understand me. Over and beside Signior Baptista’s liberality, I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too, And let me have them very well perfum’d; For she is sweeter than perfume itself To whom they go to. What will you read to her? LUCENTIO. Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you, As for my patron, stand you so assur’d, As firmly as yourself were still in place; Yea, and perhaps with more successful words Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir. GREMIO. O! this learning, what a thing it is. GRUMIO. O! this woodcock, what an ass it is. PETRUCHIO. Peace, sirrah! HORTENSIO. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio! GREMIO. And you are well met, Signior Hortensio. Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola. I promis’d to enquire carefully About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca; And by good fortune I have lighted well On this young man; for learning and behaviour Fit for her turn, well read in poetry And other books, good ones, I warrant ye. HORTENSIO. ’Tis well; and I have met a gentleman Hath promis’d me to help me to another, A fine musician to instruct our mistress: So shall I no whit be behind in duty To fair Bianca, so belov’d of me. GREMIO. Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove. GRUMIO. [_Aside._] And that his bags shall prove. HORTENSIO. Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love: Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, I’ll tell you news indifferent good for either. Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met, Upon agreement from us to his liking, Will undertake to woo curst Katherine; Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. GREMIO. So said, so done, is well. Hortensio, have you told him all her faults? PETRUCHIO. I know she is an irksome brawling scold; If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. GREMIO. No, say’st me so, friend? What countryman? PETRUCHIO. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son. My father dead, my fortune lives for me; And I do hope good days and long to see. GREMIO. O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange! But if you have a stomach, to’t a God’s name; You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild-cat? PETRUCHIO. Will I live? GRUMIO. Will he woo her? Ay, or I’ll hang her. PETRUCHIO. Why came I hither but to that intent? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang? And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire? Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs. GRUMIO. [_Aside_] For he fears none. GREMIO. Hortensio, hark: This gentleman is happily arriv’d, My mind presumes, for his own good and yours. HORTENSIO. I promis’d we would be contributors, And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er. GREMIO. And so we will, provided that he win her. GRUMIO. I would I were as sure of a good dinner. Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello. TRANIO. Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold, Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way To the house of Signior Baptista Minola? BIONDELLO. He that has the two fair daughters; is’t he you mean? TRANIO. Even he, Biondello! GREMIO. Hark you, sir, you mean not her to— TRANIO. Perhaps him and her, sir; what have you to do? PETRUCHIO. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray. TRANIO. I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s away. LUCENTIO. [_Aside_] Well begun, Tranio. HORTENSIO. Sir, a word ere you go. Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no? TRANIO. And if I be, sir, is it any offence? GREMIO. No; if without more words you will get you hence. TRANIO. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free For me as for you? GREMIO. But so is not she. TRANIO. For what reason, I beseech you? GREMIO. For this reason, if you’ll know, That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio. HORTENSIO. That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio. TRANIO. Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen, Do me this right; hear me with patience. Baptista is a noble gentleman, To whom my father is not all unknown; And were his daughter fairer than she is, She may more suitors have, and me for one. Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers; Then well one more may fair Bianca have; And so she shall: Lucentio shall make one, Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. GREMIO. What, this gentleman will out-talk us all. LUCENTIO. Sir, give him head; I know he’ll prove a jade. PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, to what end are all these words? HORTENSIO. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you, Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter? TRANIO. No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two, The one as famous for a scolding tongue As is the other for beauteous modesty. PETRUCHIO. Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by. GREMIO. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules, And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. PETRUCHIO. Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth: The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for, Her father keeps from all access of suitors, And will not promise her to any man Until the elder sister first be wed; The younger then is free, and not before. TRANIO. If it be so, sir, that you are the man Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest; And if you break the ice, and do this feat, Achieve the elder, set the younger free For our access, whose hap shall be to have her Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. HORTENSIO. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive; And since you do profess to be a suitor, You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, To whom we all rest generally beholding. TRANIO. Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof, Please ye we may contrive this afternoon, And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health; And do as adversaries do in law, Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. GRUMIO, BIONDELLO. O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone. HORTENSIO. The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:— Petruchio, I shall be your _ben venuto_. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. Enter Katherina and Bianca. BIANCA. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself, To make a bondmaid and a slave of me; That I disdain; but for these other gawds, Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them off myself, Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat; Or what you will command me will I do, So well I know my duty to my elders. KATHERINA. Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell Whom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not. BIANCA. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive I never yet beheld that special face Which I could fancy more than any other. KATHERINA. Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio? BIANCA. If you affect him, sister, here I swear I’ll plead for you myself but you shall have him. KATHERINA. O! then, belike, you fancy riches more: You will have Gremio to keep you fair. BIANCA. Is it for him you do envy me so? Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive You have but jested with me all this while: I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands. KATHERINA. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. [_Strikes her._] Enter Baptista. BAPTISTA. Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence? Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her. For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee? When did she cross thee with a bitter word? KATHERINA. Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d. [_Flies after Bianca._] BAPTISTA. What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in. [_Exit Bianca._] KATHERINA. What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day, And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep Till I can find occasion of revenge. [_Exit._] BAPTISTA. Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I? But who comes here? Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, with Hortensio as a musician; and Tranio, with Biondello bearing a lute and books. GREMIO. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. BAPTISTA. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen! PETRUCHIO. And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter Call’d Katherina, fair and virtuous? BAPTISTA. I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katherina. GREMIO. You are too blunt: go to it orderly. PETRUCHIO. You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave. I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, That, hearing of her beauty and her wit, Her affability and bashful modesty, Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour, Am bold to show myself a forward guest Within your house, to make mine eye the witness Of that report which I so oft have heard. And, for an entrance to my entertainment, I do present you with a man of mine, [_Presenting Hortensio._] Cunning in music and the mathematics, To instruct her fully in those sciences, Whereof I know she is not ignorant. Accept of him, or else you do me wrong: His name is Licio, born in Mantua. BAPTISTA. Y’are welcome, sir, and he for your good sake; But for my daughter Katherine, this I know, She is not for your turn, the more my grief. PETRUCHIO. I see you do not mean to part with her; Or else you like not of my company. BAPTISTA. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find. Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name? PETRUCHIO. Petruchio is my name, Antonio’s son; A man well known throughout all Italy. BAPTISTA. I know him well: you are welcome for his sake. GREMIO. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. Backare! you are marvellous forward. PETRUCHIO. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing. GREMIO. I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young scholar, [_Presenting Lucentio._] that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio; pray accept his service. BAPTISTA. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio. [_To Tranio._] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger. May I be so bold to know the cause of your coming? TRANIO. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own, That, being a stranger in this city here, Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me, In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request, That, upon knowledge of my parentage, I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo, And free access and favour as the rest: And, toward the education of your daughters, I here bestow a simple instrument, And this small packet of Greek and Latin books: If you accept them, then their worth is great. BAPTISTA. Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray? TRANIO. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. BAPTISTA. A mighty man of Pisa: by report I know him well: you are very welcome, sir. [_To Hortensio_.] Take you the lute, [_To Lucentio_.] and you the set of books; You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within! Enter a Servant. Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters, and tell them both These are their tutors: bid them use them well. [_Exeunt Servant with Hortensio, Lucentio and Biondello._] We will go walk a little in the orchard, And then to dinner. You are passing welcome, And so I pray you all to think yourselves. PETRUCHIO. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me, Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have bettered rather than decreas’d: Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, What dowry shall I have with her to wife? BAPTISTA. After my death, the one half of my lands, And in possession twenty thousand crowns. PETRUCHIO. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, In all my lands and leases whatsoever. Let specialities be therefore drawn between us, That covenants may be kept on either hand. BAPTISTA. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d, That is, her love; for that is all in all. PETRUCHIO. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded; And where two raging fires meet together, They do consume the thing that feeds their fury: Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all; So I to her, and so she yields to me; For I am rough and woo not like a babe. BAPTISTA. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed! But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. PETRUCHIO. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds, That shake not though they blow perpetually. Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke. BAPTISTA. How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale? HORTENSIO. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. BAPTISTA. What, will my daughter prove a good musician? HORTENSIO. I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier: Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. BAPTISTA. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? HORTENSIO. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets, And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering; When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, ‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she ‘I’ll fume with them’; And with that word she struck me on the head, And through the instrument my pate made way; And there I stood amazed for a while, As on a pillory, looking through the lute; While she did call me rascal fiddler, And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms, As had she studied to misuse me so. PETRUCHIO. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench! I love her ten times more than e’er I did: O! how I long to have some chat with her! BAPTISTA. [_To Hortensio_.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited; Proceed in practice with my younger daughter; She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns. Signior Petruchio, will you go with us, Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? PETRUCHIO. I pray you do. [_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio and Hortensio._] I will attend her here, And woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail; why, then I’ll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash’d with dew: Say she be mute, and will not speak a word; Then I’ll commend her volubility, And say she uttereth piercing eloquence: If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks, As though she bid me stay by her a week: If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day When I shall ask the banns, and when be married. But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak. Enter Katherina. Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear. KATHERINA. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: They call me Katherine that do talk of me. PETRUCHIO. You lie, in faith, for you are call’d plain Kate, And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst; But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,— Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,— Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife. KATHERINA. Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hither Remove you hence. I knew you at the first, You were a moveable. PETRUCHIO. Why, what’s a moveable? KATHERINA. A joint-stool. PETRUCHIO. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me. KATHERINA. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. PETRUCHIO. Women are made to bear, and so are you. KATHERINA. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean. PETRUCHIO. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee; For, knowing thee to be but young and light,— KATHERINA. Too light for such a swain as you to catch; And yet as heavy as my weight should be. PETRUCHIO. Should be! should buz! KATHERINA. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard. PETRUCHIO. O, slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee? KATHERINA. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. PETRUCHIO. Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too angry. KATHERINA. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. PETRUCHIO. My remedy is then to pluck it out. KATHERINA. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. PETRUCHIO. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. KATHERINA. In his tongue. PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue? KATHERINA. Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell. PETRUCHIO. What! with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman. KATHERINA. That I’ll try. [_Striking him._] PETRUCHIO. I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again. KATHERINA. So may you lose your arms: If you strike me, you are no gentleman; And if no gentleman, why then no arms. PETRUCHIO. A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books. KATHERINA. What is your crest? a coxcomb? PETRUCHIO. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. KATHERINA. No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven. PETRUCHIO. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour. KATHERINA. It is my fashion when I see a crab. PETRUCHIO. Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour. KATHERINA. There is, there is. PETRUCHIO. Then show it me. KATHERINA. Had I a glass I would. PETRUCHIO. What, you mean my face? KATHERINA. Well aim’d of such a young one. PETRUCHIO. Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you. KATHERINA. Yet you are wither’d. PETRUCHIO. ’Tis with cares. KATHERINA. I care not. PETRUCHIO. Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ’scape not so. KATHERINA. I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go. PETRUCHIO. No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle. ’Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen, And now I find report a very liar; For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous, But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers. Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will, Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk; But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers; With gentle conference, soft and affable. Why does the world report that Kate doth limp? O sland’rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt. KATHERINA. Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command. PETRUCHIO. Did ever Dian so become a grove As Kate this chamber with her princely gait? O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate, And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful! KATHERINA. Where did you study all this goodly speech? PETRUCHIO. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. KATHERINA. A witty mother! witless else her son. PETRUCHIO. Am I not wise? KATHERINA. Yes; keep you warm. PETRUCHIO. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed; And therefore, setting all this chat aside, Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented That you shall be my wife your dowry ’greed on; And will you, nill you, I will marry you. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,— Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,— Thou must be married to no man but me; For I am he am born to tame you, Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Conformable as other household Kates. Re-enter Baptista, Gremio and Tranio. Here comes your father. Never make denial; I must and will have Katherine to my wife. BAPTISTA. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter? PETRUCHIO. How but well, sir? how but well? It were impossible I should speed amiss. BAPTISTA. Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps? KATHERINA. Call you me daughter? Now I promise you You have show’d a tender fatherly regard To wish me wed to one half lunatic, A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. PETRUCHIO. Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the world That talk’d of her have talk’d amiss of her: If she be curst, it is for policy, For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove; She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; For patience she will prove a second Grissel, And Roman Lucrece for her chastity; And to conclude, we have ’greed so well together That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. KATHERINA. I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first. GREMIO. Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee hang’d first. TRANIO. Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part! PETRUCHIO. Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself; If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you? ’Tis bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone, That she shall still be curst in company. I tell you, ’tis incredible to believe How much she loves me: O! the kindest Kate She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, That in a twink she won me to her love. O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see, How tame, when men and women are alone, A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. Give me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice, To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests; I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine. BAPTISTA. I know not what to say; but give me your hands. God send you joy, Petruchio! ’Tis a match. GREMIO, TRANIO. Amen, say we; we will be witnesses. PETRUCHIO. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu. I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace; We will have rings and things, and fine array; And kiss me, Kate; we will be married o’ Sunday. [_Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina, severally._] GREMIO. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly? BAPTISTA. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part, And venture madly on a desperate mart. TRANIO. ’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you; ’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas. BAPTISTA. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match. GREMIO. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter: Now is the day we long have looked for; I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. TRANIO. And I am one that love Bianca more Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess. GREMIO. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. TRANIO. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze. GREMIO. But thine doth fry. Skipper, stand back; ’tis age that nourisheth. TRANIO. But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth. BAPTISTA. Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife: ’Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both That can assure my daughter greatest dower Shall have my Bianca’s love. Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her? GREMIO. First, as you know, my house within the city Is richly furnished with plate and gold: Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands; My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry; In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns; In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl, Valance of Venice gold in needlework; Pewter and brass, and all things that belong To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, And all things answerable to this portion. Myself am struck in years, I must confess; And if I die tomorrow this is hers, If whilst I live she will be only mine. TRANIO. That ‘only’ came well in. Sir, list to me: I am my father’s heir and only son; If I may have your daughter to my wife, I’ll leave her houses three or four as good Within rich Pisa’s walls as anyone Old Signior Gremio has in Padua; Besides two thousand ducats by the year Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio? GREMIO. Two thousand ducats by the year of land! My land amounts not to so much in all: That she shall have, besides an argosy That now is lying in Marseilles’ road. What, have I chok’d you with an argosy? TRANIO. Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses, And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her, And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next. GREMIO. Nay, I have offer’d all; I have no more; And she can have no more than all I have; If you like me, she shall have me and mine. TRANIO. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world, By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied. BAPTISTA. I must confess your offer is the best; And let your father make her the assurance, She is your own; else, you must pardon me; If you should die before him, where’s her dower? TRANIO. That’s but a cavil; he is old, I young. GREMIO. And may not young men die as well as old? BAPTISTA. Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolv’d. On Sunday next, you know, My daughter Katherine is to be married; Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca Be bride to you, if you make this assurance; If not, to Signior Gremio. And so I take my leave, and thank you both. GREMIO. Adieu, good neighbour. [_Exit Baptista._] Now, I fear thee not: Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool To give thee all, and in his waning age Set foot under thy table. Tut! a toy! An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [_Exit._] TRANIO. A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide! Yet I have fac’d it with a card of ten. ’Tis in my head to do my master good: I see no reason but suppos’d Lucentio Must get a father, call’d suppos’d Vincentio; And that’s a wonder: fathers commonly Do get their children; but in this case of wooing A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. Enter Lucentio, Hortensio and Bianca. LUCENTIO. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir. Have you so soon forgot the entertainment Her sister Katherine welcome’d you withal? HORTENSIO. But, wrangling pedant, this is The patroness of heavenly harmony: Then give me leave to have prerogative; And when in music we have spent an hour, Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. LUCENTIO. Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain’d! Was it not to refresh the mind of man After his studies or his usual pain? Then give me leave to read philosophy, And while I pause serve in your harmony. HORTENSIO. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. BIANCA. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, To strive for that which resteth in my choice. I am no breeching scholar in the schools, I’ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times, But learn my lessons as I please myself. And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down; Take you your instrument, play you the whiles; His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d. HORTENSIO. You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune? [_Retires._] LUCENTIO. That will be never: tune your instrument. BIANCA. Where left we last? LUCENTIO. Here, madam:— _Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus; Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis._ BIANCA. Construe them. LUCENTIO. _Hic ibat_, as I told you before, _Simois_, I am Lucentio, _hic est_, son unto Vincentio of Pisa, _Sigeia tellus_, disguised thus to get your love, _Hic steterat_, and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, _Priami_, is my man Tranio, _regia_, bearing my port, _celsa senis_, that we might beguile the old pantaloon. HORTENSIO. [_Returning._] Madam, my instrument’s in tune. BIANCA. Let’s hear.— [Hortensio _plays._] O fie! the treble jars. LUCENTIO. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. BIANCA. Now let me see if I can construe it: _Hic ibat Simois_, I know you not; _hic est Sigeia tellus_, I trust you not; _Hic steterat Priami_, take heed he hear us not; _regia_, presume not; _celsa senis_, despair not. HORTENSIO. Madam, ’tis now in tune. LUCENTIO. All but the base. HORTENSIO. The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars. [_Aside_] How fiery and forward our pedant is! Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love: Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet. BIANCA. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. LUCENTIO. Mistrust it not; for sure, Æacides Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather. BIANCA. I must believe my master; else, I promise you, I should be arguing still upon that doubt; But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you. Good master, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both. HORTENSIO. [_To Lucentio_] You may go walk and give me leave a while; My lessons make no music in three parts. LUCENTIO. Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait, [_Aside_] And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d, Our fine musician groweth amorous. HORTENSIO. Madam, before you touch the instrument, To learn the order of my fingering, I must begin with rudiments of art; To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, More pleasant, pithy, and effectual, Than hath been taught by any of my trade: And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. BIANCA. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. HORTENSIO. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. BIANCA. _Gamut_ I am, the ground of all accord, _A re_, to plead Hortensio’s passion; _B mi_, Bianca, take him for thy lord, _C fa ut_, that loves with all affection: _D sol re_, one clef, two notes have I _E la mi_, show pity or I die. Call you this gamut? Tut, I like it not: Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice, To change true rules for odd inventions. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books, And help to dress your sister’s chamber up: You know tomorrow is the wedding-day. BIANCA. Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone. [_Exeunt Bianca and Servant._] LUCENTIO. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [_Exit._] HORTENSIO. But I have cause to pry into this pedant: Methinks he looks as though he were in love. Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble To cast thy wand’ring eyes on every stale, Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. Before Baptista’s house. Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katherina, Bianca, Lucentio and Attendants. BAPTISTA. [_To Tranio_.] Signior Lucentio, this is the ’pointed day That Katherine and Petruchio should be married, And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. What will be said? What mockery will it be To want the bridegroom when the priest attends To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage! What says Lucentio to this shame of ours? KATHERINA. No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc’d To give my hand, oppos’d against my heart, Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen; Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour; And to be noted for a merry man, He’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage, Make friends, invite, and proclaim the banns; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d. Now must the world point at poor Katherine, And say ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife, If it would please him come and marry her.’ TRANIO. Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too. Upon my life, Petruchio means but well, Whatever fortune stays him from his word: Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise; Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. KATHERINA. Would Katherine had never seen him though! [_Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others._] BAPTISTA. Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep, For such an injury would vex a very saint; Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Enter Biondello. Master, master! News! old news, and such news as you never heard of! BAPTISTA. Is it new and old too? How may that be? BIONDELLO. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s coming? BAPTISTA. Is he come? BIONDELLO. Why, no, sir. BAPTISTA. What then? BIONDELLO. He is coming. BAPTISTA. When will he be here? BIONDELLO. When he stands where I am and sees you there. TRANIO. But say, what to thine old news? BIONDELLO. Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turned; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep’s leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with pack-thread. BAPTISTA. Who comes with him? BIONDELLO. O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and the humour of forty fancies prick’d in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey. TRANIO. ’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d. BAPTISTA. I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes. BIONDELLO. Why, sir, he comes not. BAPTISTA. Didst thou not say he comes? BIONDELLO. Who? that Petruchio came? BAPTISTA. Ay, that Petruchio came. BIONDELLO. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back. BAPTISTA. Why, that’s all one. BIONDELLO. Nay, by Saint Jamy, I hold you a penny, A horse and a man Is more than one, And yet not many. Enter Petruchio and Grumio. PETRUCHIO. Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home? BAPTISTA. You are welcome, sir. PETRUCHIO. And yet I come not well. BAPTISTA. And yet you halt not. TRANIO. Not so well apparell’d as I wish you were. PETRUCHIO. Were it better, I should rush in thus. But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride? How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown; And wherefore gaze this goodly company, As if they saw some wondrous monument, Some comet or unusual prodigy? BAPTISTA. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day: First were we sad, fearing you would not come; Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate, An eye-sore to our solemn festival. TRANIO. And tell us what occasion of import Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife, And sent you hither so unlike yourself? PETRUCHIO. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear; Sufficeth I am come to keep my word, Though in some part enforced to digress; Which at more leisure I will so excuse As you shall well be satisfied withal. But where is Kate? I stay too long from her; The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church. TRANIO. See not your bride in these unreverent robes; Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine. PETRUCHIO. Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her. BAPTISTA. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. PETRUCHIO. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words; To me she’s married, not unto my clothes. Could I repair what she will wear in me As I can change these poor accoutrements, ’Twere well for Kate and better for myself. But what a fool am I to chat with you When I should bid good morrow to my bride, And seal the title with a lovely kiss! [_Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio and Biondello._] TRANIO. He hath some meaning in his mad attire. We will persuade him, be it possible, To put on better ere he go to church. BAPTISTA. I’ll after him and see the event of this. [_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio and Attendants._] TRANIO. But, sir, to love concerneth us to add Her father’s liking; which to bring to pass, As I before imparted to your worship, I am to get a man,—whate’er he be It skills not much; we’ll fit him to our turn,— And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa, And make assurance here in Padua, Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, And marry sweet Bianca with consent. LUCENTIO. Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly, ’Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage; Which once perform’d, let all the world say no, I’ll keep mine own despite of all the world. TRANIO. That by degrees we mean to look into, And watch our vantage in this business. We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, The narrow-prying father, Minola, The quaint musician, amorous Licio; All for my master’s sake, Lucentio. Re-enter Gremio. Signior Gremio, came you from the church? GREMIO. As willingly as e’er I came from school. TRANIO. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home? GREMIO. A bridegroom, say you? ’Tis a groom indeed, A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. TRANIO. Curster than she? Why, ’tis impossible. GREMIO. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend. TRANIO. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam. GREMIO. Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him. I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest Should ask if Katherine should be his wife, ’Ay, by gogs-wouns’ quoth he, and swore so loud That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book; And as he stoop’d again to take it up, The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff That down fell priest and book, and book and priest: ‘Now take them up,’ quoth he ‘if any list.’ TRANIO. What said the wench, when he rose again? GREMIO. Trembled and shook, for why, he stamp’d and swore As if the vicar meant to cozen him. But after many ceremonies done, He calls for wine: ‘A health!’ quoth he, as if He had been abroad, carousing to his mates After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel, And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face, Having no other reason But that his beard grew thin and hungerly And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking. This done, he took the bride about the neck, And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack That at the parting all the church did echo. And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame; And after me, I know, the rout is coming. Such a mad marriage never was before. Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. [_Music plays._] Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio and Train. PETRUCHIO. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains: I know you think to dine with me today, And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, And therefore here I mean to take my leave. BAPTISTA. Is’t possible you will away tonight? PETRUCHIO. I must away today before night come. Make it no wonder: if you knew my business, You would entreat me rather go than stay. And, honest company, I thank you all, That have beheld me give away myself To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. Dine with my father, drink a health to me. For I must hence; and farewell to you all. TRANIO. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. PETRUCHIO. It may not be. GREMIO. Let me entreat you. PETRUCHIO. It cannot be. KATHERINA. Let me entreat you. PETRUCHIO. I am content. KATHERINA. Are you content to stay? PETRUCHIO. I am content you shall entreat me stay; But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. KATHERINA. Now, if you love me, stay. PETRUCHIO. Grumio, my horse! GRUMIO. Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses. KATHERINA. Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go today; No, nor tomorrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way; You may be jogging whiles your boots are green; For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself. ’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom That take it on you at the first so roundly. PETRUCHIO. O Kate! content thee: prithee be not angry. KATHERINA. I will be angry: what hast thou to do? Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. GREMIO. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. KATHERINA. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner: I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist. PETRUCHIO. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command. Obey the bride, you that attend on her; Go to the feast, revel and domineer, Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves: But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything; And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; I’ll bring mine action on the proudest he That stops my way in Padua. Grumio, Draw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves; Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate; I’ll buckler thee against a million. [_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Grumio._] BAPTISTA. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. GREMIO. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing. TRANIO. Of all mad matches, never was the like. LUCENTIO. Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister? BIANCA. That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated. GREMIO. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. BAPTISTA. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants For to supply the places at the table, You know there wants no junkets at the feast. Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place; And let Bianca take her sister’s room. TRANIO. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it? BAPTISTA. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. A hall in Petruchio’s country house. Enter Grumio. GRUMIO. Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray’d? Was ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. But I with blowing the fire shall warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis! Enter Curtis. CURTIS. Who is that calls so coldly? GRUMIO. A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. CURTIS. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio? GRUMIO. O, ay! Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water. CURTIS. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported? GRUMIO. She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but thou knowest winter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis. CURTIS. Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast. GRUMIO. Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand,—she being now at hand,— thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office? CURTIS. I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world? GRUMIO. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death. CURTIS. There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news. GRUMIO. Why, ‘Jack boy! ho, boy!’ and as much news as wilt thou. CURTIS. Come, you are so full of cony-catching. GRUMIO. Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the servingmen in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, and carpets laid, and everything in order? CURTIS. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news. GRUMIO. First, know my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out. CURTIS. How? GRUMIO. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale. CURTIS. Let’s ha’t, good Grumio. GRUMIO. Lend thine ear. CURTIS. Here. GRUMIO. [_Striking him._] There. CURTIS. This ’tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale. GRUMIO. And therefore ’tis called a sensible tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your ear and beseech listening. Now I begin: _Imprimis_, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,— CURTIS. Both of one horse? GRUMIO. What’s that to thee? CURTIS. Why, a horse. GRUMIO. Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled; how he left her with the horse upon her; how he beat me because her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me: how he swore; how she prayed, that never prayed before; how I cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle was burst; how I lost my crupper; with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave. CURTIS. By this reckoning he is more shrew than she. GRUMIO. Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest; let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brush’d and their garters of an indifferent knit; let them curtsy with their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master’s horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready? CURTIS. They are. GRUMIO. Call them forth. CURTIS. Do you hear? ho! You must meet my master to countenance my mistress. GRUMIO. Why, she hath a face of her own. CURTIS. Who knows not that? GRUMIO. Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her. CURTIS. I call them forth to credit her. GRUMIO. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them. Enter four or five Servants. NATHANIEL. Welcome home, Grumio! PHILIP. How now, Grumio! JOSEPH. What, Grumio! NICHOLAS. Fellow Grumio! NATHANIEL. How now, old lad! GRUMIO. Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you; and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat? NATHANIEL. All things is ready. How near is our master? GRUMIO. E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,— Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master. Enter Petruchio and Katherina. PETRUCHIO. Where be these knaves? What! no man at door To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse? Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?— ALL SERVANTS. Here, here, sir; here, sir. PETRUCHIO. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms! What, no attendance? no regard? no duty? Where is the foolish knave I sent before? GRUMIO. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before. PETRUCHIO. You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park, And bring along these rascal knaves with thee? GRUMIO. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made, And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel; There was no link to colour Peter’s hat, And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing; There was none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. PETRUCHIO. Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in. [_Exeunt some of the Servants._] Where is the life that late I led? Where are those—? Sit down, Kate, and welcome. Food, food, food, food! Re-enter Servants with supper. Why, when, I say?—Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.— Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! when? It was the friar of orders grey, As he forth walked on his way: Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry: [_Strikes him._] Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho! Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither: [_Exit Servant._] One, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted with. Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water? Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.— [_Servant lets the ewer fall. Petruchio strikes him._] You whoreson villain! will you let it fall? KATHERINA. Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling. PETRUCHIO. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave! Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach. Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?— What’s this? Mutton? FIRST SERVANT. Ay. PETRUCHIO. Who brought it? PETER. I. PETRUCHIO. ’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat. What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not? [_Throws the meat, etc., at them._] There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all. You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves! What! do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight. KATHERINA. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet; The meat was well, if you were so contented. PETRUCHIO. I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away, And I expressly am forbid to touch it; For it engenders choler, planteth anger; And better ’twere that both of us did fast, Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. Be patient; tomorrow ’t shall be mended. And for this night we’ll fast for company: Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. [_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Curtis._] NATHANIEL. Peter, didst ever see the like? PETER. He kills her in her own humour. Re-enter Curtis. GRUMIO. Where is he? CURTIS. In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her; And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul, Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, And sits as one new risen from a dream. Away, away! for he is coming hither. [_Exeunt._] Re-enter Petruchio. PETRUCHIO. Thus have I politicly begun my reign, And ’tis my hope to end successfully. My falcon now is sharp and passing empty. And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d, For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard, To make her come, and know her keeper’s call, That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites That bate and beat, and will not be obedient. She eat no meat today, nor none shall eat; Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not; As with the meat, some undeserved fault I’ll find about the making of the bed; And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster, This way the coverlet, another way the sheets; Ay, and amid this hurly I intend That all is done in reverend care of her; And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night: And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl, And with the clamour keep her still awake. This is a way to kill a wife with kindness; And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour. He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak; ’tis charity to show. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Padua. Before Baptista’s house. Enter Tranio and Hortensio. TRANIO. Is ’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca Doth fancy any other but Lucentio? I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. HORTENSIO. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching. [_They stand aside._] Enter Bianca and Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read? BIANCA. What, master, read you? First resolve me that. LUCENTIO. I read that I profess, _The Art to Love_. BIANCA. And may you prove, sir, master of your art! LUCENTIO. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart. [_They retire._] HORTENSIO. Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray, You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio. TRANIO. O despiteful love! unconstant womankind! I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. HORTENSIO. Mistake no more; I am not Licio. Nor a musician as I seem to be; But one that scorn to live in this disguise For such a one as leaves a gentleman And makes a god of such a cullion: Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio. TRANIO. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard Of your entire affection to Bianca; And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness, I will with you, if you be so contented, Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. HORTENSIO. See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio, Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow Never to woo her more, but do forswear her, As one unworthy all the former favours That I have fondly flatter’d her withal. TRANIO. And here I take the like unfeigned oath, Never to marry with her though she would entreat; Fie on her! See how beastly she doth court him! HORTENSIO. Would all the world but he had quite forsworn! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, I will be married to a wealthy widow Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me As I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard. And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love; and so I take my leave, In resolution as I swore before. [_Exit Hortensio. Lucentio and Bianca advance._] TRANIO. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace As ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case! Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love, And have forsworn you with Hortensio. BIANCA. Tranio, you jest; but have you both forsworn me? TRANIO. Mistress, we have. LUCENTIO. Then we are rid of Licio. TRANIO. I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now, That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day. BIANCA. God give him joy! TRANIO. Ay, and he’ll tame her. BIANCA. He says so, Tranio. TRANIO. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school. BIANCA. The taming-school! What, is there such a place? TRANIO. Ay, mistress; and Petruchio is the master, That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long, To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue. Enter Biondello, running. BIONDELLO. O master, master! I have watch’d so long That I am dog-weary; but at last I spied An ancient angel coming down the hill Will serve the turn. TRANIO. What is he, Biondello? BIONDELLO. Master, a mercatante or a pedant, I know not what; but formal in apparel, In gait and countenance surely like a father. LUCENTIO. And what of him, Tranio? TRANIO. If he be credulous and trust my tale, I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, And give assurance to Baptista Minola, As if he were the right Vincentio. Take in your love, and then let me alone. [_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._] Enter a Pedant. PEDANT. God save you, sir! TRANIO. And you, sir! you are welcome. Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest? PEDANT. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two; But then up farther, and as far as Rome; And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. TRANIO. What countryman, I pray? PEDANT. Of Mantua. TRANIO. Of Mantua, sir? Marry, God forbid, And come to Padua, careless of your life! PEDANT. My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard. TRANIO. ’Tis death for anyone in Mantua To come to Padua. Know you not the cause? Your ships are stay’d at Venice; and the Duke,— For private quarrel ’twixt your Duke and him,— Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly. ’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come You might have heard it else proclaim’d about. PEDANT. Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so; For I have bills for money by exchange From Florence, and must here deliver them. TRANIO. Well, sir, to do you courtesy, This will I do, and this I will advise you: First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa? PEDANT. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been, Pisa renowned for grave citizens. TRANIO. Among them know you one Vincentio? PEDANT. I know him not, but I have heard of him, A merchant of incomparable wealth. TRANIO. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say, In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. BIONDELLO. [_Aside._] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one. TRANIO. To save your life in this extremity, This favour will I do you for his sake; And think it not the worst of all your fortunes That you are like to Sir Vincentio. His name and credit shall you undertake, And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d; Look that you take upon you as you should! You understand me, sir; so shall you stay Till you have done your business in the city. If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. PEDANT. O, sir, I do; and will repute you ever The patron of my life and liberty. TRANIO. Then go with me to make the matter good. This, by the way, I let you understand: My father is here look’d for every day To pass assurance of a dower in marriage ’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here: In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you. Go with me to clothe you as becomes you. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A room in Petruchio’s house. Enter Katherina and Grumio. GRUMIO. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life. KATHERINA. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears. What, did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that come unto my father’s door Upon entreaty have a present alms; If not, elsewhere they meet with charity; But I, who never knew how to entreat, Nor never needed that I should entreat, Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep; With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. And that which spites me more than all these wants, He does it under name of perfect love; As who should say, if I should sleep or eat ’Twere deadly sickness, or else present death. I prithee go and get me some repast; I care not what, so it be wholesome food. GRUMIO. What say you to a neat’s foot? KATHERINA. ’Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it. GRUMIO. I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d? KATHERINA. I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me. GRUMIO. I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard? KATHERINA. A dish that I do love to feed upon. GRUMIO. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. KATHERINA. Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest. GRUMIO. Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard, Or else you get no beef of Grumio. KATHERINA. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. GRUMIO. Why then the mustard without the beef. KATHERINA. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave, [_Beats him._] That feed’st me with the very name of meat. Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you That triumph thus upon my misery! Go, get thee gone, I say. Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio. PETRUCHIO. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort? HORTENSIO. Mistress, what cheer? KATHERINA. Faith, as cold as can be. PETRUCHIO. Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me. Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am, To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee: [_Sets the dish on a table._] I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What! not a word? Nay, then thou lov’st it not, And all my pains is sorted to no proof. Here, take away this dish. KATHERINA. I pray you, let it stand. PETRUCHIO. The poorest service is repaid with thanks; And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. KATHERINA. I thank you, sir. HORTENSIO. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame. Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company. PETRUCHIO. [_Aside._] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me. Much good do it unto thy gentle heart! Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father’s house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps, and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things; With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery, With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery. What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure, To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. Enter Tailor. Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments; Lay forth the gown.— Enter Haberdasher. What news with you, sir? HABERDASHER. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. PETRUCHIO. Why, this was moulded on a porringer; A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy: Why, ’tis a cockle or a walnut-shell, A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap: Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. KATHERINA. I’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. PETRUCHIO. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, And not till then. HORTENSIO. [_Aside_] That will not be in haste. KATHERINA. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak; And speak I will. I am no child, no babe. Your betters have endur’d me say my mind, And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, Or else my heart, concealing it, will break; And rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. PETRUCHIO. Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry cap, A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie; I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not. KATHERINA. Love me or love me not, I like the cap; And it I will have, or I will have none. [_Exit Haberdasher._] PETRUCHIO. Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t. O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here? What’s this? A sleeve? ’Tis like a demi-cannon. What, up and down, carv’d like an apple tart? Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash, Like to a censer in a barber’s shop. Why, what i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this? HORTENSIO. [_Aside_] I see she’s like to have neither cap nor gown. TAILOR. You bid me make it orderly and well, According to the fashion and the time. PETRUCHIO. Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d, I did not bid you mar it to the time. Go, hop me over every kennel home, For you shall hop without my custom, sir. I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it. KATHERINA. I never saw a better fashion’d gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable; Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. PETRUCHIO. Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee. TAILOR. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her. PETRUCHIO. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, Thou thimble, Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail! Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou! Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread! Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant, Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st! I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown. TAILOR. Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is made Just as my master had direction. Grumio gave order how it should be done. GRUMIO. I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff. TAILOR. But how did you desire it should be made? GRUMIO. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. TAILOR. But did you not request to have it cut? GRUMIO. Thou hast faced many things. TAILOR. I have. GRUMIO. Face not me. Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be fac’d nor brav’d. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest. TAILOR. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify. PETRUCHIO. Read it. GRUMIO. The note lies in ’s throat, if he say I said so. TAILOR. ’Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown.’ GRUMIO. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread; I said, a gown. PETRUCHIO. Proceed. TAILOR. ‘With a small compassed cape.’ GRUMIO. I confess the cape. TAILOR. ‘With a trunk sleeve.’ GRUMIO. I confess two sleeves. TAILOR. ‘The sleeves curiously cut.’ PETRUCHIO. Ay, there’s the villainy. GRUMIO. Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out, and sew’d up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble. TAILOR. This is true that I say; and I had thee in place where thou shouldst know it. GRUMIO. I am for thee straight; take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. HORTENSIO. God-a-mercy, Grumio! Then he shall have no odds. PETRUCHIO. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. GRUMIO. You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis for my mistress. PETRUCHIO. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use. GRUMIO. Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress’ gown for thy master’s use! PETRUCHIO. Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that? GRUMIO. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for. Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use! O fie, fie, fie! PETRUCHIO. [_Aside_] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid. [_To Tailor._] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more. HORTENSIO. [_Aside to Tailor._] Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown tomorrow; Take no unkindness of his hasty words. Away, I say! commend me to thy master. [_Exit Tailor._] PETRUCHIO. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s Even in these honest mean habiliments. Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel Because his painted skin contents the eye? O no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse For this poor furniture and mean array. If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me; And therefore frolic; we will hence forthwith, To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. Go call my men, and let us straight to him; And bring our horses unto Long-lane end; There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock, And well we may come there by dinner-time. KATHERINA. I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two, And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there. PETRUCHIO. It shall be seven ere I go to horse. Look what I speak, or do, or think to do, You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ’t alone: I will not go today; and ere I do, It shall be what o’clock I say it is. HORTENSIO. Why, so this gallant will command the sun. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Padua. Before Baptista’s house. Enter Tranio and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio TRANIO. Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call? PEDANT. Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived, Signior Baptista may remember me, Near twenty years ago in Genoa, Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. TRANIO. ’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case, With such austerity as ’longeth to a father. PEDANT. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy; ’Twere good he were school’d. Enter Biondello. TRANIO. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, Now do your duty throughly, I advise you. Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio. BIONDELLO. Tut! fear not me. TRANIO. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista? BIONDELLO. I told him that your father was at Venice, And that you look’d for him this day in Padua. TRANIO. Th’art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir. Enter Baptista and Lucentio. Signior Baptista, you are happily met. [_To the Pedant_] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of; I pray you stand good father to me now; Give me Bianca for my patrimony. PEDANT. Soft, son! Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio Made me acquainted with a weighty cause Of love between your daughter and himself: And,—for the good report I hear of you, And for the love he beareth to your daughter, And she to him,—to stay him not too long, I am content, in a good father’s care, To have him match’d; and, if you please to like No worse than I, upon some agreement Me shall you find ready and willing With one consent to have her so bestow’d; For curious I cannot be with you, Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. BAPTISTA. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say. Your plainness and your shortness please me well. Right true it is your son Lucentio here Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him, Or both dissemble deeply their affections; And therefore, if you say no more than this, That like a father you will deal with him, And pass my daughter a sufficient dower, The match is made, and all is done: Your son shall have my daughter with consent. TRANIO. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best We be affied, and such assurance ta’en As shall with either part’s agreement stand? BAPTISTA. Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants; Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still, And happily we might be interrupted. TRANIO. Then at my lodging, and it like you: There doth my father lie; and there this night We’ll pass the business privately and well. Send for your daughter by your servant here; My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. The worst is this, that at so slender warning You are like to have a thin and slender pittance. BAPTISTA. It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home, And bid Bianca make her ready straight; And, if you will, tell what hath happened: Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua, And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife. LUCENTIO. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart! TRANIO. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way? Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer; Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa. BAPTISTA. I follow you. [_Exeunt Tranio, Pedant and Baptista._] BIONDELLO. Cambio! LUCENTIO. What say’st thou, Biondello? BIONDELLO. You saw my master wink and laugh upon you? LUCENTIO. Biondello, what of that? BIONDELLO. Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens. LUCENTIO. I pray thee moralize them. BIONDELLO. Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son. LUCENTIO. And what of him? BIONDELLO. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper. LUCENTIO. And then? BIONDELLO. The old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours. LUCENTIO. And what of all this? BIONDELLO. I cannot tell, except they are busied about a counterfeit assurance. Take your assurance of her, _cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum_; to the church! take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses. If this be not that you look for, I have more to say, But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. [_Going._] LUCENTIO. Hear’st thou, Biondello? BIONDELLO. I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix. [_Exit._] LUCENTIO. I may, and will, if she be so contented. She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt? Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her; It shall go hard if Cambio go without her: [_Exit._] SCENE V. A public road. Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Servants. PETRUCHIO. Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon! KATHERINA. The moon! The sun; it is not moonlight now. PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. KATHERINA. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. PETRUCHIO. Now by my mother’s son, and that’s myself, It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, Or ere I journey to your father’s house. Go on and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d! HORTENSIO. Say as he says, or we shall never go. KATHERINA. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please; And if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon. KATHERINA. I know it is the moon. PETRUCHIO. Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun. KATHERINA. Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun; But sun it is not when you say it is not, And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it nam’d, even that it is, And so it shall be so for Katherine. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won. PETRUCHIO. Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run, And not unluckily against the bias. But, soft! Company is coming here. Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress. [_To Vincentio_] Good morrow, gentle mistress; where away? Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman? Such war of white and red within her cheeks! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty As those two eyes become that heavenly face? Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake. HORTENSIO. A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him. KATHERINA. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet, Whither away, or where is thy abode? Happy the parents of so fair a child; Happier the man whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow. PETRUCHIO. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad: This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d, And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is. KATHERINA. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, That have been so bedazzled with the sun That everything I look on seemeth green: Now I perceive thou art a reverend father; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. PETRUCHIO. Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known Which way thou travellest: if along with us, We shall be joyful of thy company. VINCENTIO. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, That with your strange encounter much amaz’d me, My name is called Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa; And bound I am to Padua, there to visit A son of mine, which long I have not seen. PETRUCHIO. What is his name? VINCENTIO. Lucentio, gentle sir. PETRUCHIO. Happily met; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as well as reverend age, I may entitle thee my loving father: The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, Nor be not griev’d: she is of good esteem, Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio; And wander we to see thy honest son, Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. VINCENTIO. But is this true? or is it else your pleasure, Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake? HORTENSIO. I do assure thee, father, so it is. PETRUCHIO. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof; For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. [_Exeunt all but Hortensio._] HORTENSIO. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. Have to my widow! and if she be froward, Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward. [_Exit._] ACT V SCENE I. Padua. Before Lucentio’s house. Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio and Bianca; Gremio walking on other side. BIONDELLO. Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready. LUCENTIO. I fly, Biondello; but they may chance to need thee at home, therefore leave us. BIONDELLO. Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my master’s as soon as I can. [_Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca and Biondello._] GREMIO. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Vincentio and Attendants. PETRUCHIO. Sir, here’s the door; this is Lucentio’s house: My father’s bears more toward the market-place; Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. VINCENTIO. You shall not choose but drink before you go. I think I shall command your welcome here, And by all likelihood some cheer is toward. [_Knocks._] GREMIO. They’re busy within; you were best knock louder. Enter Pedant above, at a window. PEDANT. What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate? VINCENTIO. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir? PEDANT. He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. VINCENTIO. What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two to make merry withal? PEDANT. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I live. PETRUCHIO. Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him. PEDANT. Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here looking out at the window. VINCENTIO. Art thou his father? PEDANT. Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her. PETRUCHIO. [_To Vincentio_] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery to take upon you another man’s name. PEDANT. Lay hands on the villain: I believe a means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance. Re-enter Biondello. BIONDELLO. I have seen them in the church together: God send ’em good shipping! But who is here? Mine old master, Vincentio! Now we are undone and brought to nothing. VINCENTIO. [_Seeing Biondello._] Come hither, crack-hemp. BIONDELLO. I hope I may choose, sir. VINCENTIO. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me? BIONDELLO. Forgot you! No, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life. VINCENTIO. What, you notorious villain! didst thou never see thy master’s father, Vincentio? BIONDELLO. What, my old worshipful old master? Yes, marry, sir; see where he looks out of the window. VINCENTIO. Is’t so, indeed? [_He beats Biondello._] BIONDELLO. Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me. [_Exit._] PEDANT. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista! [_Exit from the window._] PETRUCHIO. Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside and see the end of this controversy. [_They retire._] Re-enter Pedant, below; Baptista, Tranio and Servants. TRANIO. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant? VINCENTIO. What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet, a velvet hose, a scarlet cloak, and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! While I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university. TRANIO. How now! what’s the matter? BAPTISTA. What, is the man lunatic? TRANIO. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it. VINCENTIO. Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo. BAPTISTA. You mistake, sir; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name? VINCENTIO. His name! As if I knew not his name! I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio. PEDANT. Away, away, mad ass! His name is Lucentio; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio. VINCENTIO. Lucentio! O, he hath murdered his master! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the Duke’s name. O, my son, my son! Tell me, thou villain, where is my son, Lucentio? TRANIO. Call forth an officer. Enter one with an Officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming. VINCENTIO. Carry me to the gaol! GREMIO. Stay, officer; he shall not go to prison. BAPTISTA. Talk not, Signior Gremio; I say he shall go to prison. GREMIO. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business; I dare swear this is the right Vincentio. PEDANT. Swear if thou darest. GREMIO. Nay, I dare not swear it. TRANIO. Then thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio. GREMIO. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio. BAPTISTA. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him! VINCENTIO. Thus strangers may be haled and abus’d: O monstrous villain! Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca. BIONDELLO. O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. LUCENTIO. [_Kneeling._] Pardon, sweet father. VINCENTIO. Lives my sweetest son? [_Biondello, Tranio and Pedant run out._] BIANCA. [_Kneeling._] Pardon, dear father. BAPTISTA. How hast thou offended? Where is Lucentio? LUCENTIO. Here’s Lucentio, Right son to the right Vincentio; That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne. GREMIO. Here ’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all! VINCENTIO. Where is that damned villain, Tranio, That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so? BAPTISTA. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio? BIANCA. Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love Made me exchange my state with Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town; And happily I have arriv’d at the last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. VINCENTIO. I’ll slit the villain’s nose that would have sent me to the gaol. BAPTISTA. [_To Lucentio._] But do you hear, sir? Have you married my daughter without asking my good will? VINCENTIO. Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this villainy. [_Exit._] BAPTISTA. And I to sound the depth of this knavery. [_Exit._] LUCENTIO. Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown. [_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._] GREMIO. My cake is dough, but I’ll in among the rest; Out of hope of all but my share of the feast. [_Exit._] Petruchio and Katherina advance. KATHERINA. Husband, let’s follow to see the end of this ado. PETRUCHIO. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. KATHERINA. What! in the midst of the street? PETRUCHIO. What! art thou ashamed of me? KATHERINA. No, sir; God forbid; but ashamed to kiss. PETRUCHIO. Why, then, let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away. KATHERINA. Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay. PETRUCHIO. Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate: Better once than never, for never too late. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A room in Lucentio’s house. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Widow. Tranio, Biondello and Grumio and Others, attending. LUCENTIO. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree: And time it is when raging war is done, To smile at ’scapes and perils overblown. My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, While I with self-same kindness welcome thine. Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina, And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, Feast with the best, and welcome to my house: My banquet is to close our stomachs up, After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down; For now we sit to chat as well as eat. [_They sit at table._] PETRUCHIO. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat! BAPTISTA. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. PETRUCHIO. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. HORTENSIO. For both our sakes I would that word were true. PETRUCHIO. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. WIDOW. Then never trust me if I be afeard. PETRUCHIO. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense: I mean Hortensio is afeard of you. WIDOW. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round. PETRUCHIO. Roundly replied. KATHERINA. Mistress, how mean you that? WIDOW. Thus I conceive by him. PETRUCHIO. Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that? HORTENSIO. My widow says thus she conceives her tale. PETRUCHIO. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow. KATHERINA. ’He that is giddy thinks the world turns round’: I pray you tell me what you meant by that. WIDOW. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe; And now you know my meaning. KATHERINA. A very mean meaning. WIDOW. Right, I mean you. KATHERINA. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. PETRUCHIO. To her, Kate! HORTENSIO. To her, widow! PETRUCHIO. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down. HORTENSIO. That’s my office. PETRUCHIO. Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad. [_Drinks to Hortensio._] BAPTISTA. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks? GREMIO. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. BIANCA. Head and butt! An hasty-witted body Would say your head and butt were head and horn. VINCENTIO. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you? BIANCA. Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again. PETRUCHIO. Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun, Have at you for a bitter jest or two. BIANCA. Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush, And then pursue me as you draw your bow. You are welcome all. [_Exeunt Bianca, Katherina and Widow._] PETRUCHIO. She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio; This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not: Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d. TRANIO. O, sir! Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound, Which runs himself, and catches for his master. PETRUCHIO. A good swift simile, but something currish. TRANIO. ’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself: ’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay. BAPTISTA. O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now. LUCENTIO. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. HORTENSIO. Confess, confess; hath he not hit you here? PETRUCHIO. A has a little gall’d me, I confess; And as the jest did glance away from me, ’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright. BAPTISTA. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. PETRUCHIO. Well, I say no; and therefore, for assurance, Let’s each one send unto his wife, And he whose wife is most obedient, To come at first when he doth send for her, Shall win the wager which we will propose. HORTENSIO. Content. What’s the wager? LUCENTIO. Twenty crowns. PETRUCHIO. Twenty crowns! I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound, But twenty times so much upon my wife. LUCENTIO. A hundred then. HORTENSIO. Content. PETRUCHIO. A match! ’tis done. HORTENSIO. Who shall begin? LUCENTIO. That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. BIONDELLO. I go. [_Exit._] BAPTISTA. Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes. LUCENTIO. I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself. Re-enter Biondello. How now! what news? BIONDELLO. Sir, my mistress sends you word That she is busy and she cannot come. PETRUCHIO. How! She’s busy, and she cannot come! Is that an answer? GREMIO. Ay, and a kind one too: Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. PETRUCHIO. I hope better. HORTENSIO. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith. [_Exit Biondello._] PETRUCHIO. O, ho! entreat her! Nay, then she must needs come. HORTENSIO. I am afraid, sir, Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. Re-enter Biondello. Now, where’s my wife? BIONDELLO. She says you have some goodly jest in hand: She will not come; she bids you come to her. PETRUCHIO. Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile, Intolerable, not to be endur’d! Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress, Say I command her come to me. [_Exit Grumio._] HORTENSIO. I know her answer. PETRUCHIO. What? HORTENSIO. She will not. PETRUCHIO. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. Re-enter Katherina. BAPTISTA. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katherina! KATHERINA. What is your will sir, that you send for me? PETRUCHIO. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife? KATHERINA. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. PETRUCHIO. Go fetch them hither; if they deny to come, Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands. Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. [_Exit Katherina._] LUCENTIO. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. HORTENSIO. And so it is. I wonder what it bodes. PETRUCHIO. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, An awful rule, and right supremacy; And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy. BAPTISTA. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio! The wager thou hast won; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns; Another dowry to another daughter, For she is chang’d, as she had never been. PETRUCHIO. Nay, I will win my wager better yet, And show more sign of her obedience, Her new-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes, and brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Re-enter Katherina with Bianca and Widow. Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not: Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot. [_Katherina pulls off her cap and throws it down._] WIDOW. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh Till I be brought to such a silly pass! BIANCA. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this? LUCENTIO. I would your duty were as foolish too; The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time! BIANCA. The more fool you for laying on my duty. PETRUCHIO. Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. WIDOW. Come, come, you’re mocking; we will have no telling. PETRUCHIO. Come on, I say; and first begin with her. WIDOW. She shall not. PETRUCHIO. I say she shall: and first begin with her. KATHERINA. Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow, And dart not scornful glances from those eyes To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor: It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds, And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks, and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince, Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord?— I am asham’d that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace, Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours, My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown; But now I see our lances are but straws, Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husband’s foot: In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready; may it do him ease. PETRUCHIO. Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate. LUCENTIO. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t. VINCENTIO. ’Tis a good hearing when children are toward. LUCENTIO. But a harsh hearing when women are froward. PETRUCHIO. Come, Kate, we’ll to bed. We three are married, but you two are sped. ’Twas I won the wager, [_To Lucentio._] though you hit the white; And being a winner, God give you good night! [_Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina._] HORTENSIO. Now go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew. LUCENTIO. ’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so. [_Exeunt._] THE TEMPEST Contents ACT I Scene I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard. Scene II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero. ACT II Scene I. Another part of the island. Scene II. Another part of the island. ACT III Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell. Scene II. Another part of the island. Scene III. Another part of the island. ACT IV Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell. ACT V Scene I. Before the cell of Prospero. Epilogue. Dramatis Personæ ALONSO, King of Naples SEBASTIAN, his brother PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan FERDINAND, Son to the King of Naples GONZALO, an honest old counsellor ADRIAN, Lord FRANCISCO, Lord CALIBAN, a savage and deformed slave TRINCULO, a jester STEPHANO, a drunken butler MASTER OF A SHIP BOATSWAIN MARINERS MIRANDA, daughter to Prospero ARIEL, an airy Spirit IRIS, presented by Spirits CERES, presented by Spirits JUNO, presented by Spirits NYMPHS, presented by Spirits REAPERS, presented by Spirits Other Spirits attending on Prospero SCENE: The sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island. ACT I SCENE I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard. Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain severally. MASTER. Boatswain! BOATSWAIN. Here, master: what cheer? MASTER. Good! Speak to the mariners: fall to ’t yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir. [_Exit._] Enter Mariners. BOATSWAIN. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to th’ master’s whistle. Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo and others. ALONSO. Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master? Play the men. BOATSWAIN. I pray now, keep below. ANTONIO. Where is the master, boson? BOATSWAIN. Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm. GONZALO. Nay, good, be patient. BOATSWAIN. When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king? To cabin! silence! Trouble us not. GONZALO. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. BOATSWAIN. None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out of our way, I say. [_Exit._] GONZALO. I have great comfort from this fellow. Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him. His complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging! Make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang’d, our case is miserable. [_Exeunt._] Re-enter Boatswain. BOATSWAIN. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi’ th’ maincourse. [_A cry within._] A plague upon this howling! They are louder than the weather or our office. Enter Sebastian, Antonio and Gonzalo. Yet again! What do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? Have you a mind to sink? SEBASTIAN. A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog! BOATSWAIN. Work you, then. ANTONIO. Hang, cur, hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art. GONZALO. I’ll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench. BOATSWAIN. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses: off to sea again: lay her off. Enter Mariners, wet. MARINERS. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost! [_Exeunt._] BOATSWAIN. What, must our mouths be cold? GONZALO. The King and Prince at prayers! Let’s assist them, For our case is as theirs. SEBASTIAN. I am out of patience. ANTONIO. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards. This wide-chapp’d rascal—would thou might’st lie drowning The washing of ten tides! GONZALO. He’ll be hang’d yet, Though every drop of water swear against it, And gape at wid’st to glut him. _A confused noise within: _“Mercy on us!”— “We split, we split!”—“Farewell, my wife and children!”— “Farewell, brother!”—“We split, we split, we split!” ANTONIO. Let’s all sink wi’ th’ King. [_Exit._] SEBASTIAN. Let’s take leave of him. [_Exit._] GONZALO. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground. Long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero. Enter Prospero and Miranda. MIRANDA. If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek, Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered With those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel, Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, Dash’d all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish’d. Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere It should the good ship so have swallow’d and The fraughting souls within her. PROSPERO. Be collected: No more amazement: tell your piteous heart There’s no harm done. MIRANDA. O, woe the day! PROSPERO. No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, And thy no greater father. MIRANDA. More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts. PROSPERO. ’Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me.—So: [_Lays down his mantle._] Lie there my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch’d The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such provision in mine art So safely ordered that there is no soul— No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know farther. MIRANDA. You have often Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d, And left me to a bootless inquisition, Concluding “Stay; not yet.” PROSPERO. The hour’s now come, The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not Out three years old. MIRANDA. Certainly, sir, I can. PROSPERO. By what? By any other house, or person? Of anything the image, tell me, that Hath kept with thy remembrance. MIRANDA. ’Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me? PROSPERO. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou rememb’rest aught ere thou cam’st here, How thou cam’st here, thou mayst. MIRANDA. But that I do not. PROSPERO. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A prince of power. MIRANDA. Sir, are not you my father? PROSPERO. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter. And thy father Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir And princess, no worse issued. MIRANDA. O, the heavens! What foul play had we that we came from thence? Or blessed was’t we did? PROSPERO. Both, both, my girl. By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence; But blessedly holp hither. MIRANDA. O, my heart bleeds To think o’ th’ teen that I have turn’d you to, Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther. PROSPERO. My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio— I pray thee, mark me, that a brother should Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put The manage of my state; as at that time Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts, Without a parallel: those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle— Dost thou attend me? MIRANDA. Sir, most heedfully. PROSPERO. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em, Or else new form’d ’em: having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ th’ state To what tune pleas’d his ear: that now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And suck’d my verdure out on ’t. Thou attend’st not. MIRANDA. O, good sir! I do. PROSPERO. I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind With that which, but by being so retir’d, O’er-priz’d all popular rate, in my false brother Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary as great As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact, like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie, he did believe He was indeed the Duke; out o’ the substitution, And executing th’ outward face of royalty, With all prerogative. Hence his ambition growing— Dost thou hear? MIRANDA. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. PROSPERO. To have no screen between this part he play’d And him he play’d it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates, So dry he was for sway, wi’ th’ King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend The dukedom, yet unbow’d—alas, poor Milan!— To most ignoble stooping. MIRANDA. O the heavens! PROSPERO. Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me If this might be a brother. MIRANDA. I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons. PROSPERO. Now the condition. This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit; Which was, that he, in lieu o’ th’ premises Of homage and I know not how much tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan, With all the honours on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to th’ purpose, did Antonio open The gates of Milan; and, i’ th’ dead of darkness, The ministers for th’ purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self. MIRANDA. Alack, for pity! I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then, Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to ’t. PROSPERO. Hear a little further, And then I’ll bring thee to the present business Which now’s upon us; without the which this story Were most impertinent. MIRANDA. Wherefore did they not That hour destroy us? PROSPERO. Well demanded, wench: My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, So dear the love my people bore me, nor set A mark so bloody on the business; but With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg’d, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us, To cry to th’ sea, that roar’d to us; to sigh To th’ winds, whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong. MIRANDA. Alack, what trouble Was I then to you! PROSPERO. O, a cherubin Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt, Under my burden groan’d: which rais’d in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue. MIRANDA. How came we ashore? PROSPERO. By Providence divine. Some food we had and some fresh water that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, who being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, Which since have steaded much: so, of his gentleness, Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. MIRANDA. Would I might But ever see that man! PROSPERO. Now I arise. Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arriv’d; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit Than other princes can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. MIRANDA. Heavens thank you for ’t! And now, I pray you, sir, For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason For raising this sea-storm? PROSPERO. Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions; Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ’tis a good dulness, And give it way. I know thou canst not choose. [_Miranda sleeps._] Come away, servant, come! I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel. Come! Enter Ariel. ARIEL. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality. PROSPERO. Hast thou, spirit, Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee? ARIEL. To every article. I boarded the King’s ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flam’d amazement; sometime I’d divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet and join. Jove’s lightning, the precursors O’ th’ dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, Yea, his dread trident shake. PROSPERO. My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason? ARIEL. Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the King’s son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring—then like reeds, not hair— Was the first man that leapt; cried “Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.” PROSPERO. Why, that’s my spirit! But was not this nigh shore? ARIEL. Close by, my master. PROSPERO. But are they, Ariel, safe? ARIEL. Not a hair perish’d; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou bad’st me, In troops I have dispers’d them ’bout the isle. The King’s son have I landed by himself, Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot. PROSPERO. Of the King’s ship The mariners, say how thou hast dispos’d, And all the rest o’ th’ fleet? ARIEL. Safely in harbour Is the King’s ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the still-vex’d Bermoothes; there she’s hid: The mariners all under hatches stowed; Who, with a charm join’d to their suff’red labour, I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ th’ fleet, Which I dispers’d, they all have met again, And are upon the Mediterranean flote Bound sadly home for Naples, Supposing that they saw the King’s ship wrack’d, And his great person perish. PROSPERO. Ariel, thy charge Exactly is perform’d; but there’s more work. What is the time o’ th’ day? ARIEL. Past the mid season. PROSPERO. At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now Must by us both be spent most preciously. ARIEL. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d, Which is not yet perform’d me. PROSPERO. How now! moody? What is’t thou canst demand? ARIEL. My liberty. PROSPERO. Before the time be out? No more! ARIEL. I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year. PROSPERO. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee? ARIEL. No. PROSPERO. Thou dost, and think’st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o’ th’ earth When it is bak’d with frost. ARIEL. I do not, sir. PROSPERO. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her? ARIEL. No, sir. PROSPERO. Thou hast. Where was she born? Speak; tell me. ARIEL. Sir, in Argier. PROSPERO. O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true? ARIEL. Ay, sir. PROSPERO. This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with child, And here was left by th’ sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died, And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island— Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckl’d whelp, hag-born—not honour’d with A human shape. ARIEL. Yes, Caliban her son. PROSPERO. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax Could not again undo; it was mine art, When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape The pine, and let thee out. ARIEL. I thank thee, master. PROSPERO. If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak And peg thee in his knotty entrails till Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters. ARIEL. Pardon, master: I will be correspondent to command, And do my spriting gently. PROSPERO. Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee. ARIEL. That’s my noble master! What shall I do? Say what? What shall I do? PROSPERO. Go make thyself like a nymph o’ th’ sea. Be subject To no sight but thine and mine; invisible To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape, And hither come in ’t. Go, hence with diligence! [_Exit Ariel._] Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake! MIRANDA. [_Waking._] The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me. PROSPERO. Shake it off. Come on; We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer. MIRANDA. ’Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on. PROSPERO. But as ’tis, We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices That profit us. What ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! Speak. CALIBAN. [_Within._] There’s wood enough within. PROSPERO. Come forth, I say; there’s other business for thee. Come, thou tortoise! when? Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph. Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear. ARIEL. My lord, it shall be done. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! Enter Caliban. CALIBAN. As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye, And blister you all o’er! PROSPERO. For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinch’d As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made them. CALIBAN. I must eat my dinner. This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first, Thou strok’st me and made much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in ’t; and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night: and then I lov’d thee, And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile. Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own King; and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o’ th’ island. PROSPERO. Thou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us’d thee, Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodg’d thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child. CALIBAN. Oh ho! Oh ho! Would ’t had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else This isle with Calibans. PROSPERO. Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in ’t which good natures Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou Deservedly confin’d into this rock, Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison. CALIBAN. You taught me language, and my profit on ’t Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you, For learning me your language! PROSPERO. Hag-seed, hence! Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou ’rt best, To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice? If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, That beasts shall tremble at thy din. CALIBAN. No, pray thee. [_Aside._] I must obey. His art is of such power, It would control my dam’s god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him. PROSPERO. So, slave, hence! [_Exit Caliban._] Re-enter Ariel, playing and singing; Ferdinand following. ARIEL’S SONG. _Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d The wild waves whist. Foot it featly here and there, And sweet sprites bear The burden. Hark, hark!_ Burden dispersedly. _Bow-wow. The watch dogs bark._ [Burden dispersedly.] _Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry cock-a-diddle-dow._ FERDINAND. Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth? It sounds no more; and sure it waits upon Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the King my father’s wrack, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it, Or it hath drawn me rather,—but ’tis gone. No, it begins again. ARIEL. [_Sings._] _Full fathom five thy father lies. Of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes. Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:_ Burden: _Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them: ding-dong, bell._ FERDINAND. The ditty does remember my drown’d father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me. PROSPERO. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond. MIRANDA. What is’t? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit. PROSPERO. No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wrack; and, but he’s something stain’d With grief,—that’s beauty’s canker,—thou mightst call him A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows And strays about to find ’em. MIRANDA. I might call him A thing divine; for nothing natural I ever saw so noble. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] It goes on, I see, As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee Within two days for this. FERDINAND. Most sure, the goddess On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer May know if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give How I may bear me here: my prime request, Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid or no? MIRANDA. No wonder, sir; But certainly a maid. FERDINAND. My language! Heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where ’tis spoken. PROSPERO. How! the best? What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee? FERDINAND. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me; And that he does I weep: myself am Naples, Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld The King my father wrack’d. MIRANDA. Alack, for mercy! FERDINAND. Yes, faith, and all his lords, the Duke of Milan, And his brave son being twain. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] The Duke of Milan And his more braver daughter could control thee, If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, I’ll set thee free for this. [_To Ferdinand._] A word, good sir. I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word. MIRANDA. Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first That e’er I sigh’d for. Pity move my father To be inclin’d my way! FERDINAND. O! if a virgin, And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you The Queen of Naples. PROSPERO. Soft, sir; one word more. [_Aside._] They are both in either’s powers. But this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. [_To Ferdinand._] One word more. I charge thee That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp The name thou ow’st not; and hast put thyself Upon this island as a spy, to win it From me, the lord on ’t. FERDINAND. No, as I am a man. MIRANDA. There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with ’t. PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me.— [_To Miranda._] Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor. [_To Ferdinand._] Come; I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together: Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be The fresh-brook mussels, wither’d roots, and husks Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow. FERDINAND. No; I will resist such entertainment till Mine enemy has more power. [_He draws, and is charmed from moving._] MIRANDA. O dear father! Make not too rash a trial of him, for He’s gentle, and not fearful. PROSPERO. What! I say, My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; Who mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy conscience Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward, For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop. MIRANDA. Beseech you, father! PROSPERO. Hence! Hang not on my garments. MIRANDA. Sir, have pity; I’ll be his surety. PROSPERO. Silence! One word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! An advocate for an impostor? hush! Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he, Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To th’ most of men this is a Caliban, And they to him are angels. MIRANDA. My affections Are then most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man. PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on; obey: Thy nerves are in their infancy again, And have no vigour in them. FERDINAND. So they are: My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel, The wrack of all my friends, nor this man’s threats, To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, Might I but through my prison once a day Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth Let liberty make use of; space enough Have I in such a prison. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] It works. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me. [_To Ariel._] Hark what thou else shalt do me. MIRANDA. Be of comfort; My father’s of a better nature, sir, Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him. PROSPERO. Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds; but then exactly do All points of my command. ARIEL. To th’ syllable. PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Come, follow. Speak not for him. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Another part of the island. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco and others. GONZALO. Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause, So have we all, of joy; for our escape Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe Is common; every day, some sailor’s wife, The masters of some merchant and the merchant, Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle, I mean our preservation, few in millions Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh Our sorrow with our comfort. ALONSO. Prithee, peace. SEBASTIAN. He receives comfort like cold porridge. ANTONIO. The visitor will not give him o’er so. SEBASTIAN. Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike. GONZALO. Sir,— SEBASTIAN. One: tell. GONZALO. When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d, Comes to the entertainer— SEBASTIAN. A dollar. GONZALO. Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed. SEBASTIAN. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should. GONZALO. Therefore, my lord,— ANTONIO. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue! ALONSO. I prithee, spare. GONZALO. Well, I have done: but yet— SEBASTIAN. He will be talking. ANTONIO. Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow? SEBASTIAN. The old cock. ANTONIO. The cockerel. SEBASTIAN. Done. The wager? ANTONIO. A laughter. SEBASTIAN. A match! ADRIAN. Though this island seem to be desert,— ANTONIO. Ha, ha, ha! SEBASTIAN. So. You’re paid. ADRIAN. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,— SEBASTIAN. Yet— ADRIAN. Yet— ANTONIO. He could not miss ’t. ADRIAN. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance. ANTONIO. Temperance was a delicate wench. SEBASTIAN. Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered. ADRIAN. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. SEBASTIAN. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones. ANTONIO. Or, as ’twere perfum’d by a fen. GONZALO. Here is everything advantageous to life. ANTONIO. True; save means to live. SEBASTIAN. Of that there’s none, or little. GONZALO. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! ANTONIO. The ground indeed is tawny. SEBASTIAN. With an eye of green in’t. ANTONIO. He misses not much. SEBASTIAN. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. GONZALO. But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,— SEBASTIAN. As many vouch’d rarities are. GONZALO. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water. ANTONIO. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies? SEBASTIAN. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. GONZALO. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the King’s fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis. SEBASTIAN. ’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return. ADRIAN. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their Queen. GONZALO. Not since widow Dido’s time. ANTONIO. Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido! SEBASTIAN. What if he had said, widower Aeneas too? Good Lord, how you take it! ADRIAN. Widow Dido said you? You make me study of that; she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. GONZALO. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. ADRIAN. Carthage? GONZALO. I assure you, Carthage. ANTONIO. His word is more than the miraculous harp. SEBASTIAN. He hath rais’d the wall, and houses too. ANTONIO. What impossible matter will he make easy next? SEBASTIAN. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple. ANTONIO. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands. ALONSO. Ay. ANTONIO. Why, in good time. GONZALO. [_To Alonso._] Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now Queen. ANTONIO. And the rarest that e’er came there. SEBASTIAN. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. ANTONIO. O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido. GONZALO. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort. ANTONIO. That sort was well fish’d for. GONZALO. When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage? ALONSO. You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too, Who is so far from Italy removed, I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee? FRANCISCO. Sir, he may live: I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs. He trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him. His bold head ’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke To th’ shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bowed, As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt He came alive to land. ALONSO. No, no, he’s gone. SEBASTIAN. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss, That would not bless our Europe with your daughter, But rather lose her to an African; Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye, Who hath cause to wet the grief on ’t. ALONSO. Prithee, peace. SEBASTIAN. You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise By all of us; and the fair soul herself Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at Which end o’ th’ beam should bow. We have lost your son, I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have More widows in them of this business’ making, Than we bring men to comfort them. The fault’s your own. ALONSO. So is the dear’st o’ th’ loss. GONZALO. My lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in. You rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster. SEBASTIAN. Very well. ANTONIO. And most chirurgeonly. GONZALO. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy. SEBASTIAN. Foul weather? ANTONIO. Very foul. GONZALO. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,— ANTONIO. He’d sow ’t with nettle-seed. SEBASTIAN. Or docks, or mallows. GONZALO. And were the King on’t, what would I do? SEBASTIAN. ’Scape being drunk for want of wine. GONZALO. I’ th’ commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things; for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation; all men idle, all; And women too, but innocent and pure; No sovereignty,— SEBASTIAN. Yet he would be King on’t. ANTONIO. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning. GONZALO. All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour; treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of it own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people. SEBASTIAN. No marrying ’mong his subjects? ANTONIO. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves. GONZALO. I would with such perfection govern, sir, T’ excel the Golden Age. SEBASTIAN. Save his Majesty! ANTONIO. Long live Gonzalo! GONZALO. And,—do you mark me, sir? ALONSO. Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me. GONZALO. I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing. ANTONIO. ’Twas you we laughed at. GONZALO. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you. So you may continue, and laugh at nothing still. ANTONIO. What a blow was there given! SEBASTIAN. An it had not fallen flat-long. GONZALO. You are gentlemen of brave mettle. You would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing. Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music. SEBASTIAN. We would so, and then go a-bat-fowling. ANTONIO. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. GONZALO. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy? ANTONIO. Go sleep, and hear us. [_All sleep but Alonso, Sebastian and Antonio._] ALONSO. What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find They are inclin’d to do so. SEBASTIAN. Please you, sir, Do not omit the heavy offer of it: It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter. ANTONIO. We two, my lord, Will guard your person while you take your rest, And watch your safety. ALONSO. Thank you. Wondrous heavy! [_Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel._] SEBASTIAN. What a strange drowsiness possesses them! ANTONIO. It is the quality o’ th’ climate. SEBASTIAN. Why Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not Myself dispos’d to sleep. ANTONIO. Nor I. My spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent; They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Worthy Sebastian? O, what might?—No more. And yet methinks I see it in thy face, What thou shouldst be. Th’ occasion speaks thee; and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head. SEBASTIAN. What, art thou waking? ANTONIO. Do you not hear me speak? SEBASTIAN. I do; and surely It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep. ANTONIO. Noble Sebastian, Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die rather; wink’st Whiles thou art waking. SEBASTIAN. Thou dost snore distinctly: There’s meaning in thy snores. ANTONIO. I am more serious than my custom; you Must be so too, if heed me; which to do Trebles thee o’er. SEBASTIAN. Well, I am standing water. ANTONIO. I’ll teach you how to flow. SEBASTIAN. Do so: to ebb, Hereditary sloth instructs me. ANTONIO. O, If you but knew how you the purpose cherish Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, You more invest it! Ebbing men indeed, Most often, do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth. SEBASTIAN. Prithee, say on: The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim A matter from thee, and a birth, indeed Which throes thee much to yield. ANTONIO. Thus, sir: Although this lord of weak remembrance, this Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,— For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade,—the King his son’s alive, ’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d As he that sleeps here swims. SEBASTIAN. I have no hope That he’s undrown’d. ANTONIO. O, out of that “no hope” What great hope have you! No hope that way is Another way so high a hope, that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown’d? SEBASTIAN. He’s gone. ANTONIO. Then tell me, Who’s the next heir of Naples? SEBASTIAN. Claribel. ANTONIO. She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples Can have no note, unless the sun were post— The Man i’ th’ Moon’s too slow—till newborn chins Be rough and razorable; she that from whom We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again, And by that destiny, to perform an act Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. SEBASTIAN. What stuff is this! How say you? ’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions There is some space. ANTONIO. A space whose ev’ry cubit Seems to cry out “How shall that Claribel Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.” Say this were death That now hath seiz’d them; why, they were no worse Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate As amply and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo. I myself could make A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore The mind that I do! What a sleep were this For your advancement! Do you understand me? SEBASTIAN. Methinks I do. ANTONIO. And how does your content Tender your own good fortune? SEBASTIAN. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero. ANTONIO. True. And look how well my garments sit upon me; Much feater than before; my brother’s servants Were then my fellows; now they are my men. SEBASTIAN. But, for your conscience. ANTONIO. Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe, ’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon, If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead; Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it, Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus, To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk. They’ll tell the clock to any business that We say befits the hour. SEBASTIAN. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent: as thou got’st Milan, I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest, And I the King shall love thee. ANTONIO. Draw together, And when I rear my hand, do you the like, To fall it on Gonzalo. SEBASTIAN. O, but one word. [_They converse apart._] Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible. ARIEL. My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth— For else his project dies—to keep them living. [_Sings in Gonzalo’s ear._] _While you here do snoring lie, Open-ey’d conspiracy His time doth take. If of life you keep a care, Shake off slumber, and beware. Awake! awake!_ ANTONIO. Then let us both be sudden. GONZALO. Now, good angels Preserve the King! [_They wake._] ALONSO. Why, how now! Ho, awake! Why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghastly looking? GONZALO. What’s the matter? SEBASTIAN. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing Like bulls, or rather lions; did ’t not wake you? It struck mine ear most terribly. ALONSO. I heard nothing. ANTONIO. O! ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear, To make an earthquake. Sure, it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions. ALONSO. Heard you this, Gonzalo? GONZALO. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, And that a strange one too, which did awake me. I shak’d you, sir, and cried; as mine eyes open’d, I saw their weapons drawn:—there was a noise, That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard, Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons. ALONSO. Lead off this ground, and let’s make further search For my poor son. GONZALO. Heavens keep him from these beasts! For he is, sure, i’ th’ island. ALONSO. Lead away. [_Exit with the others._] ARIEL. Prospero my lord shall know what I have done: So, King, go safely on to seek thy son. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Another part of the island. Enter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard. CALIBAN. All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me, And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark Out of my way, unless he bid ’em; but For every trifle are they set upon me, Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me, And after bite me; then like hedgehogs which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness. Enter Trinculo. Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat; Perchance he will not mind me. TRINCULO. Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ th’ wind. Yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg’d like a man, and his fins like arms! Warm, o’ my troth! I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by thunderbolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past. Enter Stephano singing; a bottle in his hand. STEPHANO. _I shall no more to sea, to sea, Here shall I die ashore—_ This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral. Well, here’s my comfort. [_Drinks._] _The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, The gunner, and his mate, Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, But none of us car’d for Kate: For she had a tongue with a tang, Would cry to a sailor “Go hang!” She lov’d not the savour of tar nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch. Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang._ This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort. [_Drinks._] CALIBAN. Do not torment me: O! STEPHANO. What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind? Ha? I have not scap’d drowning, to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so again, while Stephano breathes at’ nostrils. CALIBAN. The spirit torments me: O! STEPHANO. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him and keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather. CALIBAN. Do not torment me, prithee; I’ll bring my wood home faster. STEPHANO. He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him. He shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. CALIBAN. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee. STEPHANO. Come on your ways. Open your mouth; here is that which will give language to you, cat. Open your mouth. This will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly. [_gives Caliban a drink_] You cannot tell who’s your friend: open your chaps again. TRINCULO. I should know that voice: it should be—but he is drowned; and these are devils. O, defend me! STEPHANO. Four legs and two voices; a most delicate monster! His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth. TRINCULO. Stephano! STEPHANO. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy! mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no long spoon. TRINCULO. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me, and speak to me; for I am Trinculo—be not afeared—thy good friend Trinculo. STEPHANO. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I’ll pull thee by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How cam’st thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? Can he vent Trinculos? TRINCULO. I took him to be kill’d with a thunderstroke. But art thou not drown’d, Stephano? I hope now thou are not drown’d. Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead moon-calf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans scap’d! STEPHANO. Prithee, do not turn me about. My stomach is not constant. CALIBAN. [_Aside._] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to him. STEPHANO. How didst thou scape? How cam’st thou hither? Swear by this bottle how thou cam’st hither—I escaped upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved o’erboard, by this bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore. CALIBAN. I’ll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject, for the liquor is not earthly. STEPHANO. Here. Swear then how thou escapedst. TRINCULO. Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I’ll be sworn. STEPHANO. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. TRINCULO. O Stephano, hast any more of this? STEPHANO. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by th’ seaside, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! How does thine ague? CALIBAN. Hast thou not dropped from heaven? STEPHANO. Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the Man in the Moon, when time was. CALIBAN. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee. My mistress showed me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush. STEPHANO. Come, swear to that. Kiss the book. I will furnish it anon with new contents. Swear. TRINCULO. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster. I afeard of him? A very weak monster. The Man i’ the Moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth! CALIBAN. I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ the island; and I will kiss thy foot. I prithee, be my god. TRINCULO. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster. When ’s god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle. CALIBAN. I’ll kiss thy foot. I’ll swear myself thy subject. STEPHANO. Come on, then; down, and swear. TRINCULO. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,— STEPHANO. Come, kiss. TRINCULO. But that the poor monster’s in drink. An abominable monster! CALIBAN. I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries; I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, Thou wondrous man. TRINCULO. A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard! CALIBAN. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts; Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee To clustering filberts, and sometimes I’ll get thee Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me? STEPHANO. I prithee now, lead the way without any more talking. Trinculo, the King and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here. Here, bear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we’ll fill him by and by again. CALIBAN. [_Sings drunkenly._] _Farewell, master; farewell, farewell!_ TRINCULO. A howling monster, a drunken monster. CALIBAN. _No more dams I’ll make for fish; Nor fetch in firing At requiring, Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish; ’Ban ’Ban, Cacaliban, Has a new master—Get a new man._ Freedom, high-day! high-day, freedom! freedom, high-day, freedom! STEPHANO. O brave monster! lead the way. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Before Prospero’s cell. Enter Ferdinand bearing a log. FERDINAND. There be some sports are painful, and their labour Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters Point to rich ends. This my mean task Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead, And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed, And he’s compos’d of harshness. I must remove Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness Had never like executor. I forget: But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, Most busy, least when I do it. Enter Miranda and Prospero behind. MIRANDA. Alas now, pray you, Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile! Pray, set it down and rest you. When this burns, ’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself: He’s safe for these three hours. FERDINAND. O most dear mistress, The sun will set, before I shall discharge What I must strive to do. MIRANDA. If you’ll sit down, I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that; I’ll carry it to the pile. FERDINAND. No, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo, While I sit lazy by. MIRANDA. It would become me As well as it does you: and I should do it With much more ease; for my good will is to it, And yours it is against. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Poor worm! thou art infected. This visitation shows it. MIRANDA. You look wearily. FERDINAND. No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me When you are by at night. I do beseech you— Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers— What is your name? MIRANDA. Miranda—O my father! I have broke your hest to say so. FERDINAND. Admir’d Miranda! Indeed, the top of admiration; worth What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have ey’d with best regard, and many a time Th’ harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues Have I lik’d several women; never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d, And put it to the foil: but you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature’s best. MIRANDA. I do not know One of my sex; no woman’s face remember, Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call men than you, good friend, And my dear father: how features are abroad, I am skilless of; but, by my modesty, The jewel in my dower, I would not wish Any companion in the world but you; Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts I therein do forget. FERDINAND. I am, in my condition, A prince, Miranda; I do think, a King; I would not so!—and would no more endure This wooden slavery than to suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides, To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log-man. MIRANDA. Do you love me? FERDINAND. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, And crown what I profess with kind event, If I speak true; if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief! I, Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world, Do love, prize, honour you. MIRANDA. I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Fair encounter Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace On that which breeds between ’em! FERDINAND. Wherefore weep you? MIRANDA. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give; and much less take What I shall die to want. But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! I am your wife if you will marry me; If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant, Whether you will or no. FERDINAND. My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever. MIRANDA. My husband, then? FERDINAND. Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand. MIRANDA. And mine, with my heart in ’t: and now farewell Till half an hour hence. FERDINAND. A thousand thousand! [_Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda severally._] PROSPERO. So glad of this as they, I cannot be, Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book; For yet, ere supper time, must I perform Much business appertaining. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Another part of the island. Enter Caliban with a bottle, Stephano and Trinculo. STEPHANO. Tell not me:—when the butt is out we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board ’em. Servant-monster, drink to me. TRINCULO. Servant-monster! The folly of this island! They say there’s but five upon this isle; we are three of them; if th’ other two be brained like us, the state totters. STEPHANO. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head. TRINCULO. Where should they be set else? He were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. STEPHANO. My man-monster hath drown’d his tongue in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and on, by this light. Thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. TRINCULO. Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no standard. STEPHANO. We’ll not run, Monsieur monster. TRINCULO. Nor go neither. But you’ll lie like dogs, and yet say nothing neither. STEPHANO. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good moon-calf. CALIBAN. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I’ll not serve him, he is not valiant. TRINCULO. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou, was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I today? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster? CALIBAN. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord? TRINCULO. “Lord” quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural! CALIBAN. Lo, lo again! bite him to death, I prithee. STEPHANO. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer, the next tree! The poor monster’s my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity. CALIBAN. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleas’d to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee? STEPHANO. Marry. will I. Kneel and repeat it. I will stand, and so shall Trinculo. Enter Ariel, invisible. CALIBAN. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island. ARIEL. Thou liest. CALIBAN. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou; I would my valiant master would destroy thee; I do not lie. STEPHANO. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in his tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. TRINCULO. Why, I said nothing. STEPHANO. Mum, then, and no more. Proceed. CALIBAN. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; From me he got it. If thy greatness will, Revenge it on him,—for I know thou dar’st; But this thing dare not,— STEPHANO. That’s most certain. CALIBAN. Thou shalt be lord of it and I’ll serve thee. STEPHANO. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou bring me to the party? CALIBAN. Yea, yea, my lord: I’ll yield him thee asleep, Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. ARIEL. Thou liest. Thou canst not. CALIBAN. What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy patch! I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows, And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone He shall drink nought but brine; for I’ll not show him Where the quick freshes are. STEPHANO. Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the monster one word further, and by this hand, I’ll turn my mercy out o’ doors, and make a stock-fish of thee. TRINCULO. Why, what did I? I did nothing. I’ll go farther off. STEPHANO. Didst thou not say he lied? ARIEL. Thou liest. STEPHANO. Do I so? Take thou that. [_Strikes Trinculo._] As you like this, give me the lie another time. TRINCULO. I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits and hearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers! CALIBAN. Ha, ha, ha! STEPHANO. Now, forward with your tale.—Prithee stand further off. CALIBAN. Beat him enough: after a little time, I’ll beat him too. STEPHANO. Stand farther.—Come, proceed. CALIBAN. Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him I’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him, Having first seiz’d his books; or with a log Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember First to possess his books; for without them He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not One spirit to command: they all do hate him As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. He has brave utensils,—for so he calls them,— Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal. And that most deeply to consider is The beauty of his daughter; he himself Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman But only Sycorax my dam and she; But she as far surpasseth Sycorax As great’st does least. STEPHANO. Is it so brave a lass? CALIBAN. Ay, lord, she will become thy bed, I warrant, And bring thee forth brave brood. STEPHANO. Monster, I will kill this man. His daughter and I will be king and queen,—save our graces!—and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo? TRINCULO. Excellent. STEPHANO. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but while thou liv’st, keep a good tongue in thy head. CALIBAN. Within this half hour will he be asleep. Wilt thou destroy him then? STEPHANO. Ay, on mine honour. ARIEL. This will I tell my master. CALIBAN. Thou mak’st me merry. I am full of pleasure. Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch You taught me but while-ere? STEPHANO. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. [_Sings._] _Flout ’em and cout ’em, and scout ’em and flout ’em: Thought is free._ CALIBAN. That’s not the tune. [_Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe._] STEPHANO. What is this same? TRINCULO. This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody. STEPHANO. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take ’t as thou list. TRINCULO. O, forgive me my sins! STEPHANO. He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us! CALIBAN. Art thou afeard? STEPHANO. No, monster, not I. CALIBAN. Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d, I cried to dream again. STEPHANO. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing. CALIBAN. When Prospero is destroyed. STEPHANO. That shall be by and by: I remember the story. TRINCULO. The sound is going away. Let’s follow it, and after do our work. STEPHANO. Lead, monster: we’ll follow. I would I could see this taborer! he lays it on. Wilt come? TRINCULO. I’ll follow, Stephano. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another part of the island. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, &c. GONZALO. By ’r lakin, I can go no further, sir; My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod, indeed, Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience, I needs must rest me. ALONSO. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, Who am myself attach’d with weariness To th’ dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. ANTONIO. [_Aside to Sebastian._] I am right glad that he’s so out of hope. Do not, for one repulse, forgo the purpose That you resolv’d to effect. SEBASTIAN. [_Aside to Antonio._] The next advantage Will we take throughly. ANTONIO. [_Aside to Sebastian._] Let it be tonight; For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance As when they are fresh. SEBASTIAN. [_Aside to Antonio._] I say, tonight: no more. Solemn and strange music: and Prospero above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of salutation; and inviting the King &c., to eat, they depart. ALONSO. What harmony is this? My good friends, hark! GONZALO. Marvellous sweet music! ALONSO. Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these? SEBASTIAN. A living drollery. Now I will believe That there are unicorns; that in Arabia There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne; one phoenix At this hour reigning there. ANTONIO. I’ll believe both; And what does else want credit, come to me, And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie, Though fools at home condemn them. GONZALO. If in Naples I should report this now, would they believe me? If I should say, I saw such islanders,— For, certes, these are people of the island,— Who, though, they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Honest lord, Thou hast said well; for some of you there present Are worse than devils. ALONSO. I cannot too much muse Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing— Although they want the use of tongue—a kind Of excellent dumb discourse. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Praise in departing. FRANCISCO. They vanish’d strangely. SEBASTIAN. No matter, since They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.— Will’t please you taste of what is here? ALONSO. Not I. GONZALO. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys, Who would believe that there were mountaineers Dewlapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at ’em Wallets of flesh? Or that there were such men Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find Each putter-out of five for one will bring us Good warrant of. ALONSO. I will stand to, and feed, Although my last, no matter, since I feel The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke, Stand to, and do as we. Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel like a Harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes. ARIEL. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny, That hath to instrument this lower world And what is in’t,—the never-surfeited sea Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island Where man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst men Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad; And even with such-like valour men hang and drown Their proper selves. [_Seeing Alonso, Sebastian &c., draw their swords._] You fools! I and my fellows Are ministers of Fate: the elements Of whom your swords are temper’d may as well Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish One dowle that’s in my plume. My fellow-ministers Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, Your swords are now too massy for your strengths, And will not be uplifted. But, remember— For that’s my business to you,—that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero; Expos’d unto the sea, which hath requit it, Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have Incens’d the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce, by me Ling’ring perdition,—worse than any death Can be at once,—shall step by step attend You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from— Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads,—is nothing but heart-sorrow, And a clear life ensuing. [_He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carry out the table._] PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Bravely the figure of this Harpy hast thou Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring. Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life And observation strange, my meaner ministers Their several kinds have done. My high charms work, And these mine enemies are all knit up In their distractions; they now are in my power; And in these fits I leave them, while I visit Young Ferdinand,—whom they suppose is drown’d,— And his and mine lov’d darling. [_Exit above._] GONZALO. I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand you In this strange stare? ALONSO. O, it is monstrous! monstrous! Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded, And with him there lie mudded. [_Exit._] SEBASTIAN. But one fiend at a time, I’ll fight their legions o’er. ANTONIO. I’ll be thy second. [_Exeunt Sebastian and Antonio._] GONZALO. All three of them are desperate: their great guilt, Like poison given to work a great time after, Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly And hinder them from what this ecstasy May now provoke them to. ADRIAN. Follow, I pray you. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Before Prospero’s cell. Enter Prospero, Ferdinand and Miranda. PROSPERO. If I have too austerely punish’d you, Your compensation makes amends: for I Have given you here a third of mine own life, Or that for which I live; who once again I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise, And make it halt behind her. FERDINAND. I do believe it Against an oracle. PROSPERO. Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter: but If thou dost break her virgin knot before All sanctimonious ceremonies may With full and holy rite be minister’d, No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall To make this contract grow; but barren hate, Sour-ey’d disdain, and discord shall bestrew The union of your bed with weeds so loathly That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed, As Hymen’s lamps shall light you. FERDINAND. As I hope For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day’s celebration, When I shall think, or Phoebus’ steeds are founder’d, Or Night kept chain’d below. PROSPERO. Fairly spoke: Sit, then, and talk with her, she is thine own. What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel! Enter Ariel. ARIEL. What would my potent master? here I am. PROSPERO. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service Did worthily perform; and I must use you In such another trick. Go bring the rabble, O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place. Incite them to quick motion; for I must Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise, And they expect it from me. ARIEL. Presently? PROSPERO. Ay, with a twink. ARIEL. Before you can say “Come” and “Go,” And breathe twice, and cry “so, so,” Each one, tripping on his toe, Will be here with mop and mow. Do you love me, master? no? PROSPERO. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call. ARIEL. Well, I conceive. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. Look thou be true; do not give dalliance Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw To th’ fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious, Or else good night your vow! FERDINAND. I warrant you, sir; The white cold virgin snow upon my heart Abates the ardour of my liver. PROSPERO. Well. Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary, Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly. No tongue! all eyes! be silent. [_Soft music._] A Masque. Enter Iris. IRIS. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, Where thou thyself dost air: the Queen o’ th’ sky, Whose wat’ry arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, To come and sport; her peacocks fly amain: Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. Enter Ceres. CERES. Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest honey drops, refreshing showers; And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen Summon’d me hither to this short-grass’d green? IRIS. A contract of true love to celebrate, And some donation freely to estate On the blest lovers. CERES. Tell me, heavenly bow, If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company I have forsworn. IRIS. Of her society Be not afraid. I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid Till Hymen’s torch be lighted; but in vain. Mars’s hot minion is return’d again; Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, And be a boy right out. CERES. Highest queen of State, Great Juno comes; I know her by her gait. Enter Juno. JUNO. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, And honour’d in their issue. [_They sing._] JUNO. _Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you! Juno sings her blessings on you._ CERES. _Earth’s increase, foison plenty, Barns and garners never empty; Vines with clust’ring bunches growing; Plants with goodly burden bowing; Spring come to you at the farthest In the very end of harvest! Scarcity and want shall shun you; Ceres’ blessing so is on you._ FERDINAND. This is a most majestic vision, and Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold To think these spirits? PROSPERO. Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call’d to enact My present fancies. FERDINAND. Let me live here ever. So rare a wonder’d father and a wise, Makes this place Paradise. [_Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment._] PROSPERO. Sweet now, silence! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously, There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute, Or else our spell is marr’d. IRIS. You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the windring brooks, With your sedg’d crowns and ever-harmless looks, Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land Answer your summons; Juno does command. Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate A contract of true love. Be not too late. Enter certain Nymphs. You sun-burn’d sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow, and be merry: Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on, And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life: the minute of their plot Is almost come. [_To the Spirits._] Well done! avoid; no more! FERDINAND. This is strange: your father’s in some passion That works him strongly. MIRANDA. Never till this day Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d. PROSPERO. You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort, As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir: Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d: Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled. Be not disturb’d with my infirmity. If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk, To still my beating mind. FERDINAND, MIRANDA. We wish your peace. [_Exeunt._] PROSPERO. Come, with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel. Come! Enter Ariel. ARIEL. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure? PROSPERO. Spirit, We must prepare to meet with Caliban. ARIEL. Ay, my commander. When I presented Ceres, I thought to have told thee of it; but I fear’d Lest I might anger thee. PROSPERO. Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets? ARIEL. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; So full of valour that they smote the air For breathing in their faces; beat the ground For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears, Advanc’d their eyelids, lifted up their noses As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears, That calf-like they my lowing follow’d through Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left them I’ th’ filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, There dancing up to th’ chins, that the foul lake O’erstunk their feet. PROSPERO. This was well done, my bird. Thy shape invisible retain thou still: The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither For stale to catch these thieves. ARIEL. I go, I go. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; And as with age his body uglier grows, So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, Even to roaring. Re-enter Ariel, loaden with glistering apparel, &c. Come, hang them on this line. Prospero and Ariel remain invisible. Enter Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo all wet. CALIBAN. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell. STEPHANO. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us. TRINCULO. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my nose is in great indignation. STEPHANO. So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should take a displeasure against you, look you,— TRINCULO. Thou wert but a lost monster. CALIBAN. Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly. All’s hush’d as midnight yet. TRINCULO. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool! STEPHANO. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss. TRINCULO. That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is your harmless fairy, monster. STEPHANO. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears for my labour. CALIBAN. Prithee, my King, be quiet. Seest thou here, This is the mouth o’ th’ cell: no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker. STEPHANO. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts. TRINCULO. O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! Look what a wardrobe here is for thee! CALIBAN. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash. TRINCULO. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery. O King Stephano! STEPHANO. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll have that gown. TRINCULO. Thy Grace shall have it. CALIBAN. The dropsy drown this fool! What do you mean To dote thus on such luggage? Let’t alone, And do the murder first. If he awake, From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches, Make us strange stuff. STEPHANO. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin. TRINCULO. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your Grace. STEPHANO. I thank thee for that jest. Here’s a garment for ’t: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am King of this country. “Steal by line and level,” is an excellent pass of pate. There’s another garment for ’t. TRINCULO. Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest. CALIBAN. I will have none on’t. We shall lose our time, And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes With foreheads villainous low. STEPHANO. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to, carry this. TRINCULO. And this. STEPHANO. Ay, and this. A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about; Prospero and Ariel setting them on. PROSPERO. Hey, Mountain, hey! ARIEL. Silver! there it goes, Silver! PROSPERO. Fury, Fury! There, Tyrant, there! hark, hark! [_Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo are driven out._] Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them Than pard, or cat o’ mountain. ARIEL. Hark, they roar. PROSPERO. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lies at my mercy all mine enemies. Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou Shalt have the air at freedom. For a little Follow, and do me service. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Before the cell of Prospero. Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel. PROSPERO. Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey, and time Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day? ARIEL. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease. PROSPERO. I did say so, When first I rais’d the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the King and ’s followers? ARIEL. Confin’d together In the same fashion as you gave in charge, Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir, In the line grove which weather-fends your cell; They cannot budge till your release. The King, His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted, And the remainder mourning over them, Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly Him you term’d, sir, “the good old lord, Gonzalo”. His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops From eaves of reeds; your charm so strongly works ’em, That if you now beheld them, your affections Would become tender. PROSPERO. Dost thou think so, spirit? ARIEL. Mine would, sir, were I human. PROSPERO. And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply Passion as they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th’ quick, Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury Do I take part: the rarer action is In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel. My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore, And they shall be themselves. ARIEL. I’ll fetch them, sir. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-bas’d promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ’em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure; and, when I have requir’d Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,— To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book. [_Solemn music._] Re-enter Ariel: after him, Alonso with a frantic gesture, attended by Gonzalo, Sebastian and Antonio in like manner, attended by Adrian and Francisco: they all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there stand charmed; which Prospero observing, speaks. A solemn air, and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains, Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand, For you are spell-stopp’d. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, e’en sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace; And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo! My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him thou follow’st, I will pay thy graces Home, both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch’d for ’t now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition, Expell’d remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian,— Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill’d your King; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them That yet looks on me, or would know me. Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell. [_Exit Ariel._] I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan. Quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free. Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Prospero. ARIEL _Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough._ PROSPERO. Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee; But yet thou shalt have freedom; so, so, so. To the King’s ship, invisible as thou art: There shalt thou find the mariners asleep Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain Being awake, enforce them to this place, And presently, I prithee. ARIEL. I drink the air before me, and return Or ere your pulse twice beat. [_Exit._] GONZALO. All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement Inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us Out of this fearful country! PROSPERO. Behold, sir King, The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero. For more assurance that a living prince Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body; And to thee and thy company I bid A hearty welcome. ALONSO. Whe’er thou be’st he or no, Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee, Th’ affliction of my mind amends, with which, I fear, a madness held me: this must crave, An if this be at all, a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero Be living and be here? PROSPERO. First, noble friend, Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot Be measur’d or confin’d. GONZALO. Whether this be Or be not, I’ll not swear. PROSPERO. You do yet taste Some subtleties o’ the isle, that will not let you Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all. [_Aside to Sebastian and Antonio._] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you, And justify you traitors: at this time I will tell no tales. SEBASTIAN. [_Aside._] The devil speaks in him. PROSPERO. No. For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive Thy rankest fault, all of them; and require My dukedom of thee, which perforce I know Thou must restore. ALONSO. If thou beest Prospero, Give us particulars of thy preservation; How thou hast met us here, whom three hours since Were wrack’d upon this shore; where I have lost,— How sharp the point of this remembrance is!— My dear son Ferdinand. PROSPERO. I am woe for ’t, sir. ALONSO. Irreparable is the loss, and patience Says it is past her cure. PROSPERO. I rather think You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace, For the like loss I have her sovereign aid, And rest myself content. ALONSO. You the like loss! PROSPERO. As great to me, as late; and, supportable To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker Than you may call to comfort you, for I Have lost my daughter. ALONSO. A daughter? O heavens, that they were living both in Naples, The King and Queen there! That they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter? PROSPERO. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords At this encounter do so much admire That they devour their reason, and scarce think Their eyes do offices of truth, their words Are natural breath; but, howsoe’er you have Been justled from your senses, know for certain That I am Prospero, and that very duke Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely Upon this shore, where you were wrack’d, was landed To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this; For ’tis a chronicle of day by day, Not a relation for a breakfast nor Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir. This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants, And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. My dukedom since you have given me again, I will requite you with as good a thing; At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye As much as me my dukedom. Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess. MIRANDA. Sweet lord, you play me false. FERDINAND. No, my dearest love, I would not for the world. MIRANDA. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle, And I would call it fair play. ALONSO. If this prove A vision of the island, one dear son Shall I twice lose. SEBASTIAN. A most high miracle! FERDINAND. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful. I have curs’d them without cause. [_Kneels to Alonso._] ALONSO. Now all the blessings Of a glad father compass thee about! Arise, and say how thou cam’st here. MIRANDA. O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world That has such people in ’t! PROSPERO. ’Tis new to thee. ALONSO. What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play? Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours: Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us, And brought us thus together? FERDINAND. Sir, she is mortal; But by immortal Providence she’s mine. I chose her when I could not ask my father For his advice, nor thought I had one. She Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, Of whom so often I have heard renown, But never saw before; of whom I have Receiv’d a second life; and second father This lady makes him to me. ALONSO. I am hers: But, O, how oddly will it sound that I Must ask my child forgiveness! PROSPERO. There, sir, stop: Let us not burden our remembrances with A heaviness that’s gone. GONZALO. I have inly wept, Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown; For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way Which brought us hither. ALONSO. I say, Amen, Gonzalo! GONZALO. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become Kings of Naples? O, rejoice Beyond a common joy, and set it down With gold on lasting pillars: in one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle; and all of us ourselves, When no man was his own. ALONSO. [_To Ferdinand and Miranda._] Give me your hands: Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart That doth not wish you joy! GONZALO. Be it so. Amen! Re-enter Ariel with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following. O look, sir, look, sir! Here are more of us. I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news? BOATSWAIN. The best news is that we have safely found Our King and company. The next, our ship,— Which but three glasses since, we gave out split, Is tight and yare, and bravely rigg’d as when We first put out to sea. ARIEL. [_Aside to Prospero._] Sir, all this service Have I done since I went. PROSPERO. [_Aside to Ariel._] My tricksy spirit! ALONSO. These are not natural events; they strengthen From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither? BOATSWAIN. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, I’d strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, And,—how, we know not,—all clapp’d under hatches, Where, but even now, with strange and several noises Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible, We were awak’d; straightway, at liberty: Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master Cap’ring to eye her. On a trice, so please you, Even in a dream, were we divided from them, And were brought moping hither. ARIEL. [_Aside to Prospero._] Was’t well done? PROSPERO. [_Aside to Ariel._] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free. ALONSO. This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod; And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of: some oracle Must rectify our knowledge. PROSPERO. Sir, my liege, Do not infest your mind with beating on The strangeness of this business. At pick’d leisure, Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful And think of each thing well. [_Aside to Ariel._] Come hither, spirit; Set Caliban and his companions free; Untie the spell. [_Exit Ariel._] How fares my gracious sir? There are yet missing of your company Some few odd lads that you remember not. Re-enter Ariel driving in Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo in their stolen apparel. STEPHANO. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself, for all is but fortune.—Coragio! bully-monster, coragio! TRINCULO. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here’s a goodly sight. CALIBAN. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed. How fine my master is! I am afraid He will chastise me. SEBASTIAN. Ha, ha! What things are these, my lord Antonio? Will money buy them? ANTONIO. Very like; one of them Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. PROSPERO. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave, His mother was a witch; and one so strong That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, And deal in her command without her power. These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil, For he’s a bastard one, had plotted with them To take my life. Two of these fellows you Must know and own; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine. CALIBAN. I shall be pinch’d to death. ALONSO. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler? SEBASTIAN. He is drunk now: where had he wine? ALONSO. And Trinculo is reeling-ripe: where should they Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em? How cam’st thou in this pickle? TRINCULO. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones. I shall not fear fly-blowing. SEBASTIAN. Why, how now, Stephano! STEPHANO. O! touch me not. I am not Stephano, but a cramp. PROSPERO. You’d be King o’ the isle, sirrah? STEPHANO. I should have been a sore one, then. ALONSO. This is as strange a thing as e’er I look’d on. [_Pointing to Caliban._] PROSPERO. He is as disproportioned in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions. As you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. CALIBAN. Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter, And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool! PROSPERO. Go to; away! ALONSO. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it. SEBASTIAN. Or stole it, rather. [_Exeunt Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo._] PROSPERO. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I’ll waste With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away: the story of my life And the particular accidents gone by Since I came to this isle: and in the morn I’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, Where I have hope to see the nuptial Of these our dear-belov’d solemnized; And thence retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave. ALONSO. I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely. PROSPERO. I’ll deliver all; And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious that shall catch Your royal fleet far off. [_Aside to Ariel._] My Ariel, chick, That is thy charge: then to the elements Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near. [_Exeunt._] EPILOGUE PROSPERO. Now my charms are all o’erthrown, And what strength I have’s mine own, Which is most faint. Now ’tis true, I must be here confin’d by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got, And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell, But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands. Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, Unless I be reliev’d by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free. [_Exit._] THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS Contents ACT I Scene I. Athens. A hall in Timon’s house Scene II. The Same. A room of state in Timon’s house ACT II Scene I. Athens. A room in a senator’s house Scene II. The same. A hall in Timon’s house ACT III Scene I. Athens. A room in Lucullus’ house Scene II. A public place Scene III. The same. A room in Sempronius’ house Scene IV. A hall in Timon’s house Scene V. The same. The senate house Scene VI. A room of state in Timon’s house ACT IV Scene I. Without the walls of Athens Scene II. Athens. A room in Timon’s house Scene III. Woods and caves near the sea-shore ACT V Scene I. The woods. Before Timon’s cave Scene III. The same Scene III. Before the walls of Athens Scene IV. The woods. Timon’s cave, and a rude tomb seen Scene V. Before the walls of Athens Dramatis Personæ TIMON, a noble Athenian FLAVIUS, steward to Timon FLAMINIUS, servant to Timon LUCILIUS, servant to Timon SERVILIUS, servant to Timon APEMANTUS, a churlish philosopher ALCIBIADES, an Athenian captain PHRYNIA, mistress to Alcibiades TIMANDRA, mistress to Alcibiades LUCIUS, friend of Timon LUCULLUS, friend of Timon SEMPRONIUS, friend of Timon VENTIDIUS, friend of Timon CAPHIS, servant of Timon’s creditors SERVANT of Isidore Two SERVANTS of Varro TITUS, servant of Timon’s creditors HORTENSIUS, servant of Timon’s creditors LUCIUS, servant of Timon’s creditors PHILOTUS, servant of Timon’s creditors LORDS and SENATORS of Athens Three STRANGERS, one called HOSTILIUS An OLD ATHENIAN POET PAINTER JEWELLER MERCHANT A FOOL A PAGE CUPID and Amazons in the Masque BANDITTI Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, Messengers and Attendants SCENE. Athens, and the neighbouring woods ACT I SCENE I. Athens. A hall in Timon’s house Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller and Merchant at several doors. POET. Good day, sir. PAINTER. I am glad you’re well. POET. I have not seen you long. How goes the world? PAINTER. It wears, sir, as it grows. POET. Ay, that’s well known. But what particular rarity? What strange, Which manifold record not matches? See, Magic of bounty, all these spirits thy power Hath conjured to attend! I know the merchant. PAINTER. I know them both. Th’ other’s a jeweller. MERCHANT. O, ’tis a worthy lord! JEWELLER. Nay, that’s most fixed. MERCHANT. A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness. He passes. JEWELLER. I have a jewel here— MERCHANT. O, pray let’s see’t. For the Lord Timon, sir? JEWELLER. If he will touch the estimate. But for that— POET. When we for recompense have praised the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good. MERCHANT. [_Looking at the jewel_.] ’Tis a good form. JEWELLER. And rich. Here is a water, look ye. PAINTER. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord. POET. A thing slipped idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum which oozes From whence ’tis nourished. The fire i’ th’ flint Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame Provokes itself and, like the current, flies Each bound it chases. What have you there? PAINTER. A picture, sir. When comes your book forth? POET. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let’s see your piece. PAINTER. ’Tis a good piece. POET. So ’tis. This comes off well and excellent. PAINTER. Indifferent. POET. Admirable! How this grace Speaks his own standing! What a mental power This eye shoots forth! How big imagination Moves in this lip! To th’ dumbness of the gesture One might interpret. PAINTER. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch. Is’t good? POET. I’ll say of it, It tutors nature. Artificial strife Lives in these touches livelier than life. Enter certain Senators, who pass over the stage. PAINTER. How this lord is followed! POET. The senators of Athens, happy men! PAINTER. Look, more! POET. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have in this rough work shaped out a man Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With amplest entertainment. My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax. No levelled malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind. PAINTER. How shall I understand you? POET. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, As well of glib and slipp’ry creatures as Of grave and austere quality, tender down Their services to Lord Timon. His large fortune, Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, Subdues and properties to his love and tendance All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer To Apemantus, that few things loves better Than to abhor himself; even he drops down The knee before him and returns in peace Most rich in Timon’s nod. PAINTER. I saw them speak together. POET. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feigned Fortune to be throned. The base o’ th’ mount Is ranked with all deserts, all kind of natures That labour on the bosom of this sphere To propagate their states. Amongst them all Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fixed, One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame, Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her, Whose present grace to present slaves and servants Translates his rivals. PAINTER. ’Tis conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckoned from the rest below, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well expressed In our condition. POET. Nay, sir, but hear me on. All those which were his fellows but of late, Some better than his value, on the moment Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Drink the free air. PAINTER. Ay, marry, what of these? POET. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants, Which laboured after him to the mountain’s top Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. PAINTER. ’Tis common. A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head. Trumpets sound. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himself courteously to every suitor. He is accompanied by a Messenger; Lucilius and other servants follow. TIMON. Imprisoned is he, say you? MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt, His means most short, his creditors most strait. Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up, which, failing, Periods his comfort. TIMON. Noble Ventidius. Well, I am not of that feather to shake off My friend when he must need me. I do know him A gentleman that well deserves a help, Which he shall have. I’ll pay the debt and free him. MESSENGER. Your lordship ever binds him. TIMON. Commend me to him, I will send his ransom; And, being enfranchised, bid him come to me. ’Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after. Fare you well. MESSENGER. All happiness to your honour. [_Exit._] Enter an Old Athenian. OLD ATHENIAN. Lord Timon, hear me speak. TIMON. Freely, good father. OLD ATHENIAN. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius. TIMON. I have so. What of him? OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee. TIMON. Attends he here or no? Lucilius! LUCILIUS. Here, at your lordship’s service. OLD ATHENIAN. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature, By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclined to thrift, And my estate deserves an heir more raised Than one which holds a trencher. TIMON. Well, what further? OLD ATHENIAN. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got. The maid is fair, o’ th’ youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love. I prithee, noble lord, Join with me to forbid him her resort; Myself have spoke in vain. TIMON. The man is honest. OLD ATHENIAN. Therefore he will be, Timon. His honesty rewards him in itself; It must not bear my daughter. TIMON. Does she love him? OLD ATHENIAN. She is young and apt. Our own precedent passions do instruct us What levity’s in youth. TIMON. [_To Lucilius_.] Love you the maid? LUCILIUS. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it. OLD ATHENIAN. If in her marriage my consent be missing, I call the gods to witness, I will choose Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world And dispossess her all. TIMON. How shall she be endowed, If she be mated with an equal husband? OLD ATHENIAN. Three talents on the present; in future, all. TIMON. This gentleman of mine hath served me long. To build his fortune I will strain a little, For ’tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter. What you bestow, in him I’ll counterpoise, And make him weigh with her. OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. TIMON. My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise. LUCILIUS. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping Which is not owed to you. [_Exeunt Lucilius and Old Athenian._] POET. [_Presenting his poem_.] Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship. TIMON. I thank you, you shall hear from me anon. Go not away.—What have you there, my friend? PAINTER. A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept. TIMON. Painting is welcome. The painting is almost the natural man, For since dishonour traffics with man’s nature, He is but outside; these pencilled figures are Even such as they give out. I like your work, And you shall find I like it. Wait attendance Till you hear further from me. PAINTER. The gods preserve you. TIMON. Well fare you, gentleman. Give me your hand. We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel Hath suffered under praise. JEWELLER. What, my lord, dispraise? TIMON. A mere satiety of commendations. If I should pay you for ’t as ’tis extolled, It would unclew me quite. JEWELLER. My lord, ’tis rated As those which sell would give. But you well know Things of like value, differing in the owners, Are prized by their masters. Believe’t, dear lord, You mend the jewel by the wearing it. TIMON. Well mocked. MERCHANT. No, my good lord, he speaks the common tongue, Which all men speak with him. Enter Apemantus. TIMON. Look who comes here. Will you be chid? JEWELLER. We’ll bear, with your lordship. MERCHANT. He’ll spare none. TIMON. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow— When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves honest. TIMON. Why dost thou call them knaves? Thou know’st them not. APEMANTUS. Are they not Athenians? TIMON. Yes. APEMANTUS. Then I repent not. JEWELLER. You know me, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Thou know’st I do, I called thee by thy name. TIMON. Thou art proud, Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon. TIMON. Whither art going? APEMANTUS. To knock out an honest Athenian’s brains. TIMON. That’s a deed thou’lt die for. APEMANTUS. Right, if doing nothing be death by th’ law. TIMON. How lik’st thou this picture, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. The best, for the innocence. TIMON. Wrought he not well that painted it? APEMANTUS. He wrought better that made the painter, and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work. PAINTER. You’re a dog. APEMANTUS. Thy mother’s of my generation. What’s she, if I be a dog? TIMON. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. No, I eat not lords. TIMON. An thou shouldst, thou’dst anger ladies. APEMANTUS. O, they eat lords. So they come by great bellies. TIMON. That’s a lascivious apprehension. APEMANTUS. So thou apprehend’st it, take it for thy labour. TIMON. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a man a doit. TIMON. What dost thou think ’tis worth? APEMANTUS. Not worth my thinking. How now, poet? POET. How now, philosopher? APEMANTUS. Thou liest. POET. Art not one? APEMANTUS. Yes. POET. Then I lie not. APEMANTUS. Art not a poet? POET. Yes. APEMANTUS. Then thou liest. Look in thy last work, where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow. POET. That’s not feigned, he is so. APEMANTUS. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy labour. He that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ th’ flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord! TIMON. What wouldst do then, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. E’en as Apemantus does now, hate a lord with my heart. TIMON. What, thyself? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. Wherefore? APEMANTUS. That I had no angry wit to be a lord. Art not thou a merchant? MERCHANT. Ay, Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not. MERCHANT. If traffic do it, the gods do it. APEMANTUS. Traffic’s thy god, and thy god confound thee! Trumpet sounds. Enter a Messenger. TIMON. What trumpet’s that? MESSENGER. ’Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse, All of companionship. TIMON. Pray entertain them, give them guide to us. [_Exeunt some Attendants._] You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence Till I have thanked you; when dinner’s done, Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights. Enter Alcibiades with his company. Most welcome, sir. [_They bow to each other._] APEMANTUS. [_Aside_.] So, so, there! Aches contract and starve your supple joints! That there should be small love amongst these sweet knaves, And all this courtesy! The strain of man’s bred out Into baboon and monkey. ALCIBIADES. Sir, you have saved my longing, and I feed Most hungerly on your sight. TIMON. Right welcome, sir! Ere we depart we’ll share a bounteous time In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in. [_Exeunt all but Apemantus._] Enter two Lords. FIRST LORD. What time o’ day is’t, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Time to be honest. FIRST LORD. That time serves still. APEMANTUS. The more accursed thou, that still omitt’st it. SECOND LORD. Thou art going to Lord Timon’s feast? APEMANTUS. Ay, to see meat fill knaves and wine heat fools. SECOND LORD. Fare thee well, fare thee well. APEMANTUS. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice. SECOND LORD. Why, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none. FIRST LORD. Hang thyself! APEMANTUS. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding. Make thy requests to thy friend. SECOND LORD. Away, unpeaceable dog, or I’ll spurn thee hence. APEMANTUS. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o’ th’ ass. [_Exit._] FIRST LORD. He’s opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in And taste Lord Timon’s bounty? He outgoes The very heart of kindness. SECOND LORD. He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold, Is but his steward. No meed but he repays Sevenfold above itself, no gift to him But breeds the giver a return exceeding All use of quittance. FIRST LORD. The noblest mind he carries That ever governed man. SECOND LORD. Long may he live in fortunes. Shall we in? FIRST LORD. I’ll keep you company. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The Same. A room of state in Timon’s house Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in, Flavius and others attending; and then enter Lord Timon, the Senators, the Athenian Lords, Alcibiades, and Ventidius, which Timon redeemded from prison. Then comes, dropping after all, Apemantus, discontentedly, like himself. VENTIDIUS. Most honoured Timon, It hath pleased the gods to remember my father’s age And call him to long peace. He is gone happy and has left me rich. Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound To your free heart, I do return those talents, Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help I derived liberty. TIMON. O, by no means, Honest Ventidius. You mistake my love. I gave it freely ever, and there’s none Can truly say he gives if he receives. If our betters play at that game, we must not dare To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair. VENTIDIUS. A noble spirit! TIMON. Nay, my lords, ceremony was but devised at first To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; But where there is true friendship there needs none. Pray, sit, more welcome are ye to my fortunes Than my fortunes to me. [_They sit._] FIRST LORD. My lord, we always have confessed it. APEMANTUS. Ho, ho, confessed it? Hanged it, have you not? TIMON. O Apemantus, you are welcome. APEMANTUS. No, You shall not make me welcome. I come to have thee thrust me out of doors. TIMON. Fie, thou’rt a churl, ye’ve got a humour there Does not become a man; ’tis much to blame. They say, my lords, _ira furor brevis est_, But yond man is ever angry. Go, let him have a table by himself, For he does neither affect company, Nor is he fit for it indeed. APEMANTUS. Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon. I come to observe; I give thee warning on’t. TIMON. I take no heed of thee. Thou’rt an Athenian, therefore, welcome. I myself would have no power; prithee; let my meat make thee silent. APEMANTUS. I scorn thy meat, ’twould choke me, for I should ne’er flatter thee. O you gods, what a number of men eats Timon, and he sees ’em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one man’s blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them up too. I wonder men dare trust themselves with men. Methinks they should invite them without knives. Good for their meat, and safer for their lives. There’s much example for ’t. The fellow that sits next him, now parts bread with him, pledges the breath of him in a divided draft, is the readiest man to kill him. ’T has been proved. If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals, Lest they should spy my wind-pipe’s dangerous notes. Great men should drink with harness on their throats. TIMON. My lord, in heart, and let the health go round. SECOND LORD. Let it flow this way, my good lord. APEMANTUS. Flow this way? A brave fellow! He keeps his tides well. Those healths will make thee and thy state look ill, Timon. Here’s that which is too weak to be a sinner, Honest water, which ne’er left man i’ the mire. This and my food are equals, there’s no odds. Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods. _Apemantus’ grace_ Immortal gods, I crave no pelf, I pray for no man but myself. Grant I may never prove so fond To trust man on his oath or bond, Or a harlot for her weeping, Or a dog that seems a-sleeping, Or a keeper with my freedom, Or my friends if I should need ’em. Amen. So fall to’t. Rich men sin, and I eat root. [_He eats and drinks._] Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus! TIMON. Captain Alcibiades, your heart’s in the field now. ALCIBIADES. My heart is ever at your service, my lord. TIMON. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends. ALCIBIADES. So they were bleeding new, my lord, there’s no meat like ’em. I could wish my best friend at such a feast. APEMANTUS. Would all those flatterers were thine enemies then, that then thou mightst kill ’em, and bid me to ’em. FIRST LORD. Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect. TIMON. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you. How had you been my friends else? Why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf. And thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what need we have any friends if we should ne’er have need of ’em? They were the most needless creatures living, should we ne’er have use for ’em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits, and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious comfort ’tis to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another’s fortunes. O joy’s e’en made away ere’t can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks. To forget their faults, I drink to you. APEMANTUS. Thou weep’st to make them drink, Timon. SECOND LORD. Joy had the like conception in our eyes And, at that instant like a babe sprung up. APEMANTUS. Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bastard. THIRD LORD. I promise you, my lord, you moved me much. APEMANTUS. Much! [_A tucket sounds._] TIMON. What means that trump? Enter a Servant. How now? SERVANT. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous of admittance. TIMON. Ladies? What are their wills? SERVANT. There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that office, to signify their pleasures. TIMON. I pray, let them be admitted. [_Exit Servant._] Enter Cupid. CUPID. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all That of his bounties taste! The five best senses Acknowledge thee their patron and come freely To gratulate thy plenteous bosom. There Taste, touch, all, pleased from thy table rise; They only now come but to feast thine eyes. TIMON. They’re welcome all, let ’em have kind admittance. Music, make their welcome! FIRST LORD. You see, my lord, how ample you’re beloved. Music. Enter a masque of Ladies as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing. APEMANTUS. Hoy-day! What a sweep of vanity comes this way. They dance? They are madwomen. Like madness is the glory of this life, As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves, And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy. Who lives that’s not depraved or depraves? Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves Of their friend’s gift? I should fear those that dance before me now Would one day stamp upon me. ’T has been done. Men shut their doors against a setting sun. [_The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of Timon, and to show their loves each singles out an Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease._] TIMON. You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies, Set a fair fashion on our entertainment, Which was not half so beautiful and kind. You have added worth unto ’t and lustre, And entertained me with mine own device. I am to thank you for ’t. FIRST LADY. My lord, you take us even at the best. APEMANTUS. Faith, for the worst is filthy and would not hold taking, I doubt me. TIMON. Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you, Please you to dispose yourselves. ALL LADIES. Most thankfully, my lord. [_Exeunt Cupid and Ladies._] TIMON. Flavius! FLAVIUS. My lord? TIMON. The little casket bring me hither. FLAVIUS. Yes, my lord. [_Aside_.] More jewels yet? There is no crossing him in ’s humour; Else I should tell him well, i’ faith, I should, When all’s spent, he’d be crossed then, an he could. ’Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind, That man might ne’er be wretched for his mind. [_Exit._] FIRST LORD. Where be our men? SERVANT. Here, my lord, in readiness. SECOND LORD. Our horses! Enter Flavius with the casket. TIMON. O, my friends, I have one word To say to you. Look you, my good lord, I must entreat you, honour me so much As to advance this jewel. Accept it and wear it, Kind my lord. FIRST LORD. I am so far already in your gifts— ALL. So are we all. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. My lord, there are certain nobles of the Senate Newly alighted and come to visit you. TIMON. They are fairly welcome. [_Exit Servant._] FLAVIUS. I beseech your honour, Vouchsafe me a word. It does concern you near. TIMON. Near? Why then, another time I’ll hear thee. I prithee let’s be provided to show them entertainment. FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] I scarce know how. Enter another Servant. SECOND SERVANT. May it please your honour, Lord Lucius, Out of his free love, hath presented to you Four milk-white horses, trapped in silver. TIMON. I shall accept them fairly; let the presents Be worthily entertained. [_Exit Servant._] Enter a third Servant. How now? What news? THIRD SERVANT. Please you, my lord, that honourable gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company tomorrow to hunt with him and has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds. TIMON. I’ll hunt with him; and let them be received, Not without fair reward. [_Exit Servant._] FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] What will this come to? He commands us to provide, and give great gifts, And all out of an empty coffer; Nor will he know his purse or yield me this: To show him what a beggar his heart is, Being of no power to make his wishes good. His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes For every word. He is so kind that he now Pays interest for ’t; his land’s put to their books. Well, would I were gently put out of office Before I were forced out. Happier is he that has no friend to feed Than such that do e’en enemies exceed. I bleed inwardly for my lord. [_Exit._] TIMON. You do yourselves much wrong, You bate too much of your own merits. Here, my lord, a trifle of our love. SECOND LORD. With more than common thanks I will receive it. THIRD LORD. O, he’s the very soul of bounty! TIMON. And now I remember, my lord, you gave good words the other day of a bay courser I rode on. ’Tis yours because you liked it. THIRD LORD. O, I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in that. TIMON. You may take my word, my lord. I know no man Can justly praise but what he does affect. I weigh my friend’s affection with mine own. I’ll tell you true, I’ll call to you. ALL LORDS. O, none so welcome! TIMON. I take all and your several visitations So kind to heart, ’tis not enough to give; Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends, And ne’er be weary. Alcibiades, Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich. It comes in charity to thee, for all thy living Is ’mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast Lie in a pitched field. ALCIBIADES. Ay, defiled land, my lord. FIRST LORD. We are so virtuously bound— TIMON. And so am I to you. SECOND LORD. So infinitely endeared— TIMON. All to you. Lights, more lights! FIRST LORD. The best of happiness, honour, and fortunes keep with you, Lord Timon. TIMON. Ready for his friends. [_Exeunt all but Apemantus and Timon._] APEMANTUS. What a coil’s here! Serving of becks and jutting out of bums! I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums That are given for ’em. Friendship’s full of dregs. Methinks false hearts should never have sound legs. Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on curtsies. TIMON. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, I would be good to thee. APEMANTUS. No, I’ll nothing, for if I should be bribed too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou giv’st so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in paper shortly. What needs these feasts, pomps, and vainglories? TIMON. Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell, and come with better music. [_Exit._] APEMANTUS. So. Thou wilt not hear me now, thou shalt not then. I’ll lock thy heaven from thee. O, that men’s ears should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery! [_Exit._] ACT II SCENE I. Athens. A room in a senator’s house Enter a Senator with papers. SENATOR. And late five thousand. To Varro and to Isidore He owes nine thousand, besides my former sum, Which makes it five-and-twenty. Still in motion Of raging waste! It cannot hold; it will not. If I want gold, steal but a beggar’s dog And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold. If I would sell my horse, and buy twenty more Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon— Ask nothing, give it him—it foals me straight, And able horses. No porter at his gate, But rather one that smiles and still invites All that pass by. It cannot hold; no reason Can sound his state in safety. Caphis, ho! Caphis, I say! Enter Caphis. CAPHIS. Here, sir, what is your pleasure? SENATOR. Get on your cloak and haste you to Lord Timon. Importune him for my moneys; be not ceased With slight denial, nor then silenced when “Commend me to your master”, and the cap Plays in the right hand, thus; but tell him, My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn Out of mine own, his days and times are past, And my reliances on his fracted dates Have smit my credit. I love and honour him, But must not break my back to heal his finger. Immediate are my needs, and my relief Must not be tossed and turned to me in words, But find supply immediate. Get you gone. Put on a most importunate aspect, A visage of demand, for I do fear When every feather sticks in his own wing, Lord Timon will be left a naked gull, Which flashes now a phoenix. Get you gone. CAPHIS. I go, sir. SENATOR. Take the bonds along with you, And have the dates in. Come. CAPHIS. I will, sir. SENATOR. Go. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A hall in Timon’s house Enter Flavius with many bills in his hand. FLAVIUS. No care, no stop, so senseless of expense, That he will neither know how to maintain it Nor cease his flow of riot. Takes no account How things go from him, nor resumes no care Of what is to continue. Never mind Was to be so unwise, to be so kind. What shall be done? He will not hear till feel. I must be round with him, now he comes from hunting. Fie, fie, fie, fie! Enter Caphis and the Servants of Isidore and Varro. CAPHIS. Good even, Varro. What, you come for money? VARRO’S SERVANT. Is’t not your business too? CAPHIS. It is. And yours too, Isidore? ISIDORE’S SERVANT. It is so. CAPHIS. Would we were all discharged! VARRO’S SERVANT. I fear it. CAPHIS. Here comes the lord. Enter Timon and his train with Alcibiades TIMON. So soon as dinner’s done, we’ll forth again, My Alcibiades. With me? What is your will? CAPHIS. My lord, here is a note of certain dues. TIMON. Dues? Whence are you? CAPHIS. Of Athens here, my lord. TIMON. Go to my steward. CAPHIS. Please it your lordship, he hath put me off To the succession of new days this month. My master is awaked by great occasion To call upon his own and humbly prays you That with your other noble parts you’ll suit In giving him his right. TIMON. Mine honest friend, I prithee but repair to me next morning. CAPHIS. Nay, good my lord— TIMON. Contain thyself, good friend. VARRO’S SERVANT. One Varro’s servant, my good lord— ISIDORE’S SERVANT. From Isidore. He humbly prays your speedy payment. CAPHIS. If you did know, my lord, my master’s wants— VARRO’S SERVANT. ’Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six weeks and past. ISIDORE’S SERVANT. Your steward puts me off, my lord, and I Am sent expressly to your lordship. TIMON. Give me breath. I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on, I’ll wait upon you instantly. [_Exeunt Alcibiades and Timon’s train._] [_To Flavius_.] Come hither. Pray you, How goes the world, that I am thus encountered With clamorous demands of debt, broken bonds, And the detention of long-since-due debts Against my honour? FLAVIUS. Please you, gentlemen, The time is unagreeable to this business. Your importunacy cease till after dinner, That I may make his lordship understand Wherefore you are not paid. TIMON. Do so, my friends. See them well entertained. [_Exit._] FLAVIUS. Pray, draw near. [_Exit._] Enter Apemantus and Fool. CAPHIS. Stay, stay, here comes the fool with Apemantus. Let’s ha’ some sport with ’em. VARRO’S SERVANT. Hang him, he’ll abuse us. ISIDORE’S SERVANT. A plague upon him, dog! VARRO’S SERVANT. How dost, fool? APEMANTUS. Dost dialogue with thy shadow? VARRO’S SERVANT. I speak not to thee. APEMANTUS. No, ’tis to thyself. [_To the Fool_.] Come away. ISIDORE’S SERVANT. [_To Varro’s servant_.] There’s the fool hangs on your back already. APEMANTUS. No, thou stand’st single; thou’rt not on him yet. CAPHIS. Where’s the fool now? APEMANTUS. He last asked the question. Poor rogues and usurers’ men, bawds between gold and want. ALL SERVANTS. What are we, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Asses. ALL SERVANTS. Why? APEMANTUS. That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. Speak to ’em, fool. FOOL. How do you, gentlemen? ALL SERVANTS. Gramercies, good fool. How does your mistress? FOOL. She’s e’en setting on water to scald such chickens as you are. Would we could see you at Corinth! APEMANTUS. Good, gramercy. Enter Page. FOOL. Look you, here comes my mistress’ page. PAGE. [_To the Fool_.] Why, how now, captain? What do you in this wise company? How dost thou, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I might answer thee profitably. PAGE. Prithee, Apemantus, read me the superscription of these letters. I know not which is which. APEMANTUS. Canst not read? PAGE. No. APEMANTUS. There will little learning die, then, that day thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon, this to Alcibiades. Go, thou wast born a bastard, and thou’lt die a bawd. PAGE. Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt famish a dog’s death. Answer not; I am gone. [_Exit Page._] APEMANTUS. E’en so thou outrunn’st grace. Fool, I will go with you to Lord Timon’s. FOOL. Will you leave me there? APEMANTUS. If Timon stay at home.—You three serve three usurers? ALL SERVANTS. Ay, would they served us! APEMANTUS. So would I—as good a trick as ever hangman served thief. FOOL. Are you three usurers’ men? ALL SERVANTS. Ay, fool. FOOL. I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant. My mistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your masters, they approach sadly and go away merry, but they enter my mistress’s house merrily and go away sadly. The reason of this? VARRO’S SERVANT. I could render one. APEMANTUS. Do it then, that we may account thee a whoremaster and a knave, which notwithstanding, thou shalt be no less esteemed. VARRO’S SERVANT. What is a whoremaster, fool? FOOL. A fool in good clothes, and something like thee. ’Tis a spirit; sometime ’t appears like a lord, sometime like a lawyer, sometime like a philosopher, with two stones more than’s artificial one. He is very often like a knight; and generally, in all shapes that man goes up and down in from fourscore to thirteen, this spirit walks in. VARRO’S SERVANT. Thou art not altogether a fool. FOOL. Nor thou altogether a wise man. As much foolery as I have, so much wit thou lack’st. APEMANTUS. That answer might have become Apemantus. VARRO’S SERVANT. Aside, aside, here comes Lord Timon. Enter Timon and Flavius. APEMANTUS. Come with me, fool, come. FOOL. I do not always follow lover, elder brother, and woman; sometime the philosopher. [_Exeunt Apemantus and Fool._] FLAVIUS. Pray you walk near. I’ll speak with you anon. [_Exeunt Servants._] TIMON. You make me marvel wherefore ere this time Had you not fully laid my state before me, That I might so have rated my expense As I had leave of means. FLAVIUS. You would not hear me, At many leisures I proposed. TIMON. Go to. Perchance some single vantages you took When my indisposition put you back, And that unaptness made your minister Thus to excuse yourself. FLAVIUS. O my good lord, At many times I brought in my accounts, Laid them before you; you would throw them off And say you found them in mine honesty. When for some trifling present you have bid me Return so much, I have shook my head and wept, Yea, ’gainst th’ authority of manners, prayed you To hold your hand more close. I did endure Not seldom nor no slight checks, when I have Prompted you in the ebb of your estate And your great flow of debts. My loved lord, Though you hear now, too late, yet now’s a time. The greatest of your having lacks a half To pay your present debts. TIMON. Let all my land be sold. FLAVIUS. ’Tis all engaged, some forfeited and gone, And what remains will hardly stop the mouth Of present dues; the future comes apace. What shall defend the interim? And at length How goes our reckoning? TIMON. To Lacedaemon did my land extend. FLAVIUS. O my good lord, the world is but a word; Were it all yours to give it in a breath, How quickly were it gone! TIMON. You tell me true. FLAVIUS. If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood, Call me before th’ exactest auditors And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me, When all our offices have been oppressed With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept With drunken spilth of wine, when every room Hath blazed with lights and brayed with minstrelsy, I have retired me to a wasteful cock And set mine eyes at flow. TIMON. Prithee, no more. FLAVIUS. Heavens, have I said, the bounty of this lord! How many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants This night englutted? Who is not Timon’s? What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is Lord Timon’s? Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon! Ah, when the means are gone that buy this praise, The breath is gone whereof this praise is made. Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers, These flies are couched. TIMON. Come, sermon me no further. No villainous bounty yet hath passed my heart; Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. Why dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience lack To think I shall lack friends? Secure thy heart. If I would broach the vessels of my love And try the argument of hearts by borrowing, Men and men’s fortunes could I frankly use As I can bid thee speak. FLAVIUS. Assurance bless your thoughts! TIMON. And in some sort these wants of mine are crowned, That I account them blessings. For by these Shall I try friends. You shall perceive how you Mistake my fortunes. I am wealthy in my friends. Within there! Flaminius! Servilius! Enter Flaminius, Servilius and a third Servant. SERVANTS. My lord, my lord. TIMON. I will dispatch you severally. [_To Servilius_.] You to Lord Lucius; [_To Flaminius_.] to Lord Lucullus you, I hunted with his honour today; [_To the third Servant_.] you to Sempronius. Commend me to their loves; and I am proud, say, that my occasions have found time to use ’em toward a supply of money. Let the request be fifty talents. FLAMINIUS. As you have said, my lord. [_Exeunt Servants._] FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] Lord Lucius and Lucullus? Humh! TIMON. Go you, sir, to the senators, Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I have Deserved this hearing, Bid ’em send o’ th’ instant A thousand talents to me. FLAVIUS. I have been bold— For that I knew it the most general way— To them to use your signet and your name, But they do shake their heads, and I am here No richer in return. TIMON. Is’t true? Can’t be? FLAVIUS. They answer in a joint and corporate voice That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot Do what they would, are sorry. You are honourable, But yet they could have wished—they know not— Something hath been amiss—a noble nature May catch a wrench—would all were well—’tis pity. And so, intending other serious matters, After distasteful looks and these hard fractions, With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods They froze me into silence. TIMON. You gods, reward them! Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows Have their ingratitude in them hereditary. Their blood is caked, ’tis cold, it seldom flows; ’Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind; And nature, as it grows again toward earth, Is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy. Go to Ventidius. Prithee, be not sad, Thou art true and honest, ingenuously I speak, No blame belongs to thee. Ventidius lately Buried his father, by whose death he’s stepped Into a great estate. When he was poor, Imprisoned and in scarcity of friends, I cleared him with five talents. Greet him from me, Bid him suppose some good necessity Touches his friend, which craves to be remembered With those five talents. That had, give’t these fellows To whom ’tis instant due. Ne’er speak, or think That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can sink. [_Exit._] FLAVIUS. I would I could not think it. That thought is bounty’s foe; Being free itself, it thinks all others so. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. Athens. A room in Lucullus’ house Flaminius waiting to speak with Lucullus from his master. Enter a Servant to him. SERVANT. I have told my lord of you; he is coming down to you. FLAMINIUS. I thank you, sir. Enter Lucullus. SERVANT. Here’s my lord. LUCULLUS. [_Aside_.] One of Lord Timon’s men? A gift, I warrant. Why, this hits right. I dreamt of a silver basin and ewer tonight.—Flaminius, honest Flaminius, you are very respectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine. [_Exit Servant._] And how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and master? FLAMINIUS. His health is well, sir. LUCULLUS. I am right glad that his health is well, sir. And what hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius? FLAMINIUS. Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir, which in my lord’s behalf I come to entreat your honour to supply; who, having great and instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present assistance therein. LUCULLUS. La, la, la, la! Nothing doubting, says he? Alas, good lord! A noble gentleman ’tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a time and often I ha’ dined with him, and told him on’t, and come again to supper to him of purpose to have him spend less, and yet he would embrace no counsel, take no warning by my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty is his. I ha’ told him on’t, but I could ne’er get him from ’t. Enter Servant with wine. SERVANT. Please your lordship, here is the wine. LUCULLUS. Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. Here’s to thee. FLAMINIUS. Your lordship speaks your pleasure. LUCULLUS. I have observed thee always for a towardly prompt spirit, give thee thy due, and one that knows what belongs to reason, and canst use the time well, if the time use thee well. Good parts in thee. [_To Servant_.] Get you gone, sirrah.— [_Exit Servant._] Draw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy lord’s a bountiful gentleman, but thou art wise and thou know’st well enough, although thou com’st to me, that this is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship without security. Here’s three solidares for thee. Good boy, wink at me, and say thou saw’st me not. Fare thee well. FLAMINIUS. Is’t possible the world should so much differ, And we alive that lived? Fly, damned baseness, To him that worships thee. [_Throws the money back._] LUCULLUS. Ha! Now I see thou art a fool and fit for thy master. [_Exit._] FLAMINIUS. May these add to the number that may scald thee! Let molten coin be thy damnation, Thou disease of a friend, and not himself! Has friendship such a faint and milky heart It turns in less than two nights? O you gods, I feel my master’s passion. This slave Unto his honour has my lord’s meat in him. Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment When he is turned to poison? O, may diseases only work upon’t, And when he’s sick to death, let not that part of nature Which my lord paid for be of any power To expel sickness, but prolong his hour. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A public place Enter Lucius with three Strangers. LUCIUS. Who, the Lord Timon? He is my very good friend and an honourable gentleman. FIRST STRANGER. We know him for no less, though we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and which I hear from common rumours: now Lord Timon’s happy hours are done and past, and his estate shrinks from him. LUCIUS. Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want for money. SECOND STRANGER. But believe you this, my lord, that, not long ago one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus to borrow so many talents, nay, urged extremely for’t, and showed what necessity belonged to’t, and yet was denied. LUCIUS. How? SECOND STRANGER. I tell you, denied, my lord. LUCIUS. What a strange case was that! Now, before the gods, I am ashamed on’t. Denied that honourable man? There was very little honour showed in’t. For my own part, I must needs confess, I have received some small kindnesses from him, as money, plate, jewels, and such like trifles, nothing comparing to his; yet had he mistook him, and sent to me, I should ne’er have denied his occasion so many talents. Enter Servilius. SERVILIUS. See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord; I have sweat to see his honour. [_To Lucius_.] My honoured lord! LUCIUS. Servilius? You are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well. Commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend. SERVILIUS. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent— LUCIUS. Ha! What has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord; he’s ever sending. How shall I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now? SERVILIUS. Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord, requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents. LUCIUS. I know his lordship is but merry with me; He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents. SERVILIUS. But in the meantime he wants less, my lord. If his occasion were not virtuous, I should not urge it half so faithfully. LUCIUS. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius? SERVILIUS. Upon my soul, ’tis true, sir. LUCIUS. What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against such a good time, when I might ha’ shown myself honourable! How unluckily it happened that I should purchase the day before for a little part, and undo a great deal of honour! Servilius, now before the gods, I am not able to do—the more beast, I say—I was sending to use Lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness; but I would not for the wealth of Athens I had done it now. Commend me bountifully to his good lordship, and I hope his honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have no power to be kind. And tell him this from me: I count it one of my greatest afflictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an honourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far as to use mine own words to him? SERVILIUS. Yes, sir, I shall. LUCIUS. I’ll look you out a good turn, Servilius. [_Exit Servilius._] True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed, And he that’s once denied will hardly speed. [_Exit._] FIRST STRANGER. Do you observe this, Hostilius? SECOND STRANGER. Ay, too well. FIRST STRANGER. Why, this is the world’s soul, and just of the same piece Is every flatterer’s spirit. Who can call him his friend That dips in the same dish? For, in my knowing, Timon has been this lord’s father And kept his credit with his purse, Supported his estate, nay, Timon’s money Has paid his men their wages. He ne’er drinks But Timon’s silver treads upon his lip, And yet—O, see the monstrousness of man When he looks out in an ungrateful shape— He does deny him, in respect of his, What charitable men afford to beggars. THIRD STRANGER. Religion groans at it. FIRST STRANGER. For mine own part, I never tasted Timon in my life, Nor came any of his bounties over me To mark me for his friend. Yet I protest, For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue, And honourable carriage, Had his necessity made use of me, I would have put my wealth into donation, And the best half should have returned to him, So much I love his heart. But I perceive Men must learn now with pity to dispense, For policy sits above conscience. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A room in Sempronius’ house Enter a Third Servant of Timon’s with Sempronius, another of Timon’s friends. SEMPRONIUS. Must he needs trouble me in’t? Hum! ’Bove all others? He might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus; And now Ventidius is wealthy too, Whom he redeemed from prison. All these Owe their estates unto him. SERVANT. My lord, They have all been touched and found base metal, For they have all denied him. SEMPRONIUS. How? Have they denied him? Has Ventidius and Lucullus denied him And does he send to me? Three? Humh! It shows but little love or judgment in him. Must I be his last refuge? His friends, like physicians, Thrive, give him over. Must I take th’ cure upon me? Has much disgraced me in’t. I’m angry at him, That might have known my place. I see no sense for’t But his occasions might have wooed me first; For, in my conscience, I was the first man That e’er received gift from him. And does he think so backwardly of me now That I’ll requite it last? No. So it may prove an argument of laughter To th’ rest, and I ’mongst lords be thought a fool. I’d rather than the worth of thrice the sum Had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake; I’d such a courage to do him good. But now return, And with their faint reply this answer join: Who bates mine honour shall not know my coin. [_Exit._] SERVANT. Excellent! Your lordship’s a goodly villain. The devil knew not what he did when he made man politic; he crossed himself by’t, and I cannot think but, in the end the villainies of man will set him clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear foul! Takes virtuous copies to be wicked, like those that under hot ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire. Of such a nature is his politic love. This was my lord’s best hope, now all are fled Save only the gods. Now his friends are dead, Doors that were ne’er acquainted with their wards Many a bounteous year must be employed Now to guard sure their master. And this is all a liberal course allows, Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. A hall in Timon’s house Enter two of Varro’s Servants meeting Titus and Hortensius and then Lucius, all Servants of Timon’s creditors, to wait for his coming out. FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. Well met, good morrow, Titus and Hortensius. TITUS. The like to you, kind Varro. HORTENSIUS. Lucius! What, do we meet together? LUCIUS. Ay, and I think One business does command us all; For mine is money. TITUS. So is theirs and ours. Enter Philotus. LUCIUS. And, sir, Philotus too! PHILOTUS. Good day at once. LUCIUS. Welcome, good brother. What do you think the hour? PHILOTUS. Labouring for nine. LUCIUS. So much? PHILOTUS. Is not my lord seen yet? LUCIUS. Not yet. PHILOTUS. I wonder on’t, he was wont to shine at seven. LUCIUS. Ay, but the days are waxed shorter with him. You must consider that a prodigal course Is like the sun’s, but not like his recoverable. I fear ’tis deepest winter in Lord Timon’s purse: That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet Find little. PHILOTUS. I am of your fear for that. TITUS. I’ll show you how t’ observe a strange event. Your lord sends now for money? HORTENSIUS. Most true, he does. TITUS. And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift, For which I wait for money. HORTENSIUS. It is against my heart. LUCIUS. Mark how strange it shows, Timon in this should pay more than he owes, And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels And send for money for ’em. HORTENSIUS. I’m weary of this charge, the gods can witness. I know my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth, And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth. FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. Yes, mine’s three thousand crowns. What’s yours? LUCIUS. Five thousand mine. FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. ’Tis much deep, and it should seem by th’ sum Your master’s confidence was above mine, Else surely his had equalled. Enter Flaminius. TITUS. One of Lord Timon’s men. LUCIUS. Flaminius? Sir, a word. Pray, is my lord ready to come forth? FLAMINIUS. No, indeed he is not. TITUS. We attend his lordship; pray, signify so much. FLAMINIUS. I need not tell him that, he knows you are too diligent. [_Exit Flaminius._] Enter Flavius in a cloak, muffled. LUCIUS. Ha, is not that his steward muffled so? He goes away in a cloud. Call him, call him. TITUS. Do you hear, sir? SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. By your leave, sir. FLAVIUS. What do you ask of me, my friend? TITUS. We wait for certain money here, sir. FLAVIUS. Ay, If money were as certain as your waiting, ’Twere sure enough. Why then preferred you not your sums and bills When your false masters eat of my lord’s meat? Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts, And take down th’ interest into their gluttonous maws. You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up, Let me pass quietly. Believe’t, my lord and I have made an end, I have no more to reckon, he to spend. LUCIUS. Ay, but this answer will not serve. FLAVIUS. If ’twill not serve, ’tis not so base as you, For you serve knaves. [_Exit._] FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. How? What does his cashiered worship mutter? SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. No matter what, he’s poor, and that’s revenge enough. Who can speak broader than he that has no house to put his head in? Such may rail against great buildings. Enter Servilius. TITUS. O, here’s Servilius; now we shall know some answer. SERVILIUS. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should derive much from’t. For take’t of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to discontent. His comfortable temper has forsook him, he’s much out of health and keeps his chamber. LUCIUS. Many do keep their chambers are not sick. And if it be so far beyond his health, Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts And make a clear way to the gods. SERVILIUS. Good gods! TITUS. We cannot take this for answer, sir. FLAMINIUS. [_Within_.] Servilius, help! My lord, my lord! Enter Timon in a rage. TIMON. What, are my doors opposed against my passage? Have I been ever free, and must my house Be my retentive enemy, my jail? The place which I have feasted, does it now, Like all mankind, show me an iron heart? LUCIUS. Put in now, Titus. TITUS. My lord, here is my bill. LUCIUS. Here’s mine. HORTENSIUS. And mine, my lord. BOTH VARRO’S SERVANTS. And ours, my lord. PHILOTUS. All our bills. TIMON. Knock me down with ’em! Cleave me to the girdle. LUCIUS. Alas, my lord— TIMON. Cut my heart in sums! TITUS. Mine, fifty talents. TIMON. Tell out my blood. LUCIUS. Five thousand crowns, my lord. TIMON. Five thousand drops pays that. What yours, and yours? FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. My lord— SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. My lord— TIMON. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you! [_Exit._] HORTENSIUS. Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their caps at their money. These debts may well be called desperate ones, for a madman owes ’em. [_Exeunt._] Enter Timon and Flavius. TIMON. They have e’en put my breath from me, the slaves. Creditors? Devils! FLAVIUS. My dear lord— TIMON. What if it should be so? FLAVIUS. My lord— TIMON. I’ll have it so.—My steward! FLAVIUS. Here, my lord. TIMON. So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again, Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius, all. I’ll once more feast the rascals. FLAVIUS. O my lord, You only speak from your distracted soul; There is not so much left to furnish out A moderate table. TIMON. Be it not in thy care. Go, I charge thee, invite them all. Let in the tide Of knaves once more. My cook and I’ll provide. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The same. The senate house Enter three Senators at one door, Alcibiades meeting them, with Attendants. FIRST SENATOR. My lord, you have my voice to ’t. The fault’s Bloody. ’Tis necessary he should die. Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy. SECOND SENATOR. Most true, the law shall bruise ’em. ALCIBIADES. Honour, health, and compassion to the senate! FIRST SENATOR. Now, captain? ALCIBIADES. I am a humble suitor to your virtues, For pity is the virtue of the law, And none but tyrants use it cruelly. It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy Upon a friend of mine, who in hot blood Hath stepped into the law, which is past depth To those that without heed do plunge into’t. He is a man, setting his fate aside, Of comely virtues, Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice— An honour in him which buys out his fault— But with a noble fury and fair spirit, Seeing his reputation touched to death, He did oppose his foe; And with such sober and unnoted passion He did behave his anger, ere ’twas spent, As if he had but proved an argument. FIRST SENATOR. You undergo too strict a paradox, Striving to make an ugly deed look fair. Your words have took such pains as if they laboured To bring manslaughter into form and set quarrelling Upon the head of valour, which indeed Is valour misbegot and came into the world When sects and factions were newly born. He’s truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger. If wrongs be evils and enforce us kill, What folly ’tis to hazard life for ill! ALCIBIADES. My lord— FIRST SENATOR. You cannot make gross sins look clear. To revenge is no valour, but to bear. ALCIBIADES. My lords, then, under favour, pardon me If I speak like a captain. Why do fond men expose themselves to battle And not endure all threats? Sleep upon’t, And let the foes quietly cut their throats Without repugnancy? If there be Such valour in the bearing, what make we Abroad? Why, then, women are more valiant That stay at home, if bearing carry it, And the ass more captain than the lion, the felon Loaden with irons wiser than the judge, If wisdom be in suffering. O my lords, As you are great, be pitifully good. Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood? To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust, But in defence, by mercy, ’tis most just. To be in anger is impiety, But who is man that is not angry? Weigh but the crime with this. SECOND SENATOR. You breathe in vain. ALCIBIADES. In vain? His service done At Lacedaemon and Byzantium Were a sufficient briber for his life. FIRST SENATOR. What’s that? ALCIBIADES. Why, I say, my lords, has done fair service And slain in fight many of your enemies. How full of valour did he bear himself In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds! SECOND SENATOR. He has made too much plenty with ’em. He’s a sworn rioter. He has a sin That often drowns him and takes his valour prisoner. If there were no foes, that were enough To overcome him. In that beastly fury, He has been known to commit outrages And cherish factions. ’Tis inferred to us His days are foul and his drink dangerous. FIRST SENATOR. He dies. ALCIBIADES. Hard fate! He might have died in war. My lords, if not for any parts in him, Though his right arm might purchase his own time And be in debt to none, yet, more to move you, Take my deserts to his and join ’em both. And, for I know your reverend ages love Security, I’ll pawn my victories, all My honour, to you upon his good returns. If by this crime he owes the law his life, Why, let the war receive’t in valiant gore, For law is strict, and war is nothing more. FIRST SENATOR. We are for law. He dies. Urge it no more, On height of our displeasure. Friend or brother, He forfeits his own blood that spills another. ALCIBIADES. Must it be so? It must not be. My lords, I do beseech you, know me. SECOND SENATOR. How? ALCIBIADES. Call me to your remembrances. THIRD SENATOR. What? ALCIBIADES. I cannot think but your age has forgot me, It could not else be I should prove so base To sue and be denied such common grace. My wounds ache at you. FIRST SENATOR. Do you dare our anger? ’Tis in few words, but spacious in effect: We banish thee for ever. ALCIBIADES. Banish me? Banish your dotage, banish usury, That makes the Senate ugly. FIRST SENATOR. If, after two days’ shine, Athens contain thee, Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell our spirit, He shall be executed presently. [_Exeunt Senators._] ALCIBIADES. Now the gods keep you old enough, that you may live Only in bone, that none may look on you! I’m worse than mad. I have kept back their foes While they have told their money and let out Their coin upon large interest, I myself Rich only in large hurts. All those for this? Is this the balsam that the usuring senate Pours into captains’ wounds? Banishment. It comes not ill. I hate not to be banished. It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury, That I may strike at Athens. I’ll cheer up My discontented troops and lay for hearts. ’Tis honour with most lands to be at odds. Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods. [_Exit._] SCENE VI. A room of state in Timon’s house Music. Enter divers Friends at several doors. FIRST FRIEND. The good time of day to you, sir. SECOND FRIEND. I also wish it to you. I think this honourable lord did but try us this other day. FIRST FRIEND. Upon that were my thoughts tiring when we encountered. I hope it is not so low with him as he made it seem in the trial of his several friends. SECOND FRIEND. It should not be, by the persuasion of his new feasting. FIRST FRIEND. I should think so. He hath sent me an earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did urge me to put off; but he hath conjured me beyond them, and I must needs appear. SECOND FRIEND. In like manner was I in debt to my importunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my provision was out. FIRST FRIEND. I am sick of that grief too, as I understand how all things go. SECOND FRIEND. Every man here’s so. What would he have borrowed you? FIRST FRIEND. A thousand pieces. SECOND FRIEND. A thousand pieces! FIRST FRIEND. What of you? SECOND FRIEND. He sent to me, sir—here he comes. Enter Timon and Attendants. TIMON. With all my heart, gentlemen both! And how fare you? FIRST FRIEND. Ever at the best, hearing well of your lordship. SECOND FRIEND. The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship. TIMON. [_Aside_.] Nor more willingly leaves winter, such summer birds are men. Gentlemen, our dinner will not recompense this long stay. Feast your ears with the music awhile, if they will fare so harshly o’ th’ trumpet’s sound; we shall to’t presently. FIRST FRIEND. I hope it remains not unkindly with your lordship that I returned you an empty messenger. TIMON. O, sir, let it not trouble you. SECOND FRIEND. My noble lord— TIMON. Ah, my good friend, what cheer? SECOND FRIEND. My most honourable lord, I am e’en sick of shame that when your lordship this other day sent to me I was so unfortunate a beggar. TIMON. Think not on’t, sir. SECOND FRIEND. If you had sent but two hours before— TIMON. Let it not cumber your better remembrance. [_The banquet brought in._] Come, bring in all together. SECOND FRIEND. All covered dishes! FIRST FRIEND. Royal cheer, I warrant you. THIRD FRIEND. Doubt not that, if money and the season can yield it. FIRST FRIEND. How do you? What’s the news? THIRD FRIEND. Alcibiades is banished. Hear you of it? FIRST AND SECOND FRIENDS. Alcibiades banished? THIRD FRIEND. ’Tis so, be sure of it. FIRST FRIEND. How, how? SECOND FRIEND. I pray you, upon what? TIMON. My worthy friends, will you draw near? THIRD FRIEND. I’ll tell you more anon. Here’s a noble feast toward. SECOND FRIEND. This is the old man still. THIRD FRIEND. Will’t hold, will’t hold? SECOND FRIEND. It does, but time will—and so— THIRD FRIEND. I do conceive. TIMON. Each man to his stool with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress. Your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place. Sit, sit. The gods require our thanks: You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts make yourselves praised, but reserve still to give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that one need not lend to another; for, were your godheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man that gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of villains. If there sit twelve women at the table, let a dozen of them be as they are. The rest of your foes, O gods, the senators of Athens, together with the common lag of people, what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my present friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to nothing are they welcome. Uncover, dogs, and lap. [_The dishes are uncovered and prove to be full of lukewarm water._] SOME SPEAK. What does his lordship mean? SOME OTHER. I know not. TIMON. May you a better feast never behold, You knot of mouth-friends! Smoke and lukewarm water Is your perfection. This is Timon’s last, Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries, Washes it off and sprinkles in your faces Your reeking villainy. [_Throws water in their faces._] Live loathed, and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies, Cap-and-knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks! Of man and beast the infinite malady Crust you quite o’er! [_They stand_.] What, dost thou go? Soft! Take thy physic first; thou too, and thou! Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none. [_He attacks them and forces them out._] What, all in motion? Henceforth be no feast Whereat a villain’s not a welcome guest. Burn, house! Sink Athens! Henceforth hated be Of Timon man and all humanity! [_Exit._] Enter Timon’s Friends, the Senators with other Lords. FIRST FRIEND. How now, my lords? SECOND FRIEND. Know you the quality of Lord Timon’s fury? THIRD FRIEND. Push! Did you see my cap? FOURTH FRIEND. I have lost my gown. FIRST FRIEND. He’s but a mad lord, and nought but humours sways him. He gave me a jewel th’ other day, and now he has beat it out of my hat. Did you see my jewel? THIRD FRIEND. Did you see my cap? SECOND FRIEND. Here ’tis. FOURTH FRIEND. Here lies my gown. FIRST FRIEND. Let’s make no stay. SECOND FRIEND. Lord Timon’s mad. THIRD FRIEND. I feel’t upon my bones. FOURTH FRIEND. One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Without the walls of Athens Enter Timon. TIMON. Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall That girdles in those wolves, dive in the earth And fence not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent! Obedience fail in children! Slaves and fools, Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench And minister in their steads! To general filths Convert, o’ th’ instant, green virginity, Do’t in your parents’ eyes! Bankrupts, hold fast; Rather than render back, out with your knives And cut your trusters’ throats! Bound servants, steal! Large-handed robbers your grave masters are, And pill by law. Maid, to thy master’s bed, Thy mistress is o’ th’ brothel. Son of sixteen, Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire, With it beat out his brains! Piety and fear, Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth, Domestic awe, night-rest and neighbourhood, Instruction, manners, mysteries and trades, Degrees, observances, customs and laws, Decline to your confounding contraries, And let confusion live! Plagues incident to men, Your potent and infectious fevers heap On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica, Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty, Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth, That ’gainst the stream of virtue they may strive And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains, Sow all th’ Athenian bosoms, and their crop Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath, That their society, as their friendship, may Be merely poison! Nothing I’ll bear from thee But nakedness, thou detestable town! Take thou that too, with multiplying bans! Timon will to the woods, where he shall find Th’ unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. The gods confound—hear me, you good gods all!— Th’ Athenians both within and out that wall, And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow To the whole race of mankind, high and low! Amen. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Athens. A room in Timon’s house Enter Flavius with two or three Servants. FIRST SERVANT. Hear you, Master Steward, where’s our master? Are we undone, cast off, nothing remaining? FLAVIUS. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you? Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, I am as poor as you. FIRST SERVANT. Such a house broke? So noble a master fall’n? All gone, and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm And go along with him? SECOND SERVANT. As we do turn our backs From our companion, thrown into his grave, So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away, leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses picked; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunned poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone.—More of our fellows. Enter other Servants. FLAVIUS. All broken implements of a ruined house. THIRD SERVANT. Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery. That see I by our faces. We are fellows still, Serving alike in sorrow. Leaked is our bark, And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, Hearing the surges threat. We must all part Into this sea of air. FLAVIUS. Good fellows all, The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you. Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake Let’s yet be fellows. Let’s shake our heads and say, As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortune, “We have seen better days.” Let each take some. [_Offering them money._] Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more. Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. [_They embrace and part several ways._] O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us! Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt? Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends? Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart, Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood When man’s worst sin is he does too much good! Who then dares to be half so kind again? For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. My dearest lord, blessed to be most accursed, Rich only to be wretched, thy great fortunes Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord, He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat Of monstrous friends; Nor has he with him to supply his life, Or that which can command it. I’ll follow and inquire him out. I’ll ever serve his mind with my best will. Whilst I have gold, I’ll be his steward still. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Woods and caves near the sea-shore Enter Timon in the woods. TIMON. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity, below thy sister’s orb Infect the air! Twinned brothers of one womb, Whose procreation, residence and birth Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes, The greater scorns the lesser. Not nature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune But by contempt of nature. Raise me this beggar, and deny’t that lord; The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The beggar native honour. It is the pasture lards the rother’s sides, The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares In purity of manhood stand upright And say, “This man’s a flatterer”? If one be, So are they all, for every grece of fortune Is smoothed by that below. The learned pate Ducks to the golden fool. All’s obliquy. There’s nothing level in our cursed natures But direct villainy. Therefore be abhorred All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains. Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots! [_Digs in the earth._] Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate With thy most operant poison! What is here? Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods, I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this will make Black white, foul fair, wrong right, Base noble, old young, coward valiant. Ha, you gods, why this? What this, you gods? Why, this Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their heads. This yellow slave Will knit and break religions, bless th’ accursed, Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves And give them title, knee, and approbation With senators on the bench. This is it That makes the wappened widow wed again; She whom the spittle-house and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To th’ April day again. Come, damned earth, Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds Among the rout of nations, I will make thee Do thy right nature. [_March afar off._] Ha? A drum? Thou’rt quick, But yet I’ll bury thee. Thou’lt go, strong thief, When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [_Keeping some gold._] Enter Alcibiades with drum and fife, in warlike manner, and Phrynia and Timandra. ALCIBIADES. What art thou there? Speak. TIMON. A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart For showing me again the eyes of man! ALCIBIADES. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee That art thyself a man? TIMON. I am Misanthropos and hate mankind. For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something. ALCIBIADES. I know thee well, But in thy fortunes am unlearned and strange. TIMON. I know thee too, and more than that I know thee I not desire to know. Follow thy drum, With man’s blood paint the ground gules, gules. Religious canons, civil laws are cruel, Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, For all her cherubin look. PHRYNIA. Thy lips rot off! TIMON. I will not kiss thee, then the rot returns To thine own lips again. ALCIBIADES. How came the noble Timon to this change? TIMON. As the moon does, by wanting light to give. But then renew I could not like the moon; There were no suns to borrow of. ALCIBIADES. Noble Timon, What friendship may I do thee? TIMON. None, but to maintain my opinion. ALCIBIADES. What is it, Timon? TIMON. Promise me friendship, but perform none. If thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art a man. If thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man. ALCIBIADES. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. TIMON. Thou saw’st them when I had prosperity. ALCIBIADES. I see them now; then was a blessed time. TIMON. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. TIMANDRA. Is this th’ Athenian minion whom the world Voiced so regardfully? TIMON. Art thou Timandra? TIMANDRA. Yes. TIMON. Be a whore still, they love thee not that use thee; Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. Make use of thy salt hours. Season the slaves For tubs and baths, bring down rose-cheeked youth To the tub-fast and the diet. TIMANDRA. Hang thee, monster! ALCIBIADES. Pardon him, sweet Timandra, for his wits Are drowned and lost in his calamities. I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, The want whereof doth daily make revolt In my penurious band. I have heard and grieved How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth, Forgetting thy great deeds when neighbour states, But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them— TIMON. I prithee, beat thy drum and get thee gone. ALCIBIADES. I am thy friend and pity thee, dear Timon. TIMON. How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble? I had rather be alone. ALCIBIADES. Why, fare thee well. Here is some gold for thee. TIMON. Keep it, I cannot eat it. ALCIBIADES. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap— TIMON. Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens? ALCIBIADES. Ay, Timon, and have cause. TIMON. The gods confound them all in thy conquest, And thee after, when thou hast conquered! ALCIBIADES. Why me, Timon? TIMON. That by killing of villains Thou wast born to conquer my country. Put up thy gold. Go on, here’s gold, go on. Be as a planetary plague when Jove Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison In the sick air. Let not thy sword skip one. Pity not honoured age for his white beard; He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron; It is her habit only that is honest, Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek Make soft thy trenchant sword, for those milk paps That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes, Are not within the leaf of pity writ, But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe, Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy; Think it a bastard whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects; Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes, Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers. Make large confusion and, thy fury spent, Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone. ALCIBIADES. Hast thou gold yet? I’ll take the gold thou giv’st me, Not all thy counsel. TIMON. Dost thou or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Give us some gold, good Timon. Hast thou more? TIMON. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade, And to make whores a bawd. Hold up, you sluts, Your aprons mountant. You are not oathable, Although I know you’ll swear—terribly swear Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues Th’ immortal gods that hear you. Spare your oaths, I’ll trust to your conditions. Be whores still, And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up; Let your close fire predominate his smoke, And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains six months, Be quite contrary. And thatch your poor thin roofs With burdens of the dead—some that were hanged, No matter; wear them, betray with them. Whore still, Paint till a horse may mire upon your face. A pox of wrinkles! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Well, more gold. What then? Believe’t that we’ll do anything for gold. TIMON. Consumptions sow In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins, And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s voice, That he may never more false title plead Nor sound his quillets shrilly. Hoar the flamen, That scolds against the quality of flesh And not believes himself. Down with the nose, Down with it flat, take the bridge quite away Of him that, his particular to foresee, Smells from the general weal. Make curled-pate ruffians bald, And let the unscarred braggarts of the war Derive some pain from you. Plague all, That your activity may defeat and quell The source of all erection. There’s more gold. Do you damn others, and let this damn you, And ditches grave you all! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon. TIMON. More whore, more mischief first! I have given you earnest. ALCIBIADES. Strike up the drum towards Athens. Farewell, Timon. If I thrive well, I’ll visit thee again. TIMON. If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more. ALCIBIADES. I never did thee harm. TIMON. Yes, thou spok’st well of me. ALCIBIADES. Call’st thou that harm? TIMON. Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take Thy beagles with thee. ALCIBIADES. We but offend him. Strike. [_Drum beats. Exeunt all but Timon._] TIMON. That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness, Should yet be hungry! [_He digs_.] Common mother, thou, Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast Teems and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed, Engenders the black toad and adder blue, The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm, With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine: Yield him who all thy human sons doth hate, From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root! Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb, Let it no more bring out ingrateful man. Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears; Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face Hath to the marbled mansion all above Never presented. O, a root, dear thanks! Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas, Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind, That from it all consideration slips— Enter Apemantus. More man? Plague, plague! APEMANTUS. I was directed hither. Men report Thou dost affect my manners and dost use them. TIMON. ’Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog Whom I would imitate. Consumption catch thee! APEMANTUS. This is in thee a nature but infected, A poor unmanly melancholy sprung From change of fortune. Why this spade, this place? This slave-like habit and these looks of care? Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft, Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods By putting on the cunning of a carper. Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive By that which has undone thee. Hinge thy knee And let his very breath whom thou’lt observe Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain, And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus; Thou gav’st thine ears, like tapsters that bade welcome, To knaves and all approachers. ’Tis most just That thou turn rascal; had’st thou wealth again, Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my likeness. TIMON. Were I like thee, I’d throw away myself. APEMANTUS. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself A madman so long, now a fool. What, think’st That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these mossed trees, That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels And skip when thou point’st out? Will the cold brook, Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste To cure thy o’ernight’s surfeit? Call the creatures Whose naked natures live in all the spite Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks, To the conflicting elements exposed, Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee. O, thou shalt find— TIMON. A fool of thee. Depart. APEMANTUS. I love thee better now than e’er I did. TIMON. I hate thee worse. APEMANTUS. Why? TIMON. Thou flatter’st misery. APEMANTUS. I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff. TIMON. Why dost thou seek me out? APEMANTUS. To vex thee. TIMON. Always a villain’s office or a fool’s. Dost please thyself in’t? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. What, a knave too? APEMANTUS. If thou didst put this sour cold habit on To castigate thy pride, ’twere well; but thou Dost it enforcedly. Thou’dst courtier be again Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery Outlives incertain pomp, is crowned before; The one is filling still, never complete, The other, at high wish. Best state, contentless, Hath a distracted and most wretched being, Worse than the worst, content. Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable. TIMON. Not by his breath that is more miserable. Thou art a slave whom Fortune’s tender arm With favour never clasped, but bred a dog. Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded The sweet degrees that this brief world affords To such as may the passive drugs of it Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself In general riot, melted down thy youth In different beds of lust and never learned The icy precepts of respect, but followed The sugared game before thee. But myself— Who had the world as my confectionary, The mouths, the tongues, the eyes and hearts of men At duty, more than I could frame employment, That numberless upon me stuck as leaves Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare For every storm that blows—I to bear this, That never knew but better, is some burden. Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time Hath made thee hard in’t. Why shouldst thou hate men? They never flattered thee. What hast thou given? If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff To some she-beggar and compounded thee Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone! If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer. APEMANTUS. Art thou proud yet? TIMON. Ay, that I am not thee. APEMANTUS. I, that I was no prodigal. TIMON. I, that I am one now. Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee, I’d give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone. That the whole life of Athens were in this! Thus would I eat it. [_Eats a root._] APEMANTUS. Here, I will mend thy feast. TIMON. First mend my company, take away thyself. APEMANTUS. So I shall mend mine own, by th’ lack of thine. TIMON. ’Tis not well mended so, it is but botched. If not, I would it were. APEMANTUS. What wouldst thou have to Athens? TIMON. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt, Tell them there I have gold. Look, so I have. APEMANTUS. Here is no use for gold. TIMON. The best and truest, For here it sleeps and does no hired harm. APEMANTUS. Where liest a-nights, Timon? TIMON. Under that’s above me. Where feed’st thou a-days, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Where my stomach finds meat, or rather where I eat it. TIMON. Would poison were obedient and knew my mind! APEMANTUS. Where wouldst thou send it? TIMON. To sauce thy dishes. APEMANTUS. The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the extremity of both ends. When thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou know’st none, but art despised for the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee. Eat it. TIMON. On what I hate I feed not. APEMANTUS. Dost hate a medlar? TIMON. Ay, though it look like thee. APEMANTUS. An thou’dst hated medlars sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever know unthrift that was beloved after his means? TIMON. Who, without those means thou talk’st of, didst thou ever know beloved? APEMANTUS. Myself. TIMON. I understand thee. Thou hadst some means to keep a dog. APEMANTUS. What things in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers? TIMON. Women nearest; but men—men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power? APEMANTUS. Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men. TIMON. Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of men and remain a beast with the beasts? APEMANTUS. Ay, Timon. TIMON. A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t’ attain to. If thou wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would eat thee; if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee when peradventure thou wert accused by the ass; if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee, and still thou lived’st but as a breakfast to the wolf; if thou wert the wolf, thy greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy dinner. Wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury; wert thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse; wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the leopard; wert thou a leopard, thou wert germane to the lion, and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on thy life. All thy safety were remotion, and thy defence absence. What beast couldst thou be that were not subject to a beast? And what beast art thou already that seest not thy loss in transformation! APEMANTUS. If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit upon it here. The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts. TIMON. How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city? APEMANTUS. Yonder comes a poet and a painter. The plague of company light upon thee! I will fear to catch it, and give way. When I know not what else to do, I’ll see thee again. TIMON. When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar’s dog than Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Thou art the cap of all the fools alive. TIMON. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon! APEMANTUS. A plague on thee! Thou art too bad to curse. TIMON. All villains that do stand by thee are pure. APEMANTUS. There is no leprosy but what thou speak’st. TIMON. If I name thee, I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands. APEMANTUS. I would my tongue could rot them off! TIMON. Away, thou issue of a mangy dog! Choler does kill me that thou art alive. I swoon to see thee. APEMANTUS. Would thou wouldst burst! TIMON. Away, thou tedious rogue! I am sorry I shall lose a stone by thee. [_Throws a stone at him._] APEMANTUS. Beast! TIMON. Slave! APEMANTUS. Toad! TIMON. Rogue, rogue, rogue! I am sick of this false world, and will love nought But even the mere necessities upon’t. Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave. Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat Thy gravestone daily. Make thine epitaph, That death in me at others’ lives may laugh. [_To the gold._] O thou sweet king-killer and dear divorce ’Twixt natural son and sire; thou bright defiler Of Hymen’s purest bed, thou valiant Mars; Thou ever young, fresh, loved, and delicate wooer, Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow That lies on Dian’s lap; thou visible god, That solder’st close impossibilities And mak’st them kiss, that speak’st with every tongue To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts, Think thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue Set them into confounding odds, that beasts May have the world in empire! APEMANTUS. Would ’twere so! But not till I am dead. I’ll say thou’st gold; Thou wilt be thronged to shortly. TIMON. Thronged to? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. Thy back, I prithee. APEMANTUS. Live and love thy misery. TIMON. Long live so, and so die! I am quit. APEMANTUS. More things like men. Eat, Timon, and abhor them. [_Exit Apemantus._] Enter Banditti. FIRST BANDIT. Where should he have this gold? It is some poor fragment, some slender ort of his remainder. The mere want of gold and the falling-from of his friends drove him into this melancholy. SECOND BANDIT. It is noised he hath a mass of treasure. THIRD BANDIT. Let us make the assay upon him. If he care not for’t, he will supply us easily; if he covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it? SECOND BANDIT. True, for he bears it not about him. ’Tis hid. FIRST BANDIT. Is not this he? BANDITTI. Where? SECOND BANDIT. ’Tis his description. THIRD BANDIT. He; I know him. BANDITTI. Save thee, Timon! TIMON. Now, thieves? BANDITTI. Soldiers, not thieves. TIMON. Both too, and women’s sons. BANDITTI. We are not thieves, but men that much do want. TIMON. Your greatest want is, you want much of meat. Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots, Within this mile break forth a hundred springs, The oaks bear mast, the briars scarlet hips, The bounteous housewife Nature on each bush Lays her full mess before you. Want? Why want? FIRST BANDIT. We cannot live on grass, on berries, water, As beasts and birds and fishes. TIMON. Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes; You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con That you are thieves professed, that you work not In holier shapes, for there is boundless theft In limited professions. Rascal thieves, Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ th’ grape Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, And so scape hanging. Trust not the physician; His antidotes are poison, and he slays More than you rob. Take wealth and lives together, Do villainy, do, since you protest to do’t, Like workmen. I’ll example you with thievery. The sun’s a thief and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears; the earth’s a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stol’n From general excrement. Each thing’s a thief. The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power Has unchecked theft. Love not yourselves; away! Rob one another. There’s more gold. Cut throats, All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go, Break open shops, nothing can you steal But thieves do lose it. Steal no less for this I give you, And gold confound you howsoe’er! Amen. THIRD BANDIT. Has almost charmed me from my profession by persuading me to it. FIRST BANDIT. ’Tis in the malice of mankind that he thus advises us, not to have us thrive in our mystery. SECOND BANDIT. I’ll believe him as an enemy and give over my trade. FIRST BANDIT. Let us first see peace in Athens. There is no time so miserable but a man may be true. [_Exeunt Banditti._] Enter Flavius. FLAVIUS. O you gods! Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord? Full of decay and failing? O monument And wonder of good deeds evilly bestowed! What an alteration of honour has desperate want made! What viler thing upon the earth than friends Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends! How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise, When man was wished to love his enemies! Grant I may ever love, and rather woo Those that would mischief me than those that do! He has caught me in his eye. I will present My honest grief unto him and as my lord Still serve him with my life.—My dearest master! TIMON. Away! What art thou? FLAVIUS. Have you forgot me, sir? TIMON. Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men. Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot thee. FLAVIUS. An honest poor servant of yours. TIMON. Then I know thee not. I never had honest man about me. I; all I kept were knaves to serve in meat to villains. FLAVIUS. The gods are witness, Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief For his undone lord than mine eyes for you. TIMON. What, dost thou weep? Come nearer then. I love thee Because thou art a woman and disclaim’st Flinty mankind, whose eyes do never give But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping. Strange times that weep with laughing, not with weeping! FLAVIUS. I beg of you to know me, good my lord, T’ accept my grief, and whilst this poor wealth lasts To entertain me as your steward still. TIMON. Had I a steward So true, so just, and now so comfortable? It almost turns my dangerous nature mild. Let me behold thy face. Surely this man Was born of woman. Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, You perpetual sober gods! I do proclaim One honest man, mistake me not, but one; No more, I pray, and he’s a steward. How fain would I have hated all mankind, And thou redeem’st thyself. But all, save thee, I fell with curses. Methinks thou art more honest now than wise, For by oppressing and betraying me Thou mightst have sooner got another service; For many so arrive at second masters Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true— For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure— Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, A usuring kindness and as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one? FLAVIUS. No, my most worthy master, in whose breast Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late. You should have feared false times when you did feast, Suspect still comes where an estate is least. That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love, Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind, Care of your food and living. And believe it, My most honoured lord, For any benefit that points to me, Either in hope or present, I’d exchange For this one wish, that you had power and wealth To requite me by making rich yourself. TIMON. Look thee, ’tis so! Thou singly honest man, Here, take. The gods out of my misery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy, But thus conditioned: thou shalt build from men; Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, But let the famished flesh slide from the bone Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow ’em, Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods! And so farewell and thrive. FLAVIUS. O, let me stay And comfort you, my master. TIMON. If thou hat’st curses, Stay not. Fly whilst thou’rt blest and free. Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee. [_Exeunt severally._] ACT V SCENE I. The woods. Before Timon’s cave Enter Poet and Painter. PAINTER. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides. POET. What’s to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that he is so full of gold? PAINTER. Certain. Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him. He likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity. ’Tis said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum. POET. Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends? PAINTER. Nothing else. You shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore ’tis not amiss we tender our loves to him in this supposed distress of his. It will show honestly in us and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travail for, if it be a just and true report that goes of his having. POET. What have you now to present unto him? PAINTER. Nothing at this time but my visitation; only I will promise him an excellent piece. POET. I must serve him so too, tell him of an intent that’s coming toward him. PAINTER. Good as the best. Promising is the very air o’ th’ time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever the duller for his act and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it. Enter Timon from his cave. TIMON. [_Aside_.] Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself. POET. I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for him. It must be a personating of himself, a satire against the softness of prosperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency. TIMON. [_Aside_.] Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own work? Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? Do so, I have gold for thee. POET. Nay, let’s seek him. Then do we sin against our own estate When we may profit meet and come too late. PAINTER. True. When the day serves, before black-cornered night, Find what thou want’st by free and offered light. Come. TIMON. [_Aside_.] I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold, That he is worshipped in a baser temple Than where swine feed! ’Tis thou that rigg’st the bark and plough’st the foam, Settlest admired reverence in a slave. To thee be worship, and thy saints for aye Be crowned with plagues, that thee alone obey! Fit I meet them. [_He comes forward._] POET. Hail, worthy Timon! PAINTER. Our late noble master! TIMON. Have I once lived to see two honest men? POET. Sir, Having often of your open bounty tasted, Hearing you were retired, your friends fall’n off, Whose thankless natures—O abhorred spirits! Not all the whips of heaven are large enough— What, to you, Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence To their whole being? I am rapt and cannot cover The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude With any size of words. TIMON. Let it go naked. Men may see’t the better. You that are honest, by being what you are, Make them best seen and known. PAINTER. He and myself Have travailed in the great shower of your gifts, And sweetly felt it. TIMON. Ay, you are honest men. PAINTER. We are hither come to offer you our service. TIMON. Most honest men! Why, how shall I requite you? Can you eat roots and drink cold water? No? BOTH. What we can do we’ll do, to do you service. TIMON. Ye’re honest men. Ye’ve heard that I have gold, I am sure you have. Speak truth, you’re honest men. PAINTER. So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore Came not my friend nor I. TIMON. Good honest men! [_To Painter_.] Thou draw’st a counterfeit Best in all Athens. Thou’rt indeed the best, Thou counterfeit’st most lively. PAINTER. So so, my lord. TIMON. E’en so, sir, as I say. [_To the Poet_.] And for thy fiction, Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth That thou art even natural in thine art. But for all this, my honest-natured friends, I must needs say you have a little fault. Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I You take much pains to mend. BOTH. Beseech your honour To make it known to us. TIMON. You’ll take it ill. BOTH. Most thankfully, my lord. TIMON. Will you indeed? BOTH. Doubt it not, worthy lord. TIMON. There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave That mightily deceives you. BOTH. Do we, my lord? TIMON. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble, Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him, Keep in your bosom, yet remain assured That he’s a made-up villain. PAINTER. I know not such, my lord. POET. Nor I. TIMON. Look you, I love you well. I’ll give you gold. Rid me these villains from your companies, Hang them or stab them, drown them in a draught, Confound them by some course, and come to me, I’ll give you gold enough. BOTH. Name them, my lord, let’s know them. TIMON. You that way, and you this, but two in company. Each man apart, all single and alone, Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. [_To one_.] If where thou art, two villians shall not be, Come not near him. [_To the other_.] If thou wouldst not reside But where one villain is, then him abandon. Hence, pack! There’s gold. You came for gold, ye slaves. [_To one_.] You have work for me, there’s payment, hence! [_To the other_.] You are an alchemist; make gold of that. Out, rascal dogs! [_Timon drives them out and then retires to his cave_] SCENE II. The same Enter Flavius and two Senators. FLAVIUS. It is vain that you would speak with Timon. For he is set so only to himself That nothing but himself which looks like man Is friendly with him. FIRST SENATOR. Bring us to his cave. It is our part and promise to th’ Athenians To speak with Timon. SECOND SENATOR. At all times alike Men are not still the same: ’twas time and griefs That framed him thus. Time, with his fairer hand, Offering the fortunes of his former days, The former man may make him. Bring us to him And chance it as it may. FLAVIUS. Here is his cave. Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon, Look out and speak to friends. The Athenians By two of their most reverend senate greet thee. Speak to them, noble Timon. Enter Timon out of his cave. TIMON. Thou sun that comforts, burn! Speak and be hanged! For each true word, a blister, and each false Be as a cantherizing to the root o’ th’ tongue, Consuming it with speaking. FIRST SENATOR. Worthy Timon— TIMON. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. FIRST SENATOR. The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon. TIMON. [_Aside_.] I thank them and would send them back the plague, Could I but catch it for them. FIRST SENATOR. O, forget What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. The senators with one consent of love Entreat thee back to Athens, who have thought On special dignities, which vacant lie For thy best use and wearing. SECOND SENATOR. They confess Toward thee forgetfulness too general gross, Which now the public body, which doth seldom Play the recanter, feeling in itself A lack of Timon’s aid, hath sense withal Of its own fall, restraining aid to Timon, And send forth us to make their sorrowed render, Together with a recompense more fruitful Than their offence can weigh down by the dram, Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth, As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs, And write in thee the figures of their love, Ever to read them thine. TIMON. You witch me in it, Surprise me to the very brink of tears. Lend me a fool’s heart and a woman’s eyes And I’ll beweep these comforts, worthy senators. FIRST SENATOR. Therefore so please thee to return with us, And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks, Allowed with absolute power, and thy good name Live with authority. So soon we shall drive back Of Alcibiades th’ approaches wild, Who like a boar too savage doth root up His country’s peace. SECOND SENATOR. And shakes his threatening sword Against the walls of Athens. FIRST SENATOR. Therefore, Timon— TIMON. Well, sir, I will. Therefore I will, sir, thus: If Alcibiades kill my countrymen, Let Alcibiades know this of Timon, That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens And take our goodly aged men by th’ beards, Giving our holy virgins to the stain Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brained war, Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it, In pity of our aged and our youth, I cannot choose but tell him that I care not; And—let him take’t at worst—for their knives care not While you have throats to answer. For myself, There’s not a whittle in th’ unruly camp But I do prize it at my love before The reverend’st throat in Athens. So I leave you To the protection of the prosperous gods, As thieves to keepers. FLAVIUS. Stay not, all’s in vain. TIMON. Why, I was writing of my epitaph; It will be seen tomorrow. My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still, Be Alcibiades your plague, you his, And last so long enough. FIRST SENATOR. We speak in vain. TIMON. But yet I love my country and am not One that rejoices in the common wrack, As common bruit doth put it. FIRST SENATOR. That’s well spoke. TIMON. Commend me to my loving countrymen. FIRST SENATOR. These words become your lips as they pass through them. SECOND SENATOR. And enter in our ears like great triumphers In their applauding gates. TIMON. Commend me to them, And tell them that to ease them of their griefs, Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them; I’ll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades’ wrath. FIRST SENATOR. [_Aside_.] I like this well, he will return again. TIMON. I have a tree which grows here in my close That mine own use invites me to cut down, And shortly must I fell it. Tell my friends, Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree From high to low throughout, that whoso please To stop affliction, let him take his haste, Come hither ere my tree hath felt the axe And hang himself. I pray you do my greeting. FLAVIUS. Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him. TIMON. Come not to me again, but say to Athens Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood, Who once a day with his embossed froth The turbulent surge shall cover; thither come, And let my gravestone be your oracle. Lips, let sour words go by, and language end: What is amiss, plague and infection mend; Graves only be men’s works and death their gain, Sun, hide thy beams, Timon hath done his reign. [_Exit Timon into his cave._] FIRST SENATOR. His discontents are unremovably Coupled to nature. SECOND SENATOR. Our hope in him is dead. Let us return And strain what other means is left unto us In our dear peril. FIRST SENATOR. It requires swift foot. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Before the walls of Athens Enter two other Senators, with a Messenger. FIRST SENATOR. Thou hast painfully discovered. Are his files As full as thy report? MESSENGER. I have spoke the least. Besides, his expedition promises Present approach. SECOND SENATOR. We stand much hazard if they bring not Timon. MESSENGER. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend, Whom, though in general part we were opposed, Yet our old love made a particular force And made us speak like friends. This man was riding From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave With letters of entreaty, which imported His fellowship i’ th’ cause against your city, In part for his sake moved. Enter the other Senators from Timon. THIRD SENATOR. Here come our brothers. FIRST SENATOR. No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect. The enemy’s drum is heard, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air with dust. In, and prepare. Ours is the fall, I fear, our foe’s the snare. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The woods. Timon’s cave, and a rude tomb seen Enter a Soldier in the woods, seeking Timon. SOLDIER. By all description this should be the place. Who’s here? Speak, ho! No answer? What is this? _Timon is dead, who hath outstretched his span. Some beast read this; there does not live a man._ Dead, sure, and this his grave. What’s on this tomb I cannot read. The character I’ll take with wax. Our captain hath in every figure skill, An aged interpreter, though young in days. Before proud Athens he’s set down by this, Whose fall the mark of his ambition is. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Before the walls of Athens Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his powers before Athens. ALCIBIADES. Sound to this coward and lascivious town Our terrible approach. [_A parley sounds._] The Senators appear upon the walls. Till now you have gone on and filled the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice. Till now myself and such As slept within the shadow of your power Have wandered with our traversed arms, and breathed Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush, When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong Cries of itself, “No more!” Now breathless wrong Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease, And pursy insolence shall break his wind With fear and horrid flight. FIRST SENATOR. Noble and young, When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, We sent to thee to give thy rages balm, To wipe out our ingratitude with loves Above their quantity. SECOND SENATOR. So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city’s love By humble message and by promised means. We were not all unkind, nor all deserve The common stroke of war. FIRST SENATOR. These walls of ours Were not erected by their hands from whom You have received your griefs; nor are they such That these great towers, trophies, and schools should fall For private faults in them. SECOND SENATOR. Nor are they living Who were the motives that you first went out. Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord, Into our city with thy banners spread. By decimation and a tithed death, If thy revenges hunger for that food Which nature loathes, take thou the destined tenth, And by the hazard of the spotted die Let die the spotted. FIRST SENATOR. All have not offended. For those that were, it is not square to take, On those that are, revenge. Crimes, like lands, Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman, Bring in thy ranks but leave without thy rage; Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall With those that have offended. Like a shepherd Approach the fold and cull th’ infected forth, But kill not all together. SECOND SENATOR. What thou wilt, Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile Than hew to ’t with thy sword. FIRST SENATOR. Set but thy foot Against our rampired gates and they shall ope, So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before To say thou’lt enter friendly. SECOND SENATOR. Throw thy glove, Or any token of thine honour else, That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress And not as our confusion, all thy powers Shall make their harbour in our town till we Have sealed thy full desire. ALCIBIADES. Then there’s my glove; Descend and open your uncharged ports. Those enemies of Timon’s and mine own Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof Fall, and no more. And, to atone your fears With my more noble meaning, not a man Shall pass his quarter or offend the stream Of regular justice in your city’s bounds, But shall be remedied to your public laws At heaviest answer. BOTH. ’Tis most nobly spoken. ALCIBIADES. Descend, and keep your words. [_The Senators descend._] Enter a Soldier. SOLDIER. My noble general, Timon is dead, Entombed upon the very hem o’ th’ sea, And on his gravestone this insculpture, which With wax I brought away, whose soft impression Interprets for my poor ignorance. ALCIBIADES. [_Reads the Epitaph._] _Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft. Seek not my name. A plague consume you, wicked caitiffs left! Here lie I, Timon, who alive all living men did hate. Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and stay not here thy gait._ These well express in thee thy latter spirits. Though thou abhorred’st in us our human griefs, Scorned’st our brains’ flow and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead Is noble Timon, of whose memory Hereafter more. Bring me into your city, And I will use the olive with my sword, Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each Prescribe to other, as each other’s leech. Let our drums strike. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS Contents ACT I Scene I. Rome. Before the Capitol ACT II Scene I. Rome. Before the palace Scene II. A Forest near Rome; a Lodge seen at a distance. Horns and cry of hounds heard Scene III. A lonely part of the Forest Scene IV. Another part of the Forest ACT III Scene I. Rome. A street Scene II. Rome. A Room in Titus’s House. A banquet set out ACT IV Scene I. Rome. Before Titus’s House Scene II. Rome. A Room in the Palace Scene III. Rome. A public Place Scene IV. Rome. Before the Palace ACT V Scene I. Plains near Rome Scene II. Rome. Before Titus’s House Scene III. Rome. A Pavilion in Titus’s Gardens, with tables, &c. Dramatis Personæ SATURNINUS, elder son to the late Emperor of Rome, afterwards Emperor BASSIANUS, brother to Saturninus TITUS ANDRONICUS, a noble Roman, General against the Goths MARCUS ANDRONICUS, Tribune of the People, and brother to Titus LAVINIA, daughter to Titus Andronicus LUCIUS, son to Titus Andronicus QUINTUS, son to Titus Andronicus MARTIUS, son to Titus Andronicus MUTIUS, son to Titus Andronicus YOUNG LUCIUS, a boy, son to Lucius PUBLIUS, son to Marcus the Tribune SEMPRONIUS, kinsman to Titus CAIUS, kinsman to Titus VALENTINE, kinsman to Titus AEMILIUS, a noble Roman TAMORA, Queen of the Goths AARON, a Moor, beloved by Tamora ALARBUS, son to Tamora DEMETRIUS, son to Tamora CHIRON, son to Tamora A CAPTAIN MESSENGER A NURSE, and a black child CLOWN Goths and Romans Tribunes, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants SCENE: Rome, and the Country near it ACT I SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol Enter the Tribunes and Senators aloft. And then enter Saturninus and his followers at one door, and Bassianus and his followers at the other, with drums and trumpets. SATURNINUS. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with arms; And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with your swords. I am his firstborn son that was the last That wore the imperial diadem of Rome; Then let my father’s honours live in me, Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. BASSIANUS. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, If ever Bassianus, Caesar’s son, Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol, And suffer not dishonour to approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, To justice, continence, and nobility; But let desert in pure election shine, And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. Enter Marcus Andronicus aloft, holding the crown. MARCUS. Princes, that strive by factions and by friends Ambitiously for rule and empery, Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand A special party, have by common voice, In election for the Roman empery, Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius For many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior, Lives not this day within the city walls. He by the senate is accited home From weary wars against the barbarous Goths, That with his sons, a terror to our foes, Hath yoked a nation strong, trained up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms Our enemies’ pride. Five times he hath returned Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons In coffins from the field. And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name Whom worthily you would have now succeed, And in the Capitol and senate’s right, Whom you pretend to honour and adore, That you withdraw you and abate your strength, Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. SATURNINUS. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts! BASSIANUS. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy In thy uprightness and integrity, And so I love and honour thee and thine, Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament, That I will here dismiss my loving friends, And to my fortunes and the people’s favour Commit my cause in balance to be weighed. [_Exeunt the followers of Bassianus._] SATURNINUS. Friends, that have been thus forward in my right, I thank you all and here dismiss you all, And to the love and favour of my country Commit myself, my person, and the cause. [_Exeunt the followers of Saturninus._] Rome, be as just and gracious unto me As I am confident and kind to thee. Open the gates and let me in. BASSIANUS. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. [_Flourish. They go up into the Senate House._] Enter a Captain. CAPTAIN. Romans, make way! The good Andronicus, Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion, Successful in the battles that he fights, With honour and with fortune is returned From where he circumscribed with his sword And brought to yoke the enemies of Rome. Sound drums and trumpets, and then enter two of Titus’ sons, and then two men bearing a coffin covered with black; then two other sons; then Titus Andronicus; and then Tamora, the Queen of Goths and her sons Alarbus, Chiron and Demetrius with Aaron the Moor, and others as many as can be, then set down the coffin, and Titus speaks. TITUS. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds! Lo, as the bark that hath discharged her fraught Returns with precious lading to the bay From whence at first she weighed her anchorage, Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, To resalute his country with his tears, Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. Thou great defender of this Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend. Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons, Half of the number that King Priam had, Behold the poor remains, alive and dead. These that survive let Rome reward with love; These that I bring unto their latest home, With burial amongst their ancestors. Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own, Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet, To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx? Make way to lay them by their brethren. [_They open the tomb._] There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars. O sacred receptacle of my joys, Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, How many sons hast thou of mine in store, That thou wilt never render to me more? LUCIUS. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile _Ad manes fratrum_ sacrifice his flesh Before this earthy prison of their bones, That so the shadows be not unappeased, Nor we disturbed with prodigies on earth. TITUS. I give him you, the noblest that survives, The eldest son of this distressed queen. TAMORA. Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror, Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, A mother’s tears in passion for her son. And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, O, think my son to be as dear to me. Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome, To beautify thy triumphs and return Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke; But must my sons be slaughtered in the streets For valiant doings in their country’s cause? O, if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine, it is in these. Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood. Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful. Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge. Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. TITUS. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. These are their brethren whom your Goths beheld Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain Religiously they ask a sacrifice. To this your son is marked, and die he must, T’ appease their groaning shadows that are gone. LUCIUS. Away with him, and make a fire straight, And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, Let’s hew his limbs till they be clean consumed. [_Exeunt Titus’ sons with Alarbus._] TAMORA. O cruel, irreligious piety! CHIRON. Was never Scythia half so barbarous! DEMETRIUS. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive To tremble under Titus’ threat’ning look. Then, madam, stand resolved, but hope withal The self-same gods that armed the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent May favour Tamora, the queen of Goths, (When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen) To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes. Enter the sons of Andronicus again with bloody swords. LUCIUS. See, lord and father, how we have performed Our Roman rites. Alarbus’ limbs are lopped, And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, Whose smoke like incense doth perfume the sky. Remaineth naught but to inter our brethren, And with loud ’larums welcome them to Rome. TITUS. Let it be so; and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their souls. [_Sound trumpets, and lay the coffin in the tomb._] In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps. Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here grow no damned drugs; here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons. Enter Lavinia. LAVINIA. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long; My noble lord and father, live in fame. Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears I render for my brethren’s obsequies; And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy Shed on this earth for thy return to Rome. O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, Whose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud. TITUS. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved The cordial of mine age to glad my heart! Lavinia, live; outlive thy father’s days, And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise. Enter Marcus Andronicus and Tribunes; re-enter Saturninus, Bassianus and others. MARCUS. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome. TITUS. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus. MARCUS. And welcome, nephews, from successful wars, You that survive, and you that sleep in fame. Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all, That in your country’s service drew your swords; But safer triumph is this funeral pomp That hath aspired to Solon’s happiness And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed. Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust, This palliament of white and spotless hue, And name thee in election for the empire With these our late-deceased emperor’s sons. Be _candidatus_ then, and put it on, And help to set a head on headless Rome. TITUS. A better head her glorious body fits Than his that shakes for age and feebleness. What, should I don this robe and trouble you? Be chosen with proclamations today, Tomorrow yield up rule, resign my life, And set abroad new business for you all? Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, And led my country’s strength successfully, And buried one and twenty valiant sons, Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, In right and service of their noble country. Give me a staff of honour for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world. Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. MARCUS. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery. SATURNINUS. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell? TITUS. Patience, Prince Saturninus. SATURNINUS. Romans, do me right. Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor. Andronicus, would thou were shipped to hell Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts! LUCIUS. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee! TITUS. Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves. BASSIANUS. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, But honour thee, and will do till I die. My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, I will most thankful be; and thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. TITUS. People of Rome, and people’s tribunes here, I ask your voices and your suffrages. Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus? TRIBUNES. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to Rome, The people will accept whom he admits. TITUS. Tribunes, I thank you; and this suit I make, That you create your emperor’s eldest son, Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal. Then, if you will elect by my advice, Crown him, and say “Long live our emperor!” MARCUS. With voices and applause of every sort, Patricians and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor, And say “Long live our Emperor Saturnine!” [_A long flourish._] SATURNINUS. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done To us in our election this day, I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, And will with deeds requite thy gentleness. And for an onset, Titus, to advance Thy name and honourable family, Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart, And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse. Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee? TITUS. It doth, my worthy lord, and in this match I hold me highly honoured of your grace; And here in sight of Rome, to Saturnine, King and commander of our commonweal, The wide world’s emperor, do I consecrate My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners; Presents well worthy Rome’s imperious lord. Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet. SATURNINUS. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life. How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts Rome shall record, and when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your fealty to me. TITUS. [_To Tamora_.] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor; To him that for your honour and your state Will use you nobly and your followers. SATURNINUS. A goodly lady, trust me, of the hue That I would choose, were I to choose anew. Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance. Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, Thou com’st not to be made a scorn in Rome. Princely shall be thy usage every way. Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes. Madam, he comforts you Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. Lavinia, you are not displeased with this? LAVINIA. Not I, my lord, sith true nobility Warrants these words in princely courtesy. SATURNINUS. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go. Ransomless here we set our prisoners free. Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum. [_Flourish. Saturninus and his Guards exit, with Drums and Trumpets. Tribunes and Senators exit aloft._] BASSIANUS. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine. TITUS. How, sir? Are you in earnest then, my lord? BASSIANUS. Ay, noble Titus; and resolved withal To do myself this reason and this right. MARCUS. _Suum cuique_ is our Roman justice. This prince in justice seizeth but his own. LUCIUS. And that he will and shall, if Lucius live. TITUS. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s guard? Enter Saturninus and his Guards. Treason, my lord, Lavinia is surprised. SATURNINUS. Surprised? By whom? BASSIANUS. By him that justly may Bear his betrothed from all the world away. [_Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia._] MUTIUS. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, And with my sword I’ll keep this door safe. [_Exeunt Lucius, Quintus and Martius._] TITUS. Follow, my lord, and I’ll soon bring her back. [_Exeunt Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, Aaron, and Guards._] MUTIUS. My lord, you pass not here. TITUS. What, villain boy, Barr’st me my way in Rome? [_Stabbing Mutius._] MUTIUS. Help, Lucius, help! [_Dies._] Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. My lord, you are unjust, and more than so, In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. TITUS. Nor thou nor he are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me. Traitor, restore Lavinia to the Emperor. LUCIUS. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife, That is another’s lawful promised love. [_Exit._] Enter aloft the Emperor Saturninus with Tamora and her two sons and Aaron the Moor. SATURNINUS. No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not, Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock. I’ll trust by leisure him that mocks me once; Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, Confederates all thus to dishonour me. Was none in Rome to make a stale But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine That said’st I begged the empire at thy hands. TITUS. O monstrous! What reproachful words are these? SATURNINUS. But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece To him that flourished for her with his sword. A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. TITUS. These words are razors to my wounded heart. SATURNINUS. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That like the stately Phœbe ’mongst her nymphs Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome, If thou be pleased with this my sudden choice, Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride, And will create thee Empress of Rome. Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice? And here I swear by all the Roman gods, Sith priest and holy water are so near, And tapers burn so bright, and everything In readiness for Hymenæus stand, I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espoused my bride along with me. TAMORA. And here in sight of heaven to Rome I swear, If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. SATURNINUS. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered. There shall we consummate our spousal rites. [_Exeunt all but Titus._] TITUS. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonoured thus, and challenged of wrongs? Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus and Martius. MARCUS. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. TITUS. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine, Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonoured all our family. Unworthy brother and unworthy sons! LUCIUS. But let us give him burial, as becomes; Give Mutius burial with our brethren. TITUS. Traitors, away! He rests not in this tomb. This monument five hundred years hath stood, Which I have sumptuously re-edified. Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls. Bury him where you can, he comes not here. MARCUS. My lord, this is impiety in you. My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him; He must be buried with his brethren. MARTIUS. And shall, or him we will accompany. TITUS. “And shall”? What villain was it spake that word? QUINTUS. He that would vouch it in any place but here. TITUS. What, would you bury him in my despite? MARCUS. No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee To pardon Mutius and to bury him. TITUS. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded. My foes I do repute you every one; So trouble me no more, but get you gone. QUINTUS. He is not with himself; let us withdraw. MARTIUS. Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried. [_Marcus and the sons of Titus kneel._] MARCUS. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,— QUINTUS. Father, and in that name doth nature speak,— TITUS. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. MARCUS. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,— LUCIUS. Dear father, soul and substance of us all,— MARCUS. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest, That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause. Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous. The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax, That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son Did graciously plead for his funerals. Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy, Be barred his entrance here. TITUS. Rise, Marcus, rise. The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw, To be dishonoured by my sons in Rome! Well, bury him, and bury me the next. [_They put Mutius in the tomb._] LUCIUS. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends, Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. ALL. [_Kneeling_.] No man shed tears for noble Mutius; He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause. MARCUS. My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps, How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome? TITUS. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is. Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell. Is she not then beholding to the man That brought her for this high good turn so far? Yes, and will nobly him remunerate. Flourish. Enter the Emperor Saturninus, Tamora and her two sons, with Aaron the Moor. Drums and Trumpets, at one door. Enter at the other door Bassianus and Lavinia with others. SATURNINUS. So, Bassianus, you have played your prize. God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride. BASSIANUS. And you of yours, my lord. I say no more, Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave. SATURNINUS. Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power, Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. BASSIANUS. Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my own, My true betrothed love, and now my wife? But let the laws of Rome determine all; Meanwhile am I possessed of that is mine. SATURNINUS. ’Tis good, sir. You are very short with us; But if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you. BASSIANUS. My lord, what I have done, as best I may, Answer I must, and shall do with my life. Only thus much I give your grace to know: By all the duties that I owe to Rome, This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here, Is in opinion and in honour wronged, That, in the rescue of Lavinia, With his own hand did slay his youngest son, In zeal to you, and highly moved to wrath To be controlled in that he frankly gave. Receive him then to favour, Saturnine, That hath expressed himself in all his deeds A father and a friend to thee and Rome. TITUS. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds. ’Tis thou, and those, that have dishonoured me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge How I have loved and honoured Saturnine. TAMORA. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, Then hear me speak indifferently for all; And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. SATURNINUS. What, madam, be dishonoured openly, And basely put it up without revenge? TAMORA. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend I should be author to dishonour you! But on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all, Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. Then at my suit look graciously on him; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. [_Aside_.] My lord, be ruled by me, be won at last; Dissemble all your griefs and discontents. You are but newly planted in your throne; Lest, then, the people, and patricians too, Upon a just survey take Titus’ part, And so supplant you for ingratitude, Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, Yield at entreats, and then let me alone. I’ll find a day to massacre them all, And raze their faction and their family, The cruel father and his traitorous sons, To whom I sued for my dear son’s life; And make them know what ’tis to let a queen Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain. [_Aloud_.] Come, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus; Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. SATURNINUS. Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevailed. TITUS. I thank your majesty and her, my lord. These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. TAMORA. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily, And must advise the emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus; And let it be mine honour, good my lord, That I have reconciled your friends and you. For you, Prince Bassianus, I have passed My word and promise to the emperor That you will be more mild and tractable. And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia. By my advice, all humbled on your knees, You shall ask pardon of his majesty. LUCIUS. We do, and vow to heaven and to his highness That what we did was mildly as we might, Tend’ring our sister’s honour and our own. MARCUS. That on mine honour here do I protest. SATURNINUS. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more. TAMORA. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends. The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace; I will not be denied. Sweet heart, look back. SATURNINUS. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother’s here, And at my lovely Tamora’s entreats, I do remit these young men’s heinous faults. Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I found a friend, and sure as death I swore I would not part a bachelor from the priest. Come, if the emperor’s court can feast two brides, You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. TITUS. Tomorrow, an it please your majesty To hunt the panther and the hart with me, With horn and hound we’ll give your grace _bonjour_. SATURNINUS. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too. [_Sound trumpets. Exeunt all but Aaron._] ACT II SCENE I. Rome. Before the palace Aaron alone. AARON. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top, Safe out of Fortune’s shot, and sits aloft, Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning’s flash, Advanced above pale envy’s threat’ning reach. As when the golden sun salutes the morn, And, having gilt the ocean with his beams, Gallops the zodiac in his glistening coach, And overlooks the highest-peering hills; So Tamora. Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown. Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy thoughts To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress, And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long Hast prisoner held, fett’red in amorous chains, And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts! I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold, To wait upon this new-made empress. To wait, said I? To wanton with this queen, This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine, And see his shipwrack and his commonweal’s. Holla! What storm is this? Enter Chiron and Demetrius braving. DEMETRIUS. Chiron, thy years wants wit, thy wit wants edge And manners, to intrude where I am graced, And may, for aught thou knowest, affected be. CHIRON. Demetrius, thou dost overween in all, And so in this, to bear me down with braves. ’Tis not the difference of a year or two Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate. I am as able and as fit as thou To serve and to deserve my mistress’ grace; And that my sword upon thee shall approve, And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love. AARON. [_Aside_.] Clubs, clubs! These lovers will not keep the peace. DEMETRIUS. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised, Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side, Are you so desperate grown to threat your friends? Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath Till you know better how to handle it. CHIRON. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have, Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare. DEMETRIUS. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave? [_They draw._] AARON. Why, how now, lords! So near the emperor’s palace dare ye draw, And maintain such a quarrel openly? Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge. I would not for a million of gold The cause were known to them it most concerns; Nor would your noble mother for much more Be so dishonoured in the court of Rome. For shame, put up. DEMETRIUS. Not I, till I have sheathed My rapier in his bosom, and withal Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat That he hath breathed in my dishonour here. CHIRON. For that I am prepared and full resolved, Foul-spoken coward, that thund’rest with thy tongue, And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform. AARON. Away, I say! Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore, This pretty brabble will undo us all. Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous It is to jet upon a prince’s right? What, is Lavinia then become so loose, Or Bassianus so degenerate, That for her love such quarrels may be broached Without controlment, justice, or revenge? Young lords, beware! And should the empress know This discord’s ground, the music would not please. CHIRON. I care not, I, knew she and all the world. I love Lavinia more than all the world. DEMETRIUS. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice. Lavina is thine elder brother’s hope. AARON. Why, are ye mad? Or know ye not in Rome How furious and impatient they be, And cannot brook competitors in love? I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths By this device. CHIRON. Aaron, a thousand deaths Would I propose to achieve her whom I love. AARON. To achieve her! How? DEMETRIUS. Why makes thou it so strange? She is a woman, therefore may be wooed; She is a woman, therefore may be won; She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved. What, man, more water glideth by the mill Than wots the miller of; and easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know. Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother, Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge. AARON. [_Aside_.] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may. DEMETRIUS. Then why should he despair that knows to court it With words, fair looks, and liberality? What, hast not thou full often struck a doe, And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose? AARON. Why, then, it seems some certain snatch or so Would serve your turns. CHIRON. Ay, so the turn were served. DEMETRIUS. Aaron, thou hast hit it. AARON. Would you had hit it too! Then should not we be tired with this ado. Why, hark ye, hark ye, and are you such fools To square for this? Would it offend you then That both should speed? CHIRON. Faith, not me. DEMETRIUS. Nor me, so I were one. AARON. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar. ’Tis policy and stratagem must do That you affect; and so must you resolve That what you cannot as you would achieve, You must perforce accomplish as you may. Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love. A speedier course than ling’ring languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path. My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand; There will the lovely Roman ladies troop. The forest walks are wide and spacious, And many unfrequented plots there are Fitted by kind for rape and villainy. Single you thither, then, this dainty doe, And strike her home by force, if not by words. This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit To villainy and vengeance consecrate, Will we acquaint with all what we intend; And she shall file our engines with advice That will not suffer you to square yourselves, But to your wishes’ height advance you both. The emperor’s court is like the house of Fame, The palace full of tongues, of eyes and ears; The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull. There speak and strike, brave boys, and take your turns; There serve your lust, shadowed from heaven’s eye, And revel in Lavinia’s treasury. CHIRON. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice. DEMETRIUS. _Sit fas aut nefas_, till I find the stream To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits, _Per Stygia, per manes vehor._ [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Forest near Rome; a Lodge seen at a distance. Horns and cry of hounds heard Enter Titus Andronicus and his three sons, and Marcus, making a noise with hounds and horns. TITUS. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey, The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green. Uncouple here, and let us make a bay, And wake the emperor and his lovely bride, And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter’s peal, That all the court may echo with the noise. Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours, To attend the emperor’s person carefully. I have been troubled in my sleep this night, But dawning day new comfort hath inspired. Here a cry of hounds, and wind horns in a peal. Then enter Saturninus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lavinia, Chiron, Demetrius, and their Attendants. Many good morrows to your majesty; Madam, to you as many and as good. I promised your grace a hunter’s peal. SATURNINUS. And you have rung it lustily, my lords; Somewhat too early for new-married ladies. BASSIANUS. Lavinia, how say you? LAVINIA. I say no; I have been broad awake two hours and more. SATURNINUS. Come on then; horse and chariots let us have, And to our sport. [_To Tamora_.] Madam, now shall ye see Our Roman hunting. MARCUS. I have dogs, my lord, Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, And climb the highest promontory top. TITUS. And I have horse will follow where the game Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain. DEMETRIUS. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound, But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A lonely part of the Forest Enter Aaron, alone, carrying a bag of gold. AARON. He that had wit would think that I had none, To bury so much gold under a tree, And never after to inherit it. Let him that thinks of me so abjectly Know that this gold must coin a stratagem, Which, cunningly effected, will beget A very excellent piece of villainy. And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest That have their alms out of the empress’ chest. [_He hides the bag._] Enter Tamora alone to the Moor. TAMORA. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad When everything doth make a gleeful boast? The birds chant melody on every bush, The snakes lie rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a chequered shadow on the ground. Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise; And after conflict such as was supposed The wand’ring prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surprised, And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave, We may, each wreathed in the other’s arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber, Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse’s song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep. AARON. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, Saturn is dominator over mine. What signifies my deadly-standing eye, My silence and my cloudy melancholy, My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls Even as an adder when she doth unroll To do some fatal execution? No, madam, these are no venereal signs. Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee, This is the day of doom for Bassianus; His Philomel must lose her tongue today, Thy sons make pillage of her chastity, And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood. Seest thou this letter? Take it up, I pray thee, And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll. Now question me no more; we are espied; Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty, Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction. Enter Bassianus and Lavinia. TAMORA. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life! AARON. No more, great empress. Bassianus comes. Be cross with him; and I’ll go fetch thy sons To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be. [_Exit._] BASSIANUS. Who have we here? Rome’s royal empress, Unfurnished of her well-beseeming troop? Or is it Dian, habited like her, Who hath abandoned her holy groves To see the general hunting in this forest? TAMORA. Saucy controller of my private steps! Had I the power that some say Dian had, Thy temples should be planted presently With horns, as was Actaeon’s; and the hounds Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs, Unmannerly intruder as thou art. LAVINIA. Under your patience, gentle empress, ’Tis thought you have a goodly gift in horning, And to be doubted that your Moor and you Are singled forth to try experiments. Jove shield your husband from his hounds today! ’Tis pity they should take him for a stag. BASSIANUS. Believe me, queen, your swarthy Cimmerian Doth make your honour of his body’s hue, Spotted, detested, and abominable. Why are you sequestered from all your train, Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed, And wandered hither to an obscure plot, Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor, If foul desire had not conducted you? LAVINIA. And, being intercepted in your sport, Great reason that my noble lord be rated For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence, And let her joy her raven-coloured love; This valley fits the purpose passing well. BASSIANUS. The king my brother shall have notice of this. LAVINIA. Ay, for these slips have made him noted long. Good king, to be so mightily abused! TAMORA. Why, I have patience to endure all this. Enter Chiron and Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother! Why doth your highness look so pale and wan? TAMORA. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale? These two have ticed me hither to this place, A barren detested vale you see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe. Here never shines the sun, here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven. And when they showed me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of the night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins, Would make such fearful and confused cries As any mortal body hearing it Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. No sooner had they told this hellish tale But straight they told me they would bind me here Unto the body of a dismal yew, And leave me to this miserable death. And then they called me foul adulteress, Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms That ever ear did hear to such effect. And had you not by wondrous fortune come, This vengeance on me had they executed. Revenge it, as you love your mother’s life, Or be ye not henceforth called my children. DEMETRIUS. This is a witness that I am thy son. [_Stabs Bassianus._] CHIRON. And this for me, struck home to show my strength. [_Also stabs Bassianus, who dies._] LAVINIA. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora, For no name fits thy nature but thy own! TAMORA. Give me thy poniard; you shall know, my boys, Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s wrong. DEMETRIUS. Stay, madam, here is more belongs to her. First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw. This minion stood upon her chastity, Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty, And with that painted hope braves your mightiness; And shall she carry this unto her grave? CHIRON. And if she do, I would I were an eunuch. Drag hence her husband to some secret hole, And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust. TAMORA. But when ye have the honey ye desire, Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting. CHIRON. I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure. Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy That nice-preserved honesty of yours. LAVINIA. O Tamora, thou bearest a woman’s face,— TAMORA. I will not hear her speak; away with her! LAVINIA. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word. DEMETRIUS. Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory To see her tears; but be your heart to them As unrelenting flint to drops of rain. LAVINIA. When did the tiger’s young ones teach the dam? O, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee; The milk thou suck’st from her did turn to marble; Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. Yet every mother breeds not sons alike. [_To Chiron_.] Do thou entreat her show a woman’s pity. CHIRON. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard? LAVINIA. ’Tis true the raven doth not hatch a lark. Yet have I heard—O, could I find it now!— The lion, moved with pity, did endure To have his princely paws pared all away. Some say that ravens foster forlorn children, The whilst their own birds famish in their nests. O, be to me, though thy hard heart say no, Nothing so kind, but something pitiful. TAMORA. I know not what it means; away with her! LAVINIA. O, let me teach thee! For my father’s sake, That gave thee life when well he might have slain thee, Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. TAMORA. Hadst thou in person ne’er offended me, Even for his sake am I pitiless. Remember, boys, I poured forth tears in vain To save your brother from the sacrifice, But fierce Andronicus would not relent. Therefore away with her, and use her as you will; The worse to her, the better loved of me. LAVINIA. O Tamora, be called a gentle queen, And with thine own hands kill me in this place! For ’tis not life that I have begged so long; Poor I was slain when Bassianus died. TAMORA. What begg’st thou, then? Fond woman, let me go. LAVINIA. ’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more That womanhood denies my tongue to tell. O, keep me from their worse than killing lust, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where never man’s eye may behold my body. Do this, and be a charitable murderer. TAMORA. So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee. No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. DEMETRIUS. Away, for thou hast stayed us here too long. LAVINIA. No grace, no womanhood? Ah, beastly creature, The blot and enemy to our general name! Confusion fall— CHIRON. Nay, then I’ll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband. This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him. [_They put Bassianus’s body in the pit and exit, carrying off Lavinia._] TAMORA. Farewell, my sons. See that you make her sure. Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed Till all the Andronici be made away. Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor, And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower. [_Exit._] Enter Aaron with two of Titus’ sons, Quintus and Martius. AARON. Come on, my lords, the better foot before. Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit Where I espied the panther fast asleep. QUINTUS. My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes. MARTIUS. And mine, I promise you. Were it not for shame, Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile. [_He falls into the pit._] QUINTUS. What, art thou fallen? What subtle hole is this, Whose mouth is covered with rude-growing briers, Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood As fresh as morning dew distilled on flowers? A very fatal place it seems to me. Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall? MARTIUS. O brother, with the dismall’st object hurt That ever eye with sight made heart lament! AARON. [_Aside_.] Now will I fetch the king to find them here, That he thereby may have a likely guess How these were they that made away his brother. [_Exit._] MARTIUS. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out From this unhallowed and blood-stained hole? QUINTUS. I am surprised with an uncouth fear; A chilling sweat o’er-runs my trembling joints. My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. MARTIUS. To prove thou hast a true-divining heart, Aaron and thou look down into this den, And see a fearful sight of blood and death. QUINTUS. Aaron is gone, and my compassionate heart Will not permit mine eyes once to behold The thing whereat it trembles by surmise. O, tell me who it is; for ne’er till now Was I a child to fear I know not what. MARTIUS. Lord Bassianus lies berayed in blood, All on a heap, like to a slaughtered lamb, In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit. QUINTUS. If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he? MARTIUS. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear A precious ring that lightens all the hole, Which, like a taper in some monument, Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks, And shows the ragged entrails of the pit. So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus When he by night lay bathed in maiden blood. O brother, help me with thy fainting hand, If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath, Out of this fell devouring receptacle, As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth. QUINTUS. Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out, Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, I may be plucked into the swallowing womb Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave. I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink. MARTIUS. Nor I no strength to climb without thy help. QUINTUS. Thy hand once more; I will not loose again, Till thou art here aloft, or I below. Thou canst not come to me. I come to thee. [_Falls in._] Enter the Emperor Saturninus and Aaron the Moor. SATURNINUS. Along with me! I’ll see what hole is here, And what he is that now is leapt into it. Say, who art thou that lately didst descend Into this gaping hollow of the earth? MARTIUS. The unhappy sons of old Andronicus, Brought hither in a most unlucky hour, To find thy brother Bassianus dead. SATURNINUS. My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest. He and his lady both are at the lodge Upon the north side of this pleasant chase; ’Tis not an hour since I left them there. MARTIUS. We know not where you left them all alive; But, out, alas, here have we found him dead. Enter Tamora, Titus Andronicus and Lucius. TAMORA. Where is my lord the king? SATURNINUS. Here, Tamora; though grieved with killing grief. TAMORA. Where is thy brother Bassianus? SATURNINUS. Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound. Poor Bassianus here lies murdered. TAMORA. Then all too late I bring this fatal writ, The complot of this timeless tragedy; And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny. [_She giveth Saturnine a letter._] SATURNINUS. [_Reads_.] _An if we miss to meet him handsomely, Sweet huntsman, Bassianus ’tis we mean, Do thou so much as dig the grave for him; Thou know’st our meaning. Look for thy reward Among the nettles at the elder-tree Which overshades the mouth of that same pit Where we decreed to bury Bassianus. Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends._ O Tamora, was ever heard the like? This is the pit, and this the elder-tree. Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out That should have murdered Bassianus here. AARON. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold. [_Showing it._] SATURNINUS. [_To Titus_.] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind, Have here bereft my brother of his life. Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison. There let them bide until we have devised Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them. TAMORA. What, are they in this pit? O wondrous thing! How easily murder is discovered! TITUS. High emperor, upon my feeble knee I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed, That this fell fault of my accursed sons, Accursed if the fault be proved in them— SATURNINUS. If it be proved! You see it is apparent. Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you? TAMORA. Andronicus himself did take it up. TITUS. I did, my lord, yet let me be their bail; For by my fathers’ reverend tomb I vow They shall be ready at your highness’ will To answer their suspicion with their lives. SATURNINUS. Thou shalt not bail them. See thou follow me. Some bring the murdered body, some the murderers. Let them not speak a word; the guilt is plain; For, by my soul, were there worse end than death, That end upon them should be executed. TAMORA. Andronicus, I will entreat the king. Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough. TITUS. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them. [_Exeunt severally. Attendants bearing the body._] SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest Enter the empress’ sons, Demetrius and Chiron with Lavinia, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravished. DEMETRIUS. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who ’twas that cut thy tongue and ravished thee. CHIRON. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. DEMETRIUS. See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl. CHIRON. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands. DEMETRIUS. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let’s leave her to her silent walks. CHIRON. An ’twere my cause, I should go hang myself. DEMETRIUS. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. [_Exeunt Chiron and Demetrius._] Enter Marcus, from hunting. MARCUS. Who is this? My niece, that flies away so fast? Cousin, a word; where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber an eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Hath lopped and hewed and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirred with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn’st away thy face for shame, And notwithstanding all this loss of blood, As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face Blushing to be encountered with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee, shall I say ’tis so? O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast, That I might rail at him to ease my mind. Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopped, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomela, why she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sewed her mind; But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off That could have better sewed than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touched them for his life. Or had he heard the heavenly harmony Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropped his knife, and fell asleep, As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet. Come, let us go, and make thy father blind, For such a sight will blind a father’s eye. One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads; What will whole months of tears thy father’s eyes? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee. O, could our mourning ease thy misery! [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter the Judges and Senators, with Titus’ two sons Quintus and Martius bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before, pleading. TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, stay! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed, For all the frosty nights that I have watched, And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour’s lofty bed. [_Andronicus lieth down, and the Judges pass by him._] [_Exeunt with the prisoners as Titus continues speaking._] For these, tribunes, in the dust I write My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears. Let my tears staunch the earth’s dry appetite; My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his showers. In summer’s drought I’ll drop upon thee still; In winter with warm tears I’ll melt the snow, And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood. Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn. O reverend tribunes! O gentle aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death; And let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators. LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain. The tribunes hear you not, no man is by; And you recount your sorrows to a stone. TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you— LUCIUS. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. TITUS. Why, ’tis no matter, man. If they did hear, They would not mark me; if they did mark, They would not pity me, yet plead I must, And bootless unto them. Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones, Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale. When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me; And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribunes like to these. A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones; A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn? LUCIUS. To rescue my two brothers from their death; For which attempt the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment. TITUS. O happy man, they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine. How happy art thou then, From these devourers to be banished! But who comes with our brother Marcus here? Enter Marcus with Lavinia. MARCUS. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; Or if not so, thy noble heart to break. I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then. MARCUS. This was thy daughter. TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is. LUCIUS. Ay me, this object kills me! TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father’s sight? What fool hath added water to the sea, Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou cam’st, And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds. Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my hands too; For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain; And they have nursed this woe in feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have served me to effectless use. Now all the service I require of them Is that the one will help to cut the other. ’Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands, For hands to do Rome service is but vain. LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyred thee? MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabbed them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear. LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed? MARCUS. O, thus I found her straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer That hath received some unrecuring wound. TITUS. It was my dear, and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead. For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environed with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; Here stands my other son, a banished man, And here my brother, weeping at my woes. But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight It would have madded me. What shall I do Now I behold thy lively body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyred thee. Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemned, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her! When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gathered lily almost withered. MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they killed her husband; Perchance because she knows them innocent. TITUS. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some sign how I may do thee ease. Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks How they are stained, like meadows yet not dry, With miry slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues Plot some device of further misery, To make us wondered at in time to come. LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes. TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drowned it with thine own. LUCIUS. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. TITUS. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs. Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee. His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this, As far from help as limbo is from bliss. Enter Aaron the Moor, alone. AARON. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the king; he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault. TITUS. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise? With all my heart I’ll send the emperor my hand. Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? LUCIUS. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn. My youth can better spare my blood than you; And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives. MARCUS. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And reared aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle? O, none of both but are of high desert. My hand hath been but idle; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end. AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. MARCUS. My hand shall go. LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go! TITUS. Sirs, strive no more. Such withered herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. LUCIUS. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. MARCUS. And for our father’s sake and mother’s care, Now let me show a brother’s love to thee. TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand. LUCIUS. Then I’ll go fetch an axe. MARCUS. But I will use the axe. [_Exeunt Lucius and Marcus._] TITUS. Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both. Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. AARON. [_Aside_.] If that be called deceit, I will be honest, And never whilst I live deceive men so. But I’ll deceive you in another sort, And that you’ll say ere half an hour pass. [_He cuts off Titus’s hand._] Enter Lucius and Marcus again. TITUS. Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatched. Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand. Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him bury it; More hath it merited, that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchased at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [_Aside_.] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villainy Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron will have his soul black like his face. [_Exit._] TITUS. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth. If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call! [_To Lavinia_.] What, wouldst thou kneel with me? Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs we’ll breathe the welkin dim, And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes. TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them. MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament. TITUS. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes. When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swol’n face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth flow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth. Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflowed and drowned; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. Enter a Messenger with two heads and a hand. MESSENGER. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons, And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back. Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mocked; That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father’s death. [_Exit._] MARCUS. Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death. LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe! [_Lavinia kisses Titus._] MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake. TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end? MARCUS. Now farewell, flattery; die, Andronicus; Thou dost not slumber. See thy two sons’ heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banished son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? TITUS. Ha, ha, ha! MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour. TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed. Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watery eyes, And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be returned again Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head; And in this hand the other will I bear. And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these arms. Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there. And if you love me, as I think you do, Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do. [_Exeunt Titus, Marcus and Lavinia._] LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The woefull’st man that ever lived in Rome. Farewell, proud Rome, till Lucius come again; He loves his pledges dearer than his life. Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs, And make proud Saturnine and his empress Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Rome. A Room in Titus’s House. A banquet set out Enter Titus Andronicus, Marcus, Lavinia and the boy Young Lucius. TITUS. So so; now sit; and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot. Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; Who when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down. Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs, When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get some little knife between thy teeth, And just against thy heart make thou a hole, That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink, and, soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands, To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o’er How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none. Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk, As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this. Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says; I can interpret all her martyred signs. She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brewed with her sorrow, meshed upon her cheeks. Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning. YOUNG LUCIUS. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments. Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale. MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved, Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness. TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away. [_Marcus strikes the dish with a knife._] What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? MARCUS. At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly. TITUS. Out on thee, murderer! Thou kill’st my heart; Mine eyes are cloyed with view of tyranny; A deed of death done on the innocent Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone; I see thou art not for my company. MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but killed a fly. TITUS. “But”? How if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings And buzz lamenting doings in the air! Poor harmless fly, That with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry, and thou hast killed him. MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; ’twas a black ill-favoured fly, Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I killed him. TITUS. O, O, O! Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering myself as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora. Ah, sirrah! Yet, I think, we are not brought so low But that between us we can kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. MARCUS. Alas, poor man, grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances. TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me. I’ll to thy closet, and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me. Thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Rome. Before Titus’s House Enter Young Lucius and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm. Enter Titus and Marcus. YOUNG LUCIUS. Help, grandsire, help! My aunt Lavinia Follows me everywhere, I know not why. Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes! Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius. Do not fear thine aunt. TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. YOUNG LUCIUS Ay, when my father was in Rome she did. MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs? TITUS. Fear her not, Lucius. Somewhat doth she mean. See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee. Somewhither would she have thee go with her. Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care Read to her sons than she hath read to thee Sweet poetry and Tully’s _Orator_. MARCUS. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus? YOUNG LUCIUS. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her; For I have heard my grandsire say full oft, Extremity of griefs would make men mad; And I have read that Hecuba of Troy Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear, Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did, And would not, but in fury, fright my youth; Which made me down to throw my books, and fly, Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt. And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, I will most willingly attend your ladyship. MARCUS. Lucius, I will. [_Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall._] TITUS. How now, Lavinia? Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that she desires to see. Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy. But thou art deeper read and better skilled. Come and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damned contriver of this deed. Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus? MARCUS. I think she means that there were more than one Confederate in the fact. Ay, more there was, Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. TITUS. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so? YOUNG LUCIUS. Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s _Metamorphosis_. My mother gave it me. MARCUS. For love of her that’s gone, Perhaps, she culled it from among the rest. TITUS. Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her! What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel, And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy. MARCUS. See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves. TITUS. Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl, Ravished and wronged, as Philomela was, Forced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see! Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt,— O, had we never, never hunted there!— Patterned by that the poet here describes, By nature made for murders and for rapes. MARCUS. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies? TITUS. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends, What Roman lord it was durst do the deed. Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed? MARCUS. Sit down, sweet niece. Brother, sit down by me. Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this treason find! My lord, look here. Look here, Lavinia. This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, This after me. I have writ my name [_He writes his name with his staff and guides it with feet and mouth._] Without the help of any hand at all. Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift! Write thou, good niece, and here display at last What God will have discovered for revenge. Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, That we may know the traitors and the truth! [_She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps and writes._] O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? TITUS. “_Stuprum_. Chiron. Demetrius.” MARCUS. What, what! The lustful sons of Tamora Performers of this heinous bloody deed? TITUS. _Magni Dominator poli, Tam lentus audis scelera, tam lentus vides?_ MARCUS. O, calm thee, gentle lord, although I know There is enough written upon this earth To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector’s hope; And swear with me, as, with the woeful fere And father of that chaste dishonoured dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape, That we will prosecute, by good advice Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood, or die with this reproach. TITUS. ’Tis sure enough, an you knew how. But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware; The dam will wake, and if she wind you once. She’s with the lion deeply still in league, And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone; And come, I will go get a leaf of brass, And with a gad of steel will write these words, And lay it by. The angry northern wind Will blow these sands like Sibyl’s leaves abroad, And where’s our lesson, then? Boy, what say you? YOUNG LUCIUS. I say, my lord, that if I were a man, Their mother’s bedchamber should not be safe For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome. MARCUS. Ay, that’s my boy! Thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful country done the like. YOUNG LUCIUS. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. TITUS. Come, go with me into mine armoury. Lucius, I’ll fit thee; and withal, my boy, Shall carry from me to the empress’ sons Presents that I intend to send them both. Come, come; thou’lt do my message, wilt thou not? YOUNG LUCIUS. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire. TITUS. No, boy, not so. I’ll teach thee another course. Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house. Lucius and I’ll go brave it at the court; Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we’ll be waited on. [_Exeunt Titus, Lavinia and Young Lucius._] MARCUS. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan And not relent, or not compassion him? Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy, That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart Than foemen’s marks upon his battered shield, But yet so just that he will not revenge. Revenge ye heavens for old Andronicus! [_Exit._] SCENE II. Rome. A Room in the Palace Enter Aaron, Chiron and Demetrius at one door, and at the other door Young Lucius and another, with a bundle of weapons and verses writ upon them. CHIRON. Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius; He hath some message to deliver us. AARON. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather. YOUNG LUCIUS. My lords, with all the humbleness I may, I greet your honours from Andronicus; [_Aside_.] And pray the Roman gods confound you both. DEMETRIUS. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What’s the news? YOUNG LUCIUS. [_Aside_.] That you are both deciphered, that’s the news, For villains marked with rape. [_Aloud_.] May it please you, My grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me The goodliest weapons of his armoury To gratify your honourable youth, The hope of Rome; for so he bid me say; And so I do, and with his gifts present Your lordships, that, whenever you have need, You may be armed and appointed well. And so I leave you both, [_Aside_.] like bloody villains. [_Exeunt Young Lucius and Attendant._] DEMETRIUS. What’s here? A scroll; and written round about? Let’s see: [_Reads_.] _Integer vitae, scelerisque purus, Non eget Mauri iaculis, nec arcu._ CHIRON. O, ’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well. I read it in the grammar long ago. AARON. Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it. [_Aside_.] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass! Here’s no sound jest! The old man hath found their guilt, And sends them weapons wrapped about with lines, That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. But were our witty empress well afoot, She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit. But let her rest in her unrest awhile.— And now, young lords, was’t not a happy star Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so, Captives, to be advanced to this height? It did me good before the palace gate To brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing. DEMETRIUS. But me more good to see so great a lord Basely insinuate and send us gifts. AARON. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius? Did you not use his daughter very friendly? DEMETRIUS. I would we had a thousand Roman dames At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust. CHIRON. A charitable wish, and full of love. AARON. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. CHIRON. And that would she for twenty thousand more. DEMETRIUS. Come, let us go and pray to all the gods For our beloved mother in her pains. AARON. [_Aside_.] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over. [_Trumpets sound._] DEMETRIUS. Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus? CHIRON. Belike for joy the emperor hath a son. DEMETRIUS. Soft, who comes here? Enter Nurse with a blackamoor Child in her arms. NURSE. Good morrow, lords. O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor? AARON. Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all, Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now? NURSE. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone! Now help, or woe betide thee evermore! AARON. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! What dost thou wrap and fumble in thy arms? NURSE. O, that which I would hide from heaven’s eye, Our empress’ shame and stately Rome’s disgrace. She is delivered, lords, she is delivered. AARON. To whom? NURSE. I mean, she’s brought a-bed. AARON. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her? NURSE. A devil. AARON. Why, then she is the devil’s dam. A joyful issue. NURSE. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue. Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad Amongst the fair-faced breeders of our clime. The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s point. AARON. Zounds, ye whore, is black so base a hue? Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure. DEMETRIUS. Villain, what hast thou done? AARON. That which thou canst not undo. CHIRON. Thou hast undone our mother. AARON. Villain, I have done thy mother. DEMETRIUS. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her. Woe to her chance, and damned her loathed choice! Accursed the offspring of so foul a fiend! CHIRON. It shall not live. AARON. It shall not die. NURSE. Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so. AARON. What, must it, nurse? Then let no man but I Do execution on my flesh and blood. DEMETRIUS. I’ll broach the tadpole on my rapier’s point. Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it. AARON. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. [_Taking the baby._] Stay, murderous villains, will you kill your brother? Now, by the burning tapers of the sky That shone so brightly when this boy was got, He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point That touches this my first-born son and heir. I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus, With all his threatening band of Typhon’s brood, Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war, Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands. What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! Ye white-limed walls, ye alehouse-painted signs! Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood. Tell the empress from me, I am of age To keep mine own, excuse it how she can. DEMETRIUS. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus? AARON. My mistress is my mistress; this my self; The vigour and the picture of my youth. This before all the world do I prefer; This maugre all the world will I keep safe, Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. DEMETRIUS. By this our mother is for ever shamed. CHIRON. Rome will despise her for this foul escape. NURSE. The emperor in his rage will doom her death. CHIRON. I blush to think upon this ignomy. AARON. Why, there’s the privilege your beauty bears. Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing The close enacts and counsels of thy heart! Here’s a young lad framed of another leer. Look how the black slave smiles upon the father, As who should say “Old lad, I am thine own.” He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed Of that self blood that first gave life to you; And from your womb where you imprisoned were He is enfranchised and come to light. Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, Although my seal be stamped in his face. NURSE. Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress? DEMETRIUS. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, And we will all subscribe to thy advice. Save thou the child, so we may all be safe. AARON. Then sit we down, and let us all consult. My son and I will have the wind of you. Keep there. Now talk at pleasure of your safety. [_They sit._] DEMETRIUS. How many women saw this child of his? AARON. Why, so, brave lords! When we join in league, I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor, The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. But say again, how many saw the child? NURSE. Cornelia the midwife and myself, And no one else but the delivered empress. AARON. The empress, the midwife, and yourself. Two may keep counsel when the third’s away. Go to the empress; tell her this I said. [_He kills her._] “Wheak, wheak!” So cries a pig prepared to the spit. DEMETRIUS. What mean’st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this? AARON. O Lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy. Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, A long-tongued babbling gossip? No, lords, no. And now be it known to you my full intent. Not far, one Muliteus lives, my countryman; His wife but yesternight was brought to bed. His child is like to her, fair as you are. Go pack with him, and give the mother gold, And tell them both the circumstance of all, And how by this their child shall be advanced, And be received for the emperor’s heir, And substituted in the place of mine, To calm this tempest whirling in the court; And let the emperor dandle him for his own. Hark ye, lords; ye see I have given her physic, [_Indicating the Nurse._] And you must needs bestow her funeral; The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms. This done, see that you take no longer days, But send the midwife presently to me. The midwife and the nurse well made away, Then let the ladies tattle what they please. CHIRON. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air With secrets. DEMETRIUS. For this care of Tamora, Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. [_Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, carrying the Nurse’s body._] AARON. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies, There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, And secretly to greet the empress’ friends. Come on, you thick-lipped slave, I’ll bear you hence; For it is you that puts us to our shifts. I’ll make you feed on berries and on roots, And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat, And cabin in a cave, and bring you up To be a warrior and command a camp. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Rome. A public Place Enter Titus, old Marcus, his son Publius, Young Lucius, and other gentlemen with bows, and Titus bears the arrows with letters on the ends of them. TITUS. Come, Marcus, come. Kinsmen, this is the way. Sir boy, let me see your archery. Look ye draw home enough, and ’tis there straight. _Terras Astraea reliquit._ Be you remembered, Marcus, she’s gone, she’s fled. Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall Go sound the ocean and cast your nets; Happily you may catch her in the sea; Yet there’s as little justice as at land. No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it; ’Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade, And pierce the inmost centre of the earth. Then, when you come to Pluto’s region, I pray you, deliver him this petition; Tell him it is for justice and for aid, And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. Ah, Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable What time I threw the people’s suffrages On him that thus doth tyrannize o’er me. Go, get you gone; and pray be careful all, And leave you not a man-of-war unsearched. This wicked emperor may have shipped her hence; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice. MARCUS. O Publius, is not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract? PUBLIUS. Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns By day and night to attend him carefully, And feed his humour kindly as we may, Till time beget some careful remedy. MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy, But . . . . Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters? What, have you met with her? PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word, If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall. Marry, for Justice, she is so employed, He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, So that perforce you must needs stay a time. TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I’ll dive into the burning lake below, And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops’ size; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear; And sith there’s no justice in earth nor hell, We will solicit heaven and move the gods To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus. [_He gives them the arrows._] “_Ad Jovem,_” that’s for you; here, “_Ad Apollinem_”; “_Ad Martem,_” that’s for myself; Here, boy, “to Pallas”; here, “to Mercury”; “To Saturn,” Caius, not to Saturnine; You were as good to shoot against the wind. To it, boy.—Marcus, loose when I bid.— Of my word, I have written to effect; There’s not a god left unsolicited. MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court. We will afflict the emperor in his pride. TITUS. Now, masters, draw. [_They shoot_.] O, well said, Lucius! Good boy, in Virgo’s lap! Give it Pallas. MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon. Your letter is with Jupiter by this. TITUS. Ha! ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done? See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns. MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord; when Publius shot, The Bull, being galled, gave Aries such a knock That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court; And who should find them but the empress’ villain? She laughed, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to his master for a present. TITUS. Why, there it goes. God give his lordship joy! Enter the Clown with a basket and two pigeons in it. News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, what tidings? Have you any letters? Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter? CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week. TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee? CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jubiter; I never drank with him in all my life. TITUS. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier? CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else. TITUS. Why, didst thou not come from heaven? CLOWN. From heaven? Alas, sir, I never came there. God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperal’s men. MARCUS. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you. TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace? CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life. TITUS. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado, But give your pigeons to the emperor. By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. Hold, hold; meanwhile here’s money for thy charges. Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver up a supplication? CLOWN. Ay, sir. TITUS. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward. I’ll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely. CLOWN. I warrant you, sir; let me alone. TITUS. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come let me see it. Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration; For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant. And when thou hast given it to the emperor, Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will. [_Exit._] TITUS. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Rome. Before the Palace Enter Emperor Saturninus and Empress Tamora and her two sons Chiron and Demetrius, with Attendants. The Emperor brings the arrows in his hand that Titus shot at him. SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen An emperor in Rome thus overborne, Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent Of legal justice, used in such contempt? My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods, However these disturbers of our peace Buzz in the people’s ears, there naught hath passed But even with law against the wilful sons Of old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelmed his wits? Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness? And now he writes to heaven for his redress! See, here’s “to Jove,” and this “to Mercury,” This “to Apollo,” this to the god of war. Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! What’s this but libelling against the senate, And blazoning our injustice everywhere? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords? As who would say, in Rome no justice were. But if I live, his feigned ecstasies Shall be no shelter to these outrages; But he and his shall know that justice lives In Saturninus’ health; whom, if she sleep, He’ll so awake as he in fury shall Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives. TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age, Th’ effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, Whose loss hath pierced him deep and scarred his heart; And rather comfort his distressed plight Than prosecute the meanest or the best For these contempts. [_Aside_.] Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamora to gloze with all. But, Titus, I have touched thee to the quick; Thy life-blood out, if Aaron now be wise, Then is all safe, the anchor in the port. Enter Clown. How now, good fellow, wouldst thou speak with us? CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistresship be emperial. TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor. CLOWN. ’Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good e’en. I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here. [_Saturninus reads the letter._] SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently. CLOWN. How much money must I have? TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hanged. CLOWN. Hanged! by’r Lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end. [_Exit guarded._] SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! Shall I endure this monstrous villainy? I know from whence this same device proceeds. May this be borne as if his traitorous sons, That died by law for murder of our brother, Have by my means been butchered wrongfully? Go, drag the villain hither by the hair; Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege. For this proud mock I’ll be thy slaughterman, Sly frantic wretch, that holp’st to make me great, In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. Enter Aemilius. What news with thee, Aemilius? AEMILIUS. Arm, my lord! Rome never had more cause. The Goths have gathered head, and with a power Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus; Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do As much as ever Coriolanus did. SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms. Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach. ’Tis he the common people love so much; Myself hath often overheard them say, When I have walked like a private man, That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully, And they have wished that Lucius were their emperor. TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong? SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will revolt from me to succour him. TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name. Is the sun dimmed, that gnats do fly in it? The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody; Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome. Then cheer thy spirit; for know, thou emperor, I will enchant the old Andronicus With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep, Whenas the one is wounded with the bait, The other rotted with delicious feed. SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us. TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will, For I can smooth and fill his aged ears With golden promises, that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. [_to Aemilius_] Go thou before, be our ambassador. Say that the emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus. SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably, And if he stand on hostage for his safety, Bid him demand what pledge will please him best. AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually. [_Exit._] TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus, And temper him with all the art I have, To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, And bury all thy fear in my devices. SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Plains near Rome Enter Lucius with an army of Goths, with drums and soldiers. LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends, I have received letters from great Rome Which signifies what hate they bear their emperor And how desirous of our sight they are. Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness, Imperious, and impatient of your wrongs; And wherein Rome hath done you any scath, Let him make treble satisfaction. FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus, Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort, Whose high exploits and honourable deeds Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, Be bold in us. We’ll follow where thou lead’st, Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day Led by their master to the flowered fields, And be avenged on cursed Tamora. GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him. LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth? Enter a Goth, leading of Aaron with his Child in his arms. SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I strayed To gaze upon a ruinous monastery; And as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard a child cry underneath a wall. I made unto the noise, when soon I heard The crying babe controlled with this discourse: “Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dame! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s look, Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor. But where the bull and cow are both milk-white, They never do beget a coal-black calf. Peace, villain, peace!” even thus he rates the babe, “For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth, Who, when he knows thou art the empress’ babe, Will hold thee dearly for thy mother’s sake.” With this, my weapon drawn, I rushed upon him, Surprised him suddenly, and brought him hither To use as you think needful of the man. LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil That robbed Andronicus of his good hand; This is the pearl that pleased your empress’ eye; And here’s the base fruit of her burning lust. Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey This growing image of thy fiend-like face? Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word? A halter, soldiers, hang him on this tree, And by his side his fruit of bastardy. AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood. LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good. First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl, A sight to vex the father’s soul withal. Get me a ladder. [_A ladder is brought, which Aaron is made to ascend._] AARON. Lucius, save the child; And bear it from me to the empress. If thou do this, I’ll show thee wondrous things That highly may advantage thee to hear. If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, I’ll speak no more but “Vengeance rot you all!” LUCIUS. Say on, and if it please me which thou speak’st, Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished. AARON. And if it please thee? Why, assure thee, Lucius, ’Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak; For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres, Acts of black night, abominable deeds, Complots of mischief, treason, villainies, Ruthful to hear, yet piteously performed. And this shall all be buried in my death, Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live. AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believ’st no god. That granted, how canst thou believe an oath? AARON. What if I do not? As indeed I do not; Yet, for I know thou art religious, And hast a thing within thee called conscience, With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know An idiot holds his bauble for a god, And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, To that I’ll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow By that same god, what god soe’er it be That thou adorest and hast in reverence, To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up; Or else I will discover naught to thee. LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will. AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the empress. LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman! AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. ’Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus; They cut thy sister’s tongue, and ravished her, And cut her hands, and trimmed her as thou sawest. LUCIUS. O detestable villain, call’st thou that trimming? AARON. Why, she was washed, and cut, and trimmed; and ’twas Trim sport for them which had the doing of it. LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains, like thyself! AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them. That codding spirit had they from their mother, As sure a card as ever won the set; That bloody mind I think they learned of me, As true a dog as ever fought at head. Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. I trained thy brethren to that guileful hole Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay. I wrote the letter that thy father found, And hid the gold within that letter mentioned, Confederate with the queen and her two sons. And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in’t? I played the cheater for thy father’s hand, And, when I had it, drew myself apart, And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter. I pried me through the crevice of a wall When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ heads; Beheld his tears, and laughed so heartily That both mine eyes were rainy like to his. And when I told the empress of this sport, She sounded almost at my pleasing tale, And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush? AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is. LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds? AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day, and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse, Wherein I did not some notorious ill, As kill a man, or else devise his death; Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it; Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself; Set deadly enmity between two friends; Make poor men’s cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and haystalks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digged up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends’ door, Even when their sorrows almost was forgot, And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, “Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.” But I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly, And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more. LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die So sweet a death as hanging presently. AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell But to torment you with my bitter tongue! LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more. Enter Aemilius. GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome Desires to be admitted to your presence. LUCIUS. Let him come near. Welcome, Aemilius. What’s the news from Rome? AEMILIUS. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths, The Roman emperor greets you all by me; And, for he understands you are in arms, He craves a parley at your father’s house, Willing you to demand your hostages, And they shall be immediately delivered. FIRST GOTH. What says our general? LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the emperor give his pledges Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, And we will come. March away. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Rome. Before Titus’s House Enter Tamora and her two sons, disguised. TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, I will encounter with Andronicus, And say I am Revenge, sent from below To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. Knock at his study, where they say he keeps To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge; Tell him Revenge is come to join with him And work confusion on his enemies. [_They knock._] Titus above opens his study door. TITUS. Who doth molest my contemplation? Is it your trick to make me ope the door, That so my sad decrees may fly away And all my study be to no effect? You are deceived; for what I mean to do See here in bloody lines I have set down; And what is written shall be executed. TAMORA. Titus, I am come to talk with thee. TITUS. No, not a word; how can I grace my talk, Wanting a hand to give it action? Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more. TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me. TITUS. I am not mad; I know thee well enough. Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines; Witness these trenches made by grief and care; Witness the tiring day and heavy night; Witness all sorrow that I know thee well For our proud empress, mighty Tamora. Is not thy coming for my other hand? TAMORA. Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora; She is thy enemy, and I thy friend. I am Revenge, sent from th’ infernal kingdom To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. Come down and welcome me to this world’s light; Confer with me of murder and of death. There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place, No vast obscurity or misty vale, Where bloody murder or detested rape Can couch for fear but I will find them out, And in their ears tell them my dreadful name, Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. TITUS. Art thou Revenge? And art thou sent to me To be a torment to mine enemies? TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me. TITUS. Do me some service ere I come to thee. Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands; Now give some surance that thou art Revenge: Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels, And then I’ll come and be thy waggoner, And whirl along with thee about the globe. Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves. And when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel Trot like a servile footman all day long, Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east Until his very downfall in the sea. And day by day I’ll do this heavy task, So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there. TAMORA. These are my ministers, and come with me. TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they called? TAMORA. Rapine and Murder; therefore called so ’Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men. TITUS. Good Lord, how like the empress’ sons they are, And you the empress! But we worldly men Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes. O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee; And, if one arm’s embracement will content thee, I will embrace thee in it by and by. [_He exits above._] TAMORA. This closing with him fits his lunacy. Whate’er I forge to feed his brain-sick humours, Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, For now he firmly takes me for Revenge; And, being credulous in this mad thought, I’ll make him send for Lucius his son; And whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, I’ll find some cunning practice out of hand To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, Or, at the least, make them his enemies. See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. Enter Titus. TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee. Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house. Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too. How like the empress and her sons you are! Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor. Could not all hell afford you such a devil? For well I wot the empress never wags But in her company there is a Moor; And, would you represent our queen aright, It were convenient you had such a devil. But welcome as you are. What shall we do? TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus? DEMETRIUS. Show me a murderer, I’ll deal with him. CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath done a rape, And I am sent to be revenged on him. TAMORA. Show me a thousand that hath done thee wrong, And I will be revenged on them all. TITUS. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome, And when thou find’st a man that’s like thyself, Good Murder, stab him; he’s a murderer. Go thou with him; and when it is thy hap To find another that is like to thee, Good Rapine, stab him; he is a ravisher. Go thou with them; and in the emperor’s court There is a queen, attended by a Moor; Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion, For up and down she doth resemble thee. I pray thee, do on them some violent death; They have been violent to me and mine. TAMORA. Well hast thou lessoned us; this shall we do. But would it please thee, good Andronicus, To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths, And bid him come and banquet at thy house? When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, I will bring in the empress and her sons, The emperor himself, and all thy foes, And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart. What says Andronicus to this device? TITUS. Marcus, my brother, ’tis sad Titus calls. Enter Marcus. Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius; Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths. Bid him repair to me and bring with him Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths; Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are. Tell him the emperor and the empress too Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them. This do thou for my love; and so let him, As he regards his aged father’s life. MARCUS. This will I do, and soon return again. [_Exit._] TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business, And take my ministers along with me. TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me, Or else I’ll call my brother back again And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. TAMORA. [_Aside to them_.] What say you, boys? Will you abide with him, Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor How I have governed our determined jest? Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, And tarry with him till I come again. TITUS. [_Aside_.] I knew them all, though they suppose me mad, And will o’erreach them in their own devices, A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam. DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here. TAMORA. Farewell, Andronicus. Revenge now goes To lay a complot to betray thy foes. TITUS. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell. [_Exit Tamora._] CHIRON. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employed? TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine. Enter Publius and others. PUBLIUS. What is your will? TITUS. Know you these two? PUBLIUS. The empress’ sons, I take them, Chiron, Demetrius. TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie, thou art too much deceived. The one is Murder, and Rape is the other’s name; And therefore bind them, gentle Publius. Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them. Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, And now I find it. Therefore bind them sure, And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. [_Exit Titus._] CHIRON. Villains, forbear! We are the empress’ sons. PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded. Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word. Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast. Enter Titus Andronicus with a knife, and Lavinia with a basin. TITUS. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound. Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me, But let them hear what fearful words I utter. O villains, Chiron and Demetrius! Here stands the spring whom you have stained with mud, This goodly summer with your winter mixed. You killed her husband, and for that vile fault Two of her brothers were condemned to death, My hand cut off and made a merry jest, Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, Inhuman traitors, you constrained and forced. What would you say if I should let you speak? Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. Hark, wretches, how I mean to martyr you. This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, Whiles that Lavinia ’tween her stumps doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood. You know your mother means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad. Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust, And with your blood and it I’ll make a paste, And of the paste a coffin I will rear, And make two pasties of your shameful heads, And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam, Like to the earth swallow her own increase. This is the feast that I have bid her to, And this the banquet she shall surfeit on; For worse than Philomel you used my daughter, And worse than Procne I will be revenged. And now prepare your throats.—Lavinia, come Receive the blood. [_He cuts their throats._] And when that they are dead, Let me go grind their bones to powder small, And with this hateful liquor temper it, And in that paste let their vile heads be baked. Come, come, be everyone officious To make this banquet, which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast. So, now bring them in, for I’ll play the cook, And see them ready against their mother comes. [_Exeunt, carrying the dead bodies._] SCENE III. Rome. A Pavilion in Titus’s Gardens, with tables, &c. Enter Lucius, Marcus and the Goths, with Aaron, prisoner. LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since ’tis my father’s mind That I repair to Rome, I am content. FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will. LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor, This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil; Let him receive no sust’nance, fetter him, Till he be brought unto the empress’ face For testimony of her foul proceedings. And see the ambush of our friends be strong; I fear the emperor means no good to us. AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear, And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth The venomous malice of my swelling heart! LUCIUS. Away, inhuman dog, unhallowed slave! Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. [_Sound trumpets._] The trumpets show the emperor is at hand. [_Exeunt Goths with Aaron._] Enter Emperor Saturninus and Empress Tamora with Aemilius, Tribunes and others. SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one? LUCIUS. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun? MARCUS. Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the parle; These quarrels must be quietly debated. The feast is ready which the careful Titus Hath ordained to an honourable end, For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome. Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your places. SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will. Trumpets sounding, enter Titus like a cook, placing the dishes, with Young Lucius and others, and Lavinia with a veil over her face. TITUS. Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread queen; Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius; And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor, ’Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it. SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus? TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well To entertain your highness and your empress. TAMORA. We are beholden to you, good Andronicus. TITUS. An if your highness knew my heart, you were. My lord the emperor, resolve me this: Was it well done of rash Virginius To slay his daughter with his own right hand, Because she was enforced, stained, and deflowered? SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus. TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord? SATURNINUS. Because the girl should not survive her shame, And by her presence still renew his sorrows. TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual; A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant For me, most wretched, to perform the like. Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; And with thy shame thy father’s sorrow die! [_He kills Lavinia._] SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind? TITUS. Killed her for whom my tears have made me blind. I am as woeful as Virginius was, And have a thousand times more cause than he To do this outrage, and it now is done. SATURNINUS. What, was she ravished? Tell who did the deed. TITUS. Will’t please you eat? Will’t please your highness feed? TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus? TITUS. Not I; ’twas Chiron and Demetrius. They ravished her, and cut away her tongue; And they, ’twas they, that did her all this wrong. SATURNINUS. Go fetch them hither to us presently. TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in that pie, Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. ’Tis true, ’tis true; witness my knife’s sharp point. [_He stabs the Empress._] SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed. [_He kills Titus._] LUCIUS. Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed? [_He kills Saturninus._] There’s meed for meed, death for a deadly deed. [_A great tumult. Lucius, Marcus, and others go aloft to the upper stage._] MARCUS. You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome, By uproar severed, as a flight of fowl Scattered by winds and high tempestuous gusts, O, let me teach you how to knit again This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf, These broken limbs again into one body; Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself, And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to, Like a forlorn and desperate castaway, Do shameful execution on herself. But if my frosty signs and chaps of age, Grave witnesses of true experience, Cannot induce you to attend my words, Speak, Rome’s dear friend, [_to Lucius_] as erst our ancestor, When with his solemn tongue he did discourse To love-sick Dido’s sad attending ear The story of that baleful burning night When subtle Greeks surprised King Priam’s Troy. Tell us what Sinon hath bewitched our ears, Or who hath brought the fatal engine in That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound. My heart is not compact of flint nor steel, Nor can I utter all our bitter grief, But floods of tears will drown my oratory And break my utterance, even in the time When it should move you to attend me most, And force you to commiseration. Here’s Rome’s young captain, let him tell the tale, While I stand by and weep to hear him speak. LUCIUS. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you That Chiron and the damned Demetrius Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother; And they it were that ravished our sister. For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded, Our father’s tears despised, and basely cozened Of that true hand that fought Rome’s quarrel out And sent her enemies unto the grave. Lastly, myself unkindly banished, The gates shut on me, and turned weeping out, To beg relief among Rome’s enemies; Who drowned their enmity in my true tears, And oped their arms to embrace me as a friend. I am the turned-forth, be it known to you, That have preserved her welfare in my blood And from her bosom took the enemy’s point, Sheathing the steel in my advent’rous body. Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I; My scars can witness, dumb although they are, That my report is just and full of truth. But soft, methinks I do digress too much, Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me; For when no friends are by, men praise themselves. MARCUS. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child. Of this was Tamora delivered, The issue of an irreligious Moor, Chief architect and plotter of these woes. The villain is alive in Titus’ house, And as he is to witness, this is true. Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge These wrongs unspeakable, past patience, Or more than any living man could bear. Now have you heard the truth. What say you, Romans? Have we done aught amiss? Show us wherein, And, from the place where you behold us pleading, The poor remainder of Andronici Will, hand in hand, all headlong hurl ourselves, And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls, And make a mutual closure of our house. Speak, Romans, speak, and if you say we shall, Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. AEMILIUS. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome, And bring our emperor gently in thy hand, Lucius our emperor; for well I know The common voice do cry it shall be so. ROMANS. Lucius, all hail, Rome’s royal emperor! MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house, And hither hale that misbelieving Moor To be adjudged some direful slaught’ring death, As punishment for his most wicked life. [_Exeunt Attendants. Lucius and Marcus come down from the upper stage._] ROMANS. Lucius, all hail, Rome’s gracious governor! LUCIUS. Thanks, gentle Romans. May I govern so To heal Rome’s harms and wipe away her woe! But, gentle people, give me aim awhile, For nature puts me to a heavy task. Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk. [_He kisses Titus._] O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips. These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stained face, The last true duties of thy noble son. MARCUS. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips. O, were the sum of these that I should pay Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them. LUCIUS. Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us To melt in showers. Thy grandsire loved thee well. Many a time he danced thee on his knee, Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow; Many a story hath he told to thee, And bid thee bear his pretty tales in mind And talk of them when he was dead and gone. MARCUS. How many thousand times hath these poor lips, When they were living, warmed themselves on thine! O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss. Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave. Do them that kindness, and take leave of them. YOUNG LUCIUS. O grandsire, grandsire, e’en with all my heart Would I were dead, so you did live again! O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping; My tears will choke me if I ope my mouth. Re-enter Attendants with Aaron. AEMILIUS. You sad Andronici, have done with woes. Give sentence on the execrable wretch That hath been breeder of these dire events. LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth and famish him; There let him stand and rave and cry for food. If anyone relieves or pities him, For the offence he dies. This is our doom. Some stay to see him fastened in the earth. AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury dumb? I am no baby, I, that with base prayers I should repent the evils I have done. Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did Would I perform, if I might have my will. If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul. LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the emperor hence, And give him burial in his father’s grave. My father and Lavinia shall forthwith Be closed in our household’s monument. As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora, No funeral rite, nor man in mournful weed, No mournful bell shall ring her burial; But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey. Her life was beastly and devoid of pity; And being dead, let birds on her take pity. [_Exeunt._] TROILUS AND CRESSIDA Contents ACT I