PROLOGUE

In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf’d, Have to the port of Athens sent their ships Fraught with the ministers and instruments Of cruel war. Sixty and nine that wore Their crownets regal from the Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen, With wanton Paris sleeps—and that’s the quarrel. To Tenedos they come, And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Their war-like fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city, Dardan, and Tymbria, Ilias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenorides, with massy staples And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, Stir up the sons of Troy. Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited In like conditions as our argument, To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, Beginning in the middle; starting thence away, To what may be digested in a play. Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are; Now good or bad, ’tis but the chance of war. ACT I SCENE I. Troy. Before Priam’s palace. Enter Troilus armed, and Pandarus. TROILUS. Call here my varlet; I’ll unarm again. Why should I war without the walls of Troy That find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none. PANDARUS. Will this gear ne’er be mended? TROILUS. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman’s tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, Less valiant than the virgin in the night, And skilless as unpractis’d infancy. PANDARUS. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part, I’ll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding. TROILUS. Have I not tarried? PANDARUS. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. TROILUS. Have I not tarried? PANDARUS. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. TROILUS. Still have I tarried. PANDARUS. Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet in the word ‘hereafter’ the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance burn your lips. TROILUS. Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be, Doth lesser blench at suff’rance than I do. At Priam’s royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, So, traitor! ‘when she comes’! when she is thence? PANDARUS. Well, she look’d yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. TROILUS. I was about to tell thee: when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile. But sorrow that is couch’d in seeming gladness Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. PANDARUS. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen’s, well, go to, there were no more comparison between the women. But, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra’s wit; but— TROILUS. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus, When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drown’d, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench’d. I tell thee I am mad In Cressid’s love. Thou answer’st ‘She is fair’; Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, Handlest in thy discourse. O! that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure The cygnet’s down is harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell’st me, As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her; But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. PANDARUS. I speak no more than truth. TROILUS. Thou dost not speak so much. PANDARUS. Faith, I’ll not meddle in’t. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, ’tis the better for her; and she be not, she has the mends in her own hands. TROILUS. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus! PANDARUS. I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of her and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour. TROILUS. What! art thou angry, Pandarus? What! with me? PANDARUS. Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not so fair as Helen. And she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and she were a blackamoor; ’tis all one to me. TROILUS. Say I she is not fair? PANDARUS. I do not care whether you do or no. She’s a fool to stay behind her father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I’ll tell her the next time I see her. For my part, I’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the matter. TROILUS. Pandarus— PANDARUS. Not I. TROILUS. Sweet Pandarus— PANDARUS. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end. [_Exit Pandarus. An alarum._] TROILUS. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight upon this argument; It is too starv’d a subject for my sword. But Pandarus, O gods! how do you plague me! I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar; And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love, What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl; Between our Ilium and where she resides Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood; Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark. Alarum. Enter Aeneas. AENEAS. How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield? TROILUS. Because not there. This woman’s answer sorts, For womanish it is to be from thence. What news, Aeneas, from the field today? AENEAS. That Paris is returned home, and hurt. TROILUS. By whom, Aeneas? AENEAS. Troilus, by Menelaus. TROILUS. Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn; Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn. [_Alarum._] AENEAS. Hark what good sport is out of town today! TROILUS. Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were ‘may.’ But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither? AENEAS. In all swift haste. TROILUS. Come, go we then together. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Troy. A street. Enter Cressida and her man Alexander. CRESSIDA. Who were those went by? ALEXANDER. Queen Hecuba and Helen. CRESSIDA. And whither go they? ALEXANDER. Up to the eastern tower, Whose height commands as subject all the vale, To see the battle. Hector, whose patience Is as a virtue fix’d, today was mov’d. He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer; And, like as there were husbandry in war, Before the sun rose he was harness’d light, And to the field goes he; where every flower Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw In Hector’s wrath. CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger? ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector; They call him Ajax. CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him? ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man _per se_ And stands alone. CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no legs. ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb’d many beasts of their particular additions: he is as valiant as the lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant—a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crush’d into folly, his folly sauced with discretion. There is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the hair; he hath the joints of everything; but everything so out of joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight. CRESSIDA. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector angry? ALEXANDER. They say he yesterday cop’d Hector in the battle and struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking. Enter Pandarus. CRESSIDA. Who comes here? ALEXANDER. Madam, your uncle Pandarus. CRESSIDA. Hector’s a gallant man. ALEXANDER. As may be in the world, lady. PANDARUS. What’s that? What’s that? CRESSIDA. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus. PANDARUS. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of?—Good morrow, Alexander.—How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium? CRESSIDA. This morning, uncle. PANDARUS. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector arm’d and gone ere you came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she? CRESSIDA. Hector was gone; but Helen was not up. PANDARUS. E’en so. Hector was stirring early. CRESSIDA. That were we talking of, and of his anger. PANDARUS. Was he angry? CRESSIDA. So he says here. PANDARUS. True, he was so; I know the cause too; he’ll lay about him today, I can tell them that. And there’s Troilus will not come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that too. CRESSIDA. What, is he angry too? PANDARUS. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two. CRESSIDA. O Jupiter! there’s no comparison. PANDARUS. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man if you see him? CRESSIDA. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him. PANDARUS. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus. CRESSIDA. Then you say as I say, for I am sure he is not Hector. PANDARUS. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees. CRESSIDA. ’Tis just to each of them: he is himself. PANDARUS. Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were! CRESSIDA. So he is. PANDARUS. Condition I had gone barefoot to India. CRESSIDA. He is not Hector. PANDARUS. Himself! no, he’s not himself. Would a’ were himself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend or end. Well, Troilus, well! I would my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus. CRESSIDA. Excuse me. PANDARUS. He is elder. CRESSIDA. Pardon me, pardon me. PANDARUS. Th’other’s not come to’t; you shall tell me another tale when th’other’s come to’t. Hector shall not have his wit this year. CRESSIDA. He shall not need it if he have his own. ANDARUS. Nor his qualities. CRESSIDA. No matter. PANDARUS. Nor his beauty. CRESSIDA. ’Twould not become him: his own’s better. PANDARUS. You have no judgement, niece. Helen herself swore th’other day that Troilus, for a brown favour, for so ’tis, I must confess—not brown neither— CRESSIDA. No, but brown. PANDARUS. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown. CRESSIDA. To say the truth, true and not true. PANDARUS. She prais’d his complexion above Paris. CRESSIDA. Why, Paris hath colour enough. PANDARUS. So he has. CRESSIDA. Then Troilus should have too much. If she prais’d him above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lief Helen’s golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose. PANDARUS. I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than Paris. CRESSIDA. Then she’s a merry Greek indeed. PANDARUS. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th’other day into the compass’d window—and you know he has not past three or four hairs on his chin— CRESSIDA. Indeed a tapster’s arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total. PANDARUS. Why, he is very young, and yet will he within three pound lift as much as his brother Hector. CRESSIDA. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter? PANDARUS. But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin— CRESSIDA. Juno have mercy! How came it cloven? PANDARUS. Why, you know, ’tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes him better than any man in all Phrygia. CRESSIDA. O, he smiles valiantly! PANDARUS. Does he not? CRESSIDA. O yes, an ’twere a cloud in autumn! PANDARUS. Why, go to, then! But to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus— CRESSIDA. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you’ll prove it so. PANDARUS. Troilus! Why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an addle egg. CRESSIDA. If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i’ th’ shell. PANDARUS. I cannot choose but laugh to think how she tickled his chin. Indeed, she has a marvell’s white hand, I must needs confess. CRESSIDA. Without the rack. PANDARUS. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin. CRESSIDA. Alas, poor chin! Many a wart is richer. PANDARUS. But there was such laughing! Queen Hecuba laugh’d that her eyes ran o’er. CRESSIDA. With millstones. PANDARUS. And Cassandra laugh’d. CRESSIDA. But there was a more temperate fire under the pot of her eyes. Did her eyes run o’er too? PANDARUS. And Hector laugh’d. CRESSIDA. At what was all this laughing? PANDARUS. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus’ chin. CRESSIDA. And’t had been a green hair I should have laugh’d too. PANDARUS. They laugh’d not so much at the hair as at his pretty answer. CRESSIDA. What was his answer? PANDARUS. Quoth she ‘Here’s but two and fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.’ CRESSIDA. This is her question. PANDARUS. That’s true; make no question of that. ‘Two and fifty hairs,’ quoth he ‘and one white. That white hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.’ ‘Jupiter!’ quoth she ‘which of these hairs is Paris my husband?’ ‘The forked one,’ quoth he, ’pluck’t out and give it him.’ But there was such laughing! and Helen so blush’d, and Paris so chaf’d; and all the rest so laugh’d that it pass’d. CRESSIDA. So let it now; for it has been a great while going by. PANDARUS. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on’t. CRESSIDA. So I do. PANDARUS. I’ll be sworn ’tis true; he will weep you, and ’twere a man born in April. CRESSIDA. And I’ll spring up in his tears, an ’twere a nettle against May. [_Sound a retreat._] PANDARUS. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up here and see them as they pass toward Ilium? Good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida. CRESSIDA. At your pleasure. PANDARUS. Here, here, here’s an excellent place; here we may see most bravely. I’ll tell you them all by their names as they pass by; but mark Troilus above the rest. [Aeneas _passes_.] CRESSIDA. Speak not so loud. PANDARUS. That’s Aeneas. Is not that a brave man? He’s one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see anon. [Antenor _passes_.] CRESSIDA. Who’s that? PANDARUS. That’s Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and he’s a man good enough; he’s one o’ th’ soundest judgements in Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus? I’ll show you Troilus anon. If he see me, you shall see him nod at me. CRESSIDA. Will he give you the nod? PANDARUS. You shall see. CRESSIDA. If he do, the rich shall have more. [Hector _passes_.] PANDARUS. That’s Hector, that, that, look you, that; there’s a fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There’s a brave man, niece. O brave Hector! Look how he looks. There’s a countenance! Is’t not a brave man? CRESSIDA. O, a brave man! PANDARUS. Is a’ not? It does a man’s heart good. Look you what hacks are on his helmet! Look you yonder, do you see? Look you there. There’s no jesting; there’s laying on; take’t off who will, as they say. There be hacks. CRESSIDA. Be those with swords? PANDARUS. Swords! anything, he cares not; and the devil come to him, it’s all one. By God’s lid, it does one’s heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris. [Paris _passes_.] Look ye yonder, niece; is’t not a gallant man too, is’t not? Why, this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home today? He’s not hurt. Why, this will do Helen’s heart good now, ha! Would I could see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon. [Helenus _passes_.] CRESSIDA. Who’s that? PANDARUS. That’s Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That’s Helenus. I think he went not forth today. That’s Helenus. CRESSIDA. Can Helenus fight, uncle? PANDARUS. Helenus! no. Yes, he’ll fight indifferent well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry ‘Troilus’?—Helenus is a priest. CRESSIDA. What sneaking fellow comes yonder? [Troilus _passes_.] PANDARUS. Where? yonder? That’s Deiphobus. ’Tis Troilus. There’s a man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of chivalry! CRESSIDA. Peace, for shame, peace! PANDARUS. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him, niece; look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more hack’d than Hector’s; and how he looks, and how he goes! O admirable youth! he never saw three and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way. Had I a sister were a grace or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye to boot. CRESSIDA. Here comes more. [_Common soldiers pass_.] PANDARUS. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran! porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus. Ne’er look, ne’er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws, crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece. CRESSIDA. There is amongst the Greeks Achilles, a better man than Troilus. PANDARUS. Achilles? A drayman, a porter, a very camel! CRESSIDA. Well, well. PANDARUS. Well, well! Why, have you any discretion? Have you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man? CRESSIDA. Ay, a minc’d man; and then to be bak’d with no date in the pie, for then the man’s date is out. PANDARUS. You are such a woman! A man knows not at what ward you lie. CRESSIDA. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; and at all these wards I lie, at a thousand watches. PANDARUS. Say one of your watches. CRESSIDA. Nay, I’ll watch you for that; and that’s one of the chiefest of them too. If I cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it’s past watching. PANDARUS. You are such another! Enter Troilus' Boy. BOY. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you. PANDARUS. Where? BOY. At your own house; there he unarms him. PANDARUS. Good boy, tell him I come. [_Exit_ Boy.] I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece. CRESSIDA. Adieu, uncle. PANDARUS. I will be with you, niece, by and by. CRESSIDA. To bring, uncle. PANDARUS. Ay, a token from Troilus. [_Exit_ Pandarus.] CRESSIDA. By the same token, you are a bawd. Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice, He offers in another’s enterprise; But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be, Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing. That she belov’d knows naught that knows not this: Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is. That she was never yet that ever knew Love got so sweet as when desire did sue; Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: ‘Achievement is command; ungain’d, beseech.’ Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear, Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. [_Exit_.] SCENE III. The Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon’s tent. Sennet. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, Diomedes, Menelaus and others. AGAMEMNON. Princes, What grief hath set these jaundies o’er your cheeks? The ample proposition that hope makes In all designs begun on earth below Fails in the promis’d largeness; checks and disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d, As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, Infects the sound pine, and diverts his grain Tortive and errant from his course of growth. Nor, princes, is it matter new to us That we come short of our suppose so far That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls stand; Sith every action that hath gone before, Whereof we have record, trial did draw Bias and thwart, not answering the aim, And that unbodied figure of the thought That gave’t surmised shape. Why then, you princes, Do you with cheeks abash’d behold our works And call them shames, which are, indeed, naught else But the protractive trials of great Jove To find persistive constancy in men; The fineness of which metal is not found In fortune’s love? For then the bold and coward, The wise and fool, the artist and unread, The hard and soft, seem all affin’d and kin. But in the wind and tempest of her frown Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, Puffing at all, winnows the light away; And what hath mass or matter by itself Lies rich in virtue and unmingled. NESTOR. With due observance of thy godlike seat, Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men. The sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler bulk! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon behold The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between the two moist elements Like Perseus’ horse. Where’s then the saucy boat, Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now Co-rivall’d greatness? Either to harbour fled Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, And flies fled under shade—why, then the thing of courage, As rous’d with rage, with rage doth sympathise, And with an accent tun’d in self-same key Retorts to chiding fortune. ULYSSES. Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up—hear what Ulysses speaks. Besides th’applause and approbation The which, [_To Agamemnon_] most mighty, for thy place and sway, [_To Nestor_] And, thou most reverend, for thy stretch’d-out life, I give to both your speeches—which were such As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in brass; and such again As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver, Should with a bond of air, strong as the axle-tree On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears To his experienc’d tongue—yet let it please both, Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak. AGAMEMNON. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be’t of less expect That matter needless, of importless burden, Divide thy lips than we are confident, When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws, We shall hear music, wit, and oracle. ULYSSES. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a master, But for these instances: The specialty of rule hath been neglected; And look how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive, To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, Th’unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre, Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In noble eminence enthron’d and spher’d Amidst the other, whose med’cinable eye Corrects the influence of evil planets, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans check, to good and bad. But when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents, what mutiny, What raging of the sea, shaking of earth, Commotion in the winds! Frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate, The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixture! O, when degree is shak’d, Which is the ladder of all high designs, The enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenity and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune that string, And hark what discord follows! Each thing melts In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe; Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead; Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong— Between whose endless jar justice resides— Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so every step, Exampl’d by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation. And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength. NESTOR. Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover’d The fever whereof all our power is sick. AGAMEMNON. The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, What is the remedy? ULYSSES. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs; with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action— Which, slanderer, he imitation calls— He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on; And like a strutting player whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound ’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage— Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in; and when he speaks ’Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquar’d, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp’d, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Agamemnon right! Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard, As he being drest to some oration.’ That’s done—as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife; Yet god Achilles still cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm.’ And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth: to cough and spit And, with a palsy fumbling on his gorget, Shake in and out the rivet. And at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries ‘O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen.’ And in this fashion All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field or speech for truce, Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. NESTOR. And in the imitation of these twain— Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns With an imperial voice—many are infect. Ajax is grown self-will’d and bears his head In such a rein, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him; Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites, A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To match us in comparisons with dirt, To weaken and discredit our exposure, How rank soever rounded in with danger. ULYSSES. They tax our policy and call it cowardice, Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forestall prescience, and esteem no act But that of hand. The still and mental parts That do contrive how many hands shall strike When fitness calls them on, and know, by measure Of their observant toil, the enemies’ weight— Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity: They call this bed-work, mapp’ry, closet-war; So that the ram that batters down the wall, For the great swinge and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the fineness of their souls By reason guide his execution. NESTOR. Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse Makes many Thetis’ sons. [_Tucket_.] AGAMEMNON. What trumpet? Look, Menelaus. MENELAUS. From Troy. Enter Aeneas. AGAMEMNON. What would you fore our tent? AENEAS. Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I pray you? AGAMEMNON. Even this. AENEAS. May one that is a herald and a prince Do a fair message to his kingly eyes? AGAMEMNON. With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice Call Agamemnon head and general. AENEAS. Fair leave and large security. How may A stranger to those most imperial looks Know them from eyes of other mortals? AGAMEMNON. How? AENEAS. Ay; I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus. Which is that god in office, guiding men? Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon? AGAMEMNON. This Trojan scorns us, or the men of Troy Are ceremonious courtiers. AENEAS. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d, As bending angels; that’s their fame in peace. But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove’s accord, Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Aeneas, Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips. The worthiness of praise distains his worth, If that the prais’d himself bring the praise forth; But what the repining enemy commends, That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends. AGAMEMNON. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Aeneas? AENEAS. Ay, Greek, that is my name. AGAMEMNON. What’s your affairs, I pray you? AENEAS. Sir, pardon; ’tis for Agamemnon’s ears. AGAMEMNON He hears naught privately that comes from Troy. AENEAS. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper with him; I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, To set his sense on the attentive bent, And then to speak. AGAMEMNON. Speak frankly as the wind; It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour. That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake, He tells thee so himself. AENEAS. Trumpet, blow loud, Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents; And every Greek of mettle, let him know What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. [_Sound trumpet_.] We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A prince called Hector—Priam is his father— Who in this dull and long-continued truce Is resty grown; he bade me take a trumpet And to this purpose speak: Kings, princes, lords! If there be one among the fair’st of Greece That holds his honour higher than his ease, That feeds his praise more than he fears his peril, That knows his valour and knows not his fear, That loves his mistress more than in confession With truant vows to her own lips he loves, And dare avow her beauty and her worth In other arms than hers—to him this challenge. Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks, Shall make it good or do his best to do it: He hath a lady wiser, fairer, truer, Than ever Greek did couple in his arms; And will tomorrow with his trumpet call Mid-way between your tents and walls of Troy To rouse a Grecian that is true in love. If any come, Hector shall honour him; If none, he’ll say in Troy, when he retires, The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth The splinter of a lance. Even so much. AGAMEMNON. This shall be told our lovers, Lord Aeneas. If none of them have soul in such a kind, We left them all at home. But we are soldiers; And may that soldier a mere recreant prove That means not, hath not, or is not in love. If then one is, or hath, or means to be, That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he. NESTOR. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man When Hector’s grandsire suck’d. He is old now; But if there be not in our Grecian host A noble man that hath one spark of fire To answer for his love, tell him from me I’ll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver, And in my vambrace put this wither’d brawns, And meeting him, will tell him that my lady Was fairer than his grandam, and as chaste As may be in the world. His youth in flood, I’ll prove this troth with my three drops of blood. AENEAS. Now heavens forfend such scarcity of youth! ULYSSES. Amen. AGAMEMNON. Fair Lord Aeneas, let me touch your hand; To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir. Achilles shall have word of this intent; So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent. Yourself shall feast with us before you go, And find the welcome of a noble foe. [_Exeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor_.] ULYSSES. Nestor! NESTOR. What says Ulysses? ULYSSES. I have a young conception in my brain; Be you my time to bring it to some shape. NESTOR. What is’t? ULYSSES. This ’tis: Blunt wedges rive hard knots. The seeded pride That hath to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles must or now be cropp’d Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil To overbulk us all. NESTOR. Well, and how? ULYSSES. This challenge that the gallant Hector sends, However it is spread in general name, Relates in purpose only to Achilles. NESTOR. True. The purpose is perspicuous even as substance Whose grossness little characters sum up; And, in the publication, make no strain But that Achilles, were his brain as barren As banks of Libya—though, Apollo knows, ’Tis dry enough—will with great speed of judgement, Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose Pointing on him. ULYSSES. And wake him to the answer, think you? NESTOR. Why, ’tis most meet. Who may you else oppose That can from Hector bring those honours off, If not Achilles? Though ’t be a sportful combat, Yet in this trial much opinion dwells For here the Trojans taste our dear’st repute With their fin’st palate; and trust to me, Ulysses, Our imputation shall be oddly pois’d In this vile action; for the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large. It is suppos’d He that meets Hector issues from our choice; And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, Makes merit her election, and doth boil, As ’twere from forth us all, a man distill’d Out of our virtues; who miscarrying, What heart receives from hence a conquering part, To steel a strong opinion to themselves? Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments, In no less working than are swords and bows Directive by the limbs. ULYSSES. Give pardon to my speech. Therefore ’tis meet Achilles meet not Hector. Let us, like merchants, First show foul wares, and think perchance they’ll sell; If not, the lustre of the better shall exceed By showing the worse first. Do not consent That ever Hector and Achilles meet; For both our honour and our shame in this Are dogg’d with two strange followers. NESTOR. I see them not with my old eyes. What are they? ULYSSES. What glory our Achilles shares from Hector, Were he not proud, we all should share with him; But he already is too insolent; And it were better parch in Afric sun Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, Should he scape Hector fair. If he were foil’d, Why, then we do our main opinion crush In taint of our best man. No, make a lott’ry; And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw The sort to fight with Hector. Among ourselves Give him allowance for the better man; For that will physic the great Myrmidon, Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall His crest, that prouder than blue Iris bends. If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off, We’ll dress him up in voices; if he fail, Yet go we under our opinion still That we have better men. But, hit or miss, Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes— Ajax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes. NESTOR. Now, Ulysses, I begin to relish thy advice; And I will give a taste thereof forthwith To Agamemnon. Go we to him straight. Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone Must tarre the mastiffs on, as ’twere their bone. [_Exeunt_.] ACT II SCENE I. The Grecian camp. Enter Ajax and Thersites. AJAX. Thersites! THERSITES. Agamemnon—how if he had boils, full, all over, generally? AJAX. Thersites! THERSITES. And those boils did run—say so. Did not the general run then? Were not that a botchy core? AJAX. Dog! THERSITES. Then there would come some matter from him; I see none now. AJAX. Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then. [_Strikes him_.] THERSITES. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord! AJAX. Speak, then, thou unsalted leaven, speak. I will beat thee into handsomeness. THERSITES. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain o’ thy jade’s tricks! AJAX. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation. THERSITES. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus? AJAX. The proclamation! THERSITES. Thou art proclaim’d fool, I think. AJAX. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch. THERSITES. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another. AJAX. I say, the proclamation. THERSITES. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty—ay, that thou bark’st at him. AJAX. Mistress Thersites! THERSITES. Thou shouldst strike him. AJAX. Cobloaf! THERSITES. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit. AJAX. You whoreson cur! [_Strikes him_.] THERSITES. Do, do. AJAX. Thou stool for a witch! THERSITES. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an asinico may tutor thee. You scurvy valiant ass! Thou art here but to thrash Trojans, and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou! AJAX. You dog! THERSITES. You scurvy lord! AJAX. You cur! [_Strikes him_.] THERSITES. Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do. Enter Achilles and Patroclus. ACHILLES. Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do ye thus? How now, Thersites! What’s the matter, man? THERSITES. You see him there, do you? ACHILLES. Ay; what’s the matter? THERSITES. Nay, look upon him. ACHILLES. So I do. What’s the matter? THERSITES. Nay, but regard him well. ACHILLES. Well! why, so I do. THERSITES. But yet you look not well upon him; for whosomever you take him to be, he is Ajax. ACHILLES. I know that, fool. THERSITES. Ay, but that fool knows not himself. AJAX. Therefore I beat thee. THERSITES. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb’d his brain more than he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles—Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his head—I’ll tell you what I say of him. ACHILLES. What? THERSITES. I say this Ajax— [_Ajax offers to strike him_.] ACHILLES. Nay, good Ajax. THERSITES. Has not so much wit— ACHILLES. Nay, I must hold you. THERSITES. As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, for whom he comes to fight. ACHILLES. Peace, fool. THERSITES. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not— he there; that he; look you there. AJAX. O thou damned cur! I shall— ACHILLES. Will you set your wit to a fool’s? THERSITES. No, I warrant you, the fool’s will shame it. PATROCLUS. Good words, Thersites. ACHILLES. What’s the quarrel? AJAX. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me. THERSITES. I serve thee not. AJAX. Well, go to, go to. THERSITES. I serve here voluntary. ACHILLES. Your last service was suff’rance; ’twas not voluntary. No man is beaten voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress. THERSITES. E’en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch and knock out either of your brains: a’ were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel. ACHILLES. What, with me too, Thersites? THERSITES. There’s Ulysses and old Nestor—whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes—yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars. ACHILLES. What, what? THERSITES. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to— AJAX. I shall cut out your tongue. THERSITES. ’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards. PATROCLUS. No more words, Thersites; peace! THERSITES. I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach bids me, shall I? ACHILLES. There’s for you, Patroclus. THERSITES. I will see you hang’d like clotpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools. [_Exit_.] PATROCLUS. A good riddance. ACHILLES. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all our host, That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and Troy, Tomorrow morning, call some knight to arms That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare Maintain I know not what; ’tis trash. Farewell. AJAX. Farewell. Who shall answer him? ACHILLES. I know not; ’tis put to lott’ry, otherwise, He knew his man. AJAX. O, meaning you? I will go learn more of it. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE II. Troy. Priam’s palace. Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris and Helenus. PRIAM. After so many hours, lives, speeches spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: ‘Deliver Helen, and all damage else— As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum’d In hot digestion of this cormorant war— Shall be struck off.’ Hector, what say you to’t? HECTOR. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I, As far as toucheth my particular, Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels, More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out ‘Who knows what follows?’ Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but modest doubt is call’d The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th’ bottom of the worst. Let Helen go. Since the first sword was drawn about this question, Every tithe soul ’mongst many thousand dismes Hath been as dear as Helen—I mean, of ours. If we have lost so many tenths of ours To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us, Had it our name, the value of one ten, What merit’s in that reason which denies The yielding of her up? TROILUS. Fie, fie, my brother! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king, So great as our dread father’s, in a scale Of common ounces? Will you with counters sum The past-proportion of his infinite, And buckle in a waist most fathomless With spans and inches so diminutive As fears and reasons? Fie, for godly shame! HELENUS. No marvel though you bite so sharp of reasons, You are so empty of them. Should not our father Bear the great sway of his affairs with reason, Because your speech hath none that tells him so? TROILUS. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest; You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons: You know an enemy intends you harm; You know a sword employ’d is perilous, And reason flies the object of all harm. Who marvels, then, when Helenus beholds A Grecian and his sword, if he do set The very wings of reason to his heels And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a star disorb’d? Nay, if we talk of reason, Let’s shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and honour Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts With this cramm’d reason. Reason and respect Make livers pale and lustihood deject. HECTOR. Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost the keeping. TROILUS. What’s aught but as ’tis valued? HECTOR. But value dwells not in particular will: It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein ’tis precious of itself As in the prizer. ’Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god, And the will dotes that is attributive To what infectiously itself affects, Without some image of th’affected merit. TROILUS. I take today a wife, and my election Is led on in the conduct of my will; My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgement: how may I avoid, Although my will distaste what it elected, The wife I chose? There can be no evasion To blench from this and to stand firm by honour. We turn not back the silks upon the merchant When we have soil’d them; nor the remainder viands We do not throw in unrespective sieve, Because we now are full. It was thought meet Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks; Your breath with full consent bellied his sails; The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce, And did him service. He touch’d the ports desir’d; And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morning. Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt. Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a pearl Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand ships, And turn’d crown’d kings to merchants. If you’ll avouch ’twas wisdom Paris went— As you must needs, for you all cried ‘Go, go’— If you’ll confess he brought home worthy prize— As you must needs, for you all clapp’d your hands, And cried ‘Inestimable!’—why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, And do a deed that never Fortune did— Beggar the estimation which you priz’d Richer than sea and land? O theft most base, That we have stol’n what we do fear to keep! But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol’n That in their country did them that disgrace We fear to warrant in our native place! CASSANDRA. [_Within_.] Cry, Trojans, cry. PRIAM. What noise, what shriek is this? TROILUS. ’Tis our mad sister; I do know her voice. CASSANDRA. [_Within_.] Cry, Trojans. HECTOR. It is Cassandra. Enter Cassandra, raving. CASSANDRA. Cry, Trojans, cry. Lend me ten thousand eyes, And I will fill them with prophetic tears. HECTOR. Peace, sister, peace. CASSANDRA. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, Add to my clamours. Let us pay betimes A moiety of that mass of moan to come. Cry, Trojans, cry. Practise your eyes with tears. Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. Cry, Trojans, cry, A Helen and a woe! Cry, cry. Troy burns, or else let Helen go. [_Exit_.] HECTOR. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains Of divination in our sister work Some touches of remorse? Or is your blood So madly hot, that no discourse of reason, Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, Can qualify the same? TROILUS. Why, brother Hector, We may not think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it; Nor once deject the courage of our minds Because Cassandra’s mad. Her brain-sick raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel Which hath our several honours all engag’d To make it gracious. For my private part, I am no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons; And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us Such things as might offend the weakest spleen To fight for and maintain. PARIS. Else might the world convince of levity As well my undertakings as your counsels; But I attest the gods, your full consent Gave wings to my propension, and cut off All fears attending on so dire a project. For what, alas, can these my single arms? What propugnation is in one man’s valour To stand the push and enmity of those This quarrel would excite? Yet I protest, Were I alone to pass the difficulties, And had as ample power as I have will, Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done, Nor faint in the pursuit. PRIAM. Paris, you speak Like one besotted on your sweet delights. You have the honey still, but these the gall; So to be valiant is no praise at all. PARIS. Sir, I propose not merely to myself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; But I would have the soil of her fair rape Wip’d off in honourable keeping her. What treason were it to the ransack’d queen, Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me, Now to deliver her possession up On terms of base compulsion! Can it be, That so degenerate a strain as this Should once set footing in your generous bosoms? There’s not the meanest spirit on our party Without a heart to dare or sword to draw When Helen is defended; nor none so noble Whose life were ill bestow’d or death unfam’d, Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say, Well may we fight for her whom we know well The world’s large spaces cannot parallel. HECTOR. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well; And on the cause and question now in hand Have gloz’d, but superficially; not much Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought Unfit to hear moral philosophy. The reasons you allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distemp’red blood Than to make up a free determination ’Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. Nature craves All dues be rend’red to their owners. Now, What nearer debt in all humanity Than wife is to the husband? If this law Of nature be corrupted through affection; And that great minds, of partial indulgence To their benumbed wills, resist the same; There is a law in each well-order’d nation To curb those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory. If Helen, then, be wife to Sparta’s king— As it is known she is—these moral laws Of nature and of nations speak aloud To have her back return’d. Thus to persist In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, But makes it much more heavy. Hector’s opinion Is this, in way of truth. Yet, ne’ertheless, My spritely brethren, I propend to you In resolution to keep Helen still; For ’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence Upon our joint and several dignities. TROILUS. Why, there you touch’d the life of our design. Were it not glory that we more affected Than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, She is a theme of honour and renown, A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, Whose present courage may beat down our foes, And fame in time to come canonize us; For I presume brave Hector would not lose So rich advantage of a promis’d glory As smiles upon the forehead of this action For the wide world’s revenue. HECTOR. I am yours, You valiant offspring of great Priamus. I have a roisting challenge sent amongst The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits. I was advertis’d their great general slept, Whilst emulation in the army crept. This, I presume, will wake him. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE III. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles. Enter Thersites, solus. THERSITES. How now, Thersites! What, lost in the labyrinth of thy fury? Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him. O worthy satisfaction! Would it were otherwise: that I could beat him, whilst he rail’d at me! ‘Sfoot, I’ll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I’ll see some issue of my spiteful execrations. Then there’s Achilles, a rare engineer! If Troy be not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that little little less than little wit from them that they have! which short-arm’d ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider without drawing their massy irons and cutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole camp! or, rather, the Neapolitan bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse depending on those that war for a placket. I have said my prayers; and devil Envy say ‘Amen.’ What ho! my Lord Achilles! Enter Patroclus. PATROCLUS. Who’s there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and rail. THERSITES. If I could a’ rememb’red a gilt counterfeit, thou wouldst not have slipp’d out of my contemplation; but it is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! Heaven bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death. Then if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair corse, I’ll be sworn and sworn upon’t she never shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where’s Achilles? PATROCLUS. What, art thou devout? Wast thou in prayer? THERSITES. Ay, the heavens hear me! PATROCLUS. Amen. Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Who’s there? PATROCLUS. Thersites, my lord. ACHILLES. Where, where? O, where? Art thou come? Why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so many meals? Come, what’s Agamemnon? THERSITES. Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what’s Achilles? PATROCLUS. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what’s Thersites? THERSITES. Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou? PATROCLUS. Thou must tell that knowest. ACHILLES. O, tell, tell, THERSITES. I’ll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus’ knower; and Patroclus is a fool. PATROCLUS. You rascal! THERSITES. Peace, fool! I have not done. ACHILLES. He is a privileg’d man. Proceed, Thersites. THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool. ACHILLES. Derive this; come. THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool; and this Patroclus is a fool positive. PATROCLUS. Why am I a fool? THERSITES. Make that demand of the Creator. It suffices me thou art. Look you, who comes here? Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Diomedes, Ajax and Calchas. ACHILLES. Come, Patroclus, I’ll speak with nobody. Come in with me, Thersites. [_Exit_.] THERSITES. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery. All the argument is a whore and a cuckold—a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now the dry serpigo on the subject, and war and lechery confound all! [_Exit_.] AGAMEMNON. Where is Achilles? PATROCLUS. Within his tent; but ill-dispos’d, my lord. AGAMEMNON. Let it be known to him that we are here. He shent our messengers; and we lay by Our appertainings, visiting of him. Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think We dare not move the question of our place Or know not what we are. PATROCLUS. I shall say so to him. [_Exit_.] ULYSSES. We saw him at the opening of his tent. He is not sick. AJAX. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, ’tis pride. But why, why? Let him show us a cause. A word, my lord. [_Takes Agamemnon aside_.] NESTOR. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him? ULYSSES. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him. NESTOR. Who, Thersites? ULYSSES. He. NESTOR. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument. ULYSSES. No; you see he is his argument that has his argument, Achilles. NESTOR. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite! ULYSSES. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie. Re-enter Patroclus. Here comes Patroclus. NESTOR. No Achilles with him. ULYSSES. The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure. PATROCLUS. Achilles bids me say he is much sorry If any thing more than your sport and pleasure Did move your greatness and this noble state To call upon him; he hopes it is no other But for your health and your digestion sake, An after-dinner’s breath. AGAMEMNON. Hear you, Patroclus. We are too well acquainted with these answers; But his evasion, wing’d thus swift with scorn, Cannot outfly our apprehensions. Much attribute he hath, and much the reason Why we ascribe it to him. Yet all his virtues, Not virtuously on his own part beheld, Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss; Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish, Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin If you do say we think him over-proud And under-honest, in self-assumption greater Than in the note of judgement; and worthier than himself Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on, Disguise the holy strength of their command, And underwrite in an observing kind His humorous predominance; yea, watch His course and time, his ebbs and flows, as if The passage and whole stream of this commencement Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add That if he overhold his price so much We’ll none of him, but let him, like an engine Not portable, lie under this report: Bring action hither; this cannot go to war. A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant. Tell him so. PATROCLUS. I shall, and bring his answer presently. [_Exit_.] AGAMEMNON. In second voice we’ll not be satisfied; We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you. [_Exit_ Ulysses.] AJAX. What is he more than another? AGAMEMNON. No more than what he thinks he is. AJAX. Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better man than I am? AGAMEMNON. No question. AJAX. Will you subscribe his thought and say he is? AGAMEMNON. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable. AJAX. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not what pride is. AGAMEMNON. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed devours the deed in the praise. Re-enter Ulysses. AJAX. I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engend’ring of toads. NESTOR. [_Aside._] And yet he loves himself: is’t not strange? ULYSSES. Achilles will not to the field tomorrow. AGAMEMNON. What’s his excuse? ULYSSES. He doth rely on none; But carries on the stream of his dispose, Without observance or respect of any, In will peculiar and in self-admission. AGAMEMNON. Why will he not, upon our fair request, Untent his person and share th’air with us? ULYSSES. Things small as nothing, for request’s sake only, He makes important; possess’d he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself but with a pride That quarrels at self-breath. Imagin’d worth Holds in his blood such swol’n and hot discourse That ’twixt his mental and his active parts Kingdom’d Achilles in commotion rages, And batters down himself. What should I say? He is so plaguy proud that the death tokens of it Cry ‘No recovery.’ AGAMEMNON. Let Ajax go to him. Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent. ’Tis said he holds you well; and will be led At your request a little from himself. ULYSSES. O Agamemnon, let it not be so! We’ll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud lord That bastes his arrogance with his own seam And never suffers matter of the world Enter his thoughts, save such as doth revolve And ruminate himself—shall he be worshipp’d Of that we hold an idol more than he? No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord Shall not so stale his palm, nobly acquir’d, Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, As amply titled as Achilles is, By going to Achilles. That were to enlard his fat-already pride, And add more coals to Cancer when he burns With entertaining great Hyperion. This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid, And say in thunder ‘Achilles go to him.’ NESTOR. [_Aside_.] O, this is well! He rubs the vein of him. DIOMEDES. [_Aside_.] And how his silence drinks up this applause! AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist I’ll pash him o’er the face. AGAMEMNON. O, no, you shall not go. AJAX. An a’ be proud with me I’ll pheeze his pride. Let me go to him. ULYSSES. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel. AJAX. A paltry, insolent fellow! NESTOR. [_Aside_.] How he describes himself! AJAX. Can he not be sociable? ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] The raven chides blackness. AJAX. I’ll let his humours blood. AGAMEMNON. [_Aside_.] He will be the physician that should be the patient. AJAX. And all men were o’ my mind— ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] Wit would be out of fashion. AJAX. A’ should not bear it so, a’ should eat’s words first. Shall pride carry it? NESTOR. [_Aside_.] And ’twould, you’d carry half. ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] A’ would have ten shares. AJAX. I will knead him, I’ll make him supple. NESTOR. [_Aside_.] He’s not yet through warm. Force him with praises; pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry. ULYSSES. [_To Agamemnon_.] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike. NESTOR. Our noble general, do not do so. DIOMEDES. You must prepare to fight without Achilles. ULYSSES. Why ’tis this naming of him does him harm. Here is a man—but ’tis before his face; I will be silent. NESTOR. Wherefore should you so? He is not emulous, as Achilles is. ULYSSES. Know the whole world, he is as valiant. AJAX. A whoreson dog, that shall palter with us thus! Would he were a Trojan! NESTOR. What a vice were it in Ajax now— ULYSSES. If he were proud. DIOMEDES. Or covetous of praise. ULYSSES. Ay, or surly borne. DIOMEDES. Or strange, or self-affected. ULYSSES. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure. Praise him that gat thee, she that gave thee suck; Fam’d be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature Thrice fam’d beyond, beyond all erudition; But he that disciplin’d thine arms to fight— Let Mars divide eternity in twain And give him half; and, for thy vigour, Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines Thy spacious and dilated parts. Here’s Nestor, Instructed by the antiquary times— He must, he is, he cannot but be wise; But pardon, father Nestor, were your days As green as Ajax’ and your brain so temper’d, You should not have the eminence of him, But be as Ajax. AJAX. Shall I call you father? NESTOR. Ay, my good son. DIOMEDES. Be rul’d by him, Lord Ajax. ULYSSES. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles Keeps thicket. Please it our great general To call together all his state of war; Fresh kings are come to Troy. Tomorrow We must with all our main of power stand fast; And here’s a lord—come knights from east to west And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best. AGAMEMNON. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep. Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep. [_Exeunt_.] ACT III SCENE I. Troy. Priam’s palace. Music sounds within. Enter Pandarus and a Servant. PANDARUS. Friend, you—pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young Lord Paris? SERVANT. Ay, sir, when he goes before me. PANDARUS. You depend upon him, I mean? SERVANT. Sir, I do depend upon the Lord. PANDARUS. You depend upon a notable gentleman; I must needs praise him. SERVANT. The Lord be praised! PANDARUS. You know me, do you not? SERVANT. Faith, sir, superficially. PANDARUS. Friend, know me better: I am the Lord Pandarus. SERVANT. I hope I shall know your honour better. PANDARUS. I do desire it. SERVANT. You are in the state of grace? PANDARUS. Grace? Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles. What music is this? SERVANT. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts. PANDARUS. Know you the musicians? SERVANT. Wholly, sir. PANDARUS. Who play they to? SERVANT. To the hearers, sir. PANDARUS. At whose pleasure, friend? SERVANT. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music. PANDARUS. Command, I mean, friend. SERVANT. Who shall I command, sir? PANDARUS. Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly, and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play? SERVANT. That’s to’t, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love’s invisible soul— PANDARUS. Who, my cousin, Cressida? SERVANT. No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her attributes? PANDARUS. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus; I will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business seethes. SERVANT. Sodden business! There’s a stew’d phrase indeed! Enter Paris and Helen, attended. PANDARUS. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! Fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them—especially to you, fair queen! Fair thoughts be your fair pillow. HELEN. Dear lord, you are full of fair words. PANDARUS. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music. PARIS. You have broke it, cousin; and by my life, you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance. HELEN. He is full of harmony. PANDARUS. Truly, lady, no. HELEN. O, sir— PANDARUS. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude. PARIS. Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits. PANDARUS. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word? HELEN. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We’ll hear you sing, certainly— PANDARUS. Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus— HELEN. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord— PANDARUS. Go to, sweet queen, go to—commends himself most affectionately to you— HELEN. You shall not bob us out of our melody. If you do, our melancholy upon your head! PANDARUS. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that’s a sweet queen, i’ faith. HELEN. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence. PANDARUS. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no, no.—And, my lord, he desires you that, if the King call for him at supper, you will make his excuse. HELEN. My Lord Pandarus! PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen? PARIS. What exploit’s in hand? Where sups he tonight? HELEN. Nay, but, my lord— PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen?—My cousin will fall out with you. HELEN. You must not know where he sups. PARIS. I’ll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida. PANDARUS. No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer is sick. PARIS. Well, I’ll make’s excuse. PANDARUS. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida? No, your poor disposer’s sick. PARIS. I spy. PANDARUS. You spy! What do you spy?—Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen. HELEN. Why, this is kindly done. PANDARUS. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen. HELEN. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris. PANDARUS. He? No, she’ll none of him; they two are twain. HELEN. Falling in, after falling out, may make them three. PANDARUS. Come, come. I’ll hear no more of this; I’ll sing you a song now. HELEN. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead. PANDARUS. Ay, you may, you may. HELEN. Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid! PANDARUS. Love! Ay, that it shall, i’ faith. PARIS. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love. PANDARUS. In good troth, it begins so. [_Sings_.] _Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more! For, oh, love’s bow Shoots buck and doe; The shaft confounds Not that it wounds, But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry, O ho, they die! Yet that which seems the wound to kill Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he! So dying love lives still. O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha! O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!—hey ho!_ HELEN. In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose. PARIS. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love. PANDARUS. Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s a-field today? PARIS. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy. I would fain have arm’d today, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not? HELEN. He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus. PANDARUS. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend today. You’ll remember your brother’s excuse? PARIS. To a hair. PANDARUS. Farewell, sweet queen. HELEN. Commend me to your niece. PANDARUS. I will, sweet queen. [_Exit. Sound a retreat_.] PARIS. They’re come from the field. Let us to Priam’s hall To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles, With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d, Shall more obey than to the edge of steel Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more Than all the island kings—disarm great Hector. HELEN. ’Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris; Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, Yea, overshines ourself. PARIS. Sweet, above thought I love thee. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE II. Troy. Pandarus’ orchard. Enter Pandarus and Troilus’ Boy, meeting. PANDARUS. How now! Where’s thy master? At my cousin Cressida’s? BOY. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither. Enter Troilus. PANDARUS. O, here he comes. How now, how now? TROILUS. Sirrah, walk off. [_Exit_ Boy.] PANDARUS. Have you seen my cousin? TROILUS. No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to these fields Where I may wallow in the lily beds Propos’d for the deserver! O gentle Pandar, from Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings, and fly with me to Cressid! PANDARUS. Walk here i’ th’ orchard, I’ll bring her straight. [_Exit_.] TROILUS. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. Th’imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense; what will it be When that the wat’ry palate tastes indeed Love’s thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me; Sounding destruction; or some joy too fine, Too subtle-potent, tun’d too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers. I fear it much; and I do fear besides That I shall lose distinction in my joys; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying. Re-enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. She’s making her ready, she’ll come straight; you must be witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as if she were fray’d with a sprite. I’ll fetch her. It is the prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta’en sparrow. [_Exit_.] TROILUS. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom. My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse, And all my powers do their bestowing lose, Like vassalage at unawares encount’ring The eye of majesty. Re-enter Pandarus with Cressida. PANDARUS. Come, come, what need you blush? Shame’s a baby. Here she is now; swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me.—What, are you gone again? You must be watch’d ere you be made tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; and you draw backward, we’ll put you i’ th’ fills. Why do you not speak to her? Come, draw this curtain and let’s see your picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight! And ’twere dark, you’d close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now, a kiss in fee-farm! Build there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i’ th’ river. Go to, go to. TROILUS. You have bereft me of all words, lady. PANDARUS. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she’ll bereave you o’ th’ deeds too, if she call your activity in question. What, billing again? Here’s ‘In witness whereof the parties interchangeably.’ Come in, come in; I’ll go get a fire. [_Exit_.] CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord? TROILUS. O Cressid, how often have I wish’d me thus! CRESSIDA. Wish’d, my lord! The gods grant—O my lord! TROILUS. What should they grant? What makes this pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our love? CRESSIDA. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes. TROILUS. Fears make devils of cherubins; they never see truly. CRESSIDA. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling without fear. To fear the worst oft cures the worse. TROILUS. O, let my lady apprehend no fear! In all Cupid’s pageant there is presented no monster. CRESSIDA. Nor nothing monstrous neither? TROILUS. Nothing, but our undertakings when we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite, and the execution confin’d; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit. CRESSIDA. They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters? TROILUS. Are there such? Such are not we. Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go bare till merit crown it. No perfection in reversion shall have a praise in present. We will not name desert before his birth; and, being born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith: Troilus shall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall be a mock for his truth; and what truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus. CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord? Re-enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. What, blushing still? Have you not done talking yet? CRESSIDA. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you. PANDARUS. I thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you, you’ll give him me. Be true to my lord; if he flinch, chide me for it. TROILUS. You know now your hostages: your uncle’s word and my firm faith. PANDARUS. Nay, I’ll give my word for her too: our kindred, though they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won; they are burs, I can tell you; they’ll stick where they are thrown. CRESSIDA. Boldness comes to me now and brings me heart. Prince Troilus, I have lov’d you night and day For many weary months. TROILUS. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win? CRESSIDA. Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord, With the first glance that ever—pardon me. If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. I love you now; but till now not so much But I might master it. In faith, I lie; My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools! Why have I blabb’d? Who shall be true to us, When we are so unsecret to ourselves? But, though I lov’d you well, I woo’d you not; And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man, Or that we women had men’s privilege Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue, For in this rapture I shall surely speak The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence, Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth. TROILUS. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence. PANDARUS. Pretty, i’ faith. CRESSIDA. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me; ’Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss. I am asham’d. O heavens! what have I done? For this time will I take my leave, my lord. TROILUS. Your leave, sweet Cressid! PANDARUS. Leave! And you take leave till tomorrow morning— CRESSIDA. Pray you, content you. TROILUS. What offends you, lady? CRESSIDA. Sir, mine own company. TROILUS. You cannot shun yourself. CRESSIDA. Let me go and try. I have a kind of self resides with you; But an unkind self, that itself will leave To be another’s fool. I would be gone. Where is my wit? I know not what I speak. TROILUS. Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely. CRESSIDA. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love; And fell so roundly to a large confession To angle for your thoughts; but you are wise— Or else you love not; for to be wise and love Exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above. TROILUS. O that I thought it could be in a woman— As, if it can, I will presume in you— To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love; To keep her constancy in plight and youth, Outliving beauty’s outward, with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays! Or that persuasion could but thus convince me That my integrity and truth to you Might be affronted with the match and weight Of such a winnowed purity in love. How were I then uplifted! But, alas, I am as true as truth’s simplicity, And simpler than the infancy of truth. CRESSIDA. In that I’ll war with you. TROILUS. O virtuous fight, When right with right wars who shall be most right! True swains in love shall in the world to come Approve their truth by Troilus, when their rhymes, Full of protest, of oath, and big compare, Want similes, truth tir’d with iteration— As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, As sun to day, as turtle to her mate, As iron to adamant, as earth to th’ centre— Yet, after all comparisons of truth, As truth’s authentic author to be cited, ‘As true as Troilus’ shall crown up the verse And sanctify the numbers. CRESSIDA. Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, When time is old and hath forgot itself, When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, And blind oblivion swallow’d cities up, And mighty states characterless are grated To dusty nothing—yet let memory From false to false, among false maids in love, Upbraid my falsehood when th’ have said ‘As false As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth, As fox to lamb, or wolf to heifer’s calf, Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son’— Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood, ‘As false as Cressid.’ PANDARUS. Go to, a bargain made; seal it, seal it; I’ll be the witness. Here I hold your hand; here my cousin’s. If ever you prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be call’d to the world’s end after my name—call them all Pandars; let all constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all brokers between Pandars. Say ‘Amen.’ TROILUS. Amen. CRESSIDA. Amen. PANDARUS. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber and a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death. Away! [_Exeunt Troilus and Cressida_.] And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here, Bed, chamber, pander, to provide this gear! [_Exit_.] SCENE III. The Greek camp. Flourish. Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Diomedes, Nestor, Ajax, Menelaus and Calchas. CALCHAS. Now, Princes, for the service I have done, Th’advantage of the time prompts me aloud To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind That, through the sight I bear in things to come, I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession, Incurr’d a traitor’s name, expos’d myself From certain and possess’d conveniences To doubtful fortunes, sequest’ring from me all That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition, Made tame and most familiar to my nature; And here, to do you service, am become As new into the world, strange, unacquainted— I do beseech you, as in way of taste, To give me now a little benefit Out of those many regist’red in promise, Which you say live to come in my behalf. AGAMEMNON. What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? Make demand. CALCHAS. You have a Trojan prisoner call’d Antenor, Yesterday took; Troy holds him very dear. Oft have you—often have you thanks therefore— Desir’d my Cressid in right great exchange, Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor, I know, is such a wrest in their affairs That their negotiations all must slack Wanting his manage; and they will almost Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, In change of him. Let him be sent, great Princes, And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done In most accepted pain. AGAMEMNON. Let Diomedes bear him, And bring us Cressid hither. Calchas shall have What he requests of us. Good Diomed, Furnish you fairly for this interchange; Withal, bring word if Hector will tomorrow Be answer’d in his challenge. Ajax is ready. DIOMEDES. This shall I undertake; and ’tis a burden Which I am proud to bear. [_Exeunt Diomedes and Calchas_.] [_Achilles and Patroclus stand in their tent_.] ULYSSES. Achilles stands i’ th’entrance of his tent. Please it our general pass strangely by him, As if he were forgot; and, Princes all, Lay negligent and loose regard upon him. I will come last. ’Tis like he’ll question me Why such unplausive eyes are bent, why turn’d on him. If so, I have derision med’cinable To use between your strangeness and his pride, Which his own will shall have desire to drink. It may do good. Pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride; for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees. AGAMEMNON. We’ll execute your purpose, and put on A form of strangeness as we pass along. So do each lord; and either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more Than if not look’d on. I will lead the way. ACHILLES. What comes the general to speak with me? You know my mind. I’ll fight no more ’gainst Troy. AGAMEMNON. What says Achilles? Would he aught with us? NESTOR. Would you, my lord, aught with the general? ACHILLES. No. NESTOR. Nothing, my lord. AGAMEMNON. The better. [_Exeunt Agamemnon and Nestor_.] ACHILLES. Good day, good day. MENELAUS. How do you? How do you? [_Exit_.] ACHILLES. What, does the cuckold scorn me? AJAX. How now, Patroclus? ACHILLES. Good morrow, Ajax. AJAX. Ha? ACHILLES. Good morrow. AJAX. Ay, and good next day too. [_Exit_.] ACHILLES. What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles? PATROCLUS. They pass by strangely. They were us’d to bend, To send their smiles before them to Achilles, To come as humbly as they us’d to creep To holy altars. ACHILLES. What, am I poor of late? ’Tis certain, greatness, once fall’n out with fortune, Must fall out with men too. What the declin’d is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings but to the summer; And not a man for being simply man Hath any honour, but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, and favour, Prizes of accident, as oft as merit; Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that lean’d on them as slippery too, Doth one pluck down another, and together Die in the fall. But ’tis not so with me: Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses. I’ll interrupt his reading. How now, Ulysses! ULYSSES. Now, great Thetis’ son! ACHILLES. What are you reading? ULYSSES. A strange fellow here Writes me that man—how dearly ever parted, How much in having, or without or in— Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection; As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them, and they retort that heat again To the first giver. ACHILLES. This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself— That most pure spirit of sense—behold itself, Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed Salutes each other with each other’s form; For speculation turns not to itself Till it hath travell’d, and is mirror’d there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all. ULYSSES. I do not strain at the position— It is familiar—but at the author’s drift; Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves That no man is the lord of anything, Though in and of him there be much consisting, Till he communicate his parts to others; Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them formed in the applause Where th’are extended; who, like an arch, reverb’rate The voice again; or, like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this; And apprehended here immediately Th’unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! A very horse that has he knows not what! Nature, what things there are Most abject in regard and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem And poor in worth! Now shall we see tomorrow— An act that very chance doth throw upon him— Ajax renown’d. O heavens, what some men do, While some men leave to do! How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s hall, Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes! How one man eats into another’s pride, While pride is fasting in his wantonness! To see these Grecian lords!—why, even already They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder, As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast, And great Troy shrieking. ACHILLES. I do believe it; for they pass’d by me As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me Good word nor look. What, are my deeds forgot? ULYSSES. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-siz’d monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour’d As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright. To have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mock’ry. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow— Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the path, For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue; if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an ent’red tide they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O’er-run and trampled on. Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours; For Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by th’hand; And with his arms out-stretch’d, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer. The welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin— That all with one consent praise new-born gauds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax, Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what stirs not. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent, Whose glorious deeds but in these fields of late Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction. ACHILLES. Of this my privacy I have strong reasons. ULYSSES. But ’gainst your privacy The reasons are more potent and heroical. ’Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam’s daughters. ACHILLES. Ha! known! ULYSSES. Is that a wonder? The providence that’s in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold; Finds bottom in th’uncomprehensive deeps; Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods, Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery—with whom relation Durst never meddle—in the soul of state, Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to. All the commerce that you have had with Troy As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord; And better would it fit Achilles much To throw down Hector than Polyxena. But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, When fame shall in our island sound her trump, And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing ‘Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win; But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.’ Farewell, my lord. I as your lover speak. The fool slides o’er the ice that you should break. [_Exit_.] PATROCLUS. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov’d you. A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath’d than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this; They think my little stomach to the war And your great love to me restrains you thus. Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, Be shook to air. ACHILLES. Shall Ajax fight with Hector? PATROCLUS. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him. ACHILLES. I see my reputation is at stake; My fame is shrewdly gor’d. PATROCLUS. O, then, beware: Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves; Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger; And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when they sit idly in the sun. ACHILLES. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus. I’ll send the fool to Ajax, and desire him T’invite the Trojan lords, after the combat, To see us here unarm’d. I have a woman’s longing, An appetite that I am sick withal, To see great Hector in his weeds of peace; To talk with him, and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view. Enter Thersites. A labour sav’d! THERSITES. A wonder! ACHILLES. What? THERSITES. Ajax goes up and down the field asking for himself. ACHILLES. How so? THERSITES. He must fight singly tomorrow with Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in saying nothing. ACHILLES. How can that be? THERSITES. Why, a’ stalks up and down like a peacock—a stride and a stand; ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning, bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say ‘There were wit in this head, and ’twould out’; and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man’s undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i’ th’ combat, he’ll break’t himself in vainglory. He knows not me. I said ‘Good morrow, Ajax’; and he replies ‘Thanks, Agamemnon.’ What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He’s grown a very land fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! A man may wear it on both sides, like leather jerkin. ACHILLES. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites. THERSITES. Who, I? Why, he’ll answer nobody; he professes not answering. Speaking is for beggars: he wears his tongue in’s arms. I will put on his presence. Let Patroclus make his demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax. ACHILLES. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm’d to my tent; and to procure safe conduct for his person of the magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honour’d Captain General of the Grecian army, Agamemnon. Do this. PATROCLUS. Jove bless great Ajax! THERSITES. Hum! PATROCLUS. I come from the worthy Achilles— THERSITES. Ha! PATROCLUS. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent— THERSITES. Hum! PATROCLUS. And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon. THERSITES. Agamemnon? PATROCLUS. Ay, my lord. THERSITES. Ha! PATROCLUS. What you say to’t? THERSITES. God buy you, with all my heart. PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir. THERSITES. If tomorrow be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it will go one way or other. Howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me. PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir. THERSITES. Fare ye well, with all my heart. ACHILLES. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he? THERSITES. No, but out of tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knock’d out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on. ACHILLES. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight. THERSITES. Let me bear another to his horse; for that’s the more capable creature. ACHILLES. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d; And I myself see not the bottom of it. [_Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus_.] THERSITES. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it. I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance. [_Exit_.] ACT IV SCENE I. Troy. A street. Enter, at one side, Aeneas and servant with a torch; at another Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Diomedes the Grecian, and others, with torches. PARIS. See, ho! Who is that there? DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas. AENEAS. Is the Prince there in person? Had I so good occasion to lie long As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Should rob my bed-mate of my company. DIOMEDES. That’s my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas. PARIS. A valiant Greek, Aeneas—take his hand: Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed, a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field. AENEAS. Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce; But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance As heart can think or courage execute. DIOMEDES. The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health! But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I’ll play the hunter for thy life With all my force, pursuit, and policy. AENEAS. And thou shalt hunt a lion that will fly With his face backward. In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy! Now, by Anchises’ life, Welcome indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear No man alive can love in such a sort The thing he means to kill, more excellently. DIOMEDES. We sympathise. Jove let Aeneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A thousand complete courses of the sun! But in mine emulous honour let him die With every joint a wound, and that tomorrow! AENEAS. We know each other well. DIOMEDES. We do; and long to know each other worse. PARIS. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of. What business, lord, so early? AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not. PARIS. His purpose meets you: ’twas to bring this Greek To Calchas’ house, and there to render him, For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid. Let’s have your company; or, if you please, Haste there before us. I constantly believe— Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge— My brother Troilus lodges there tonight. Rouse him and give him note of our approach, With the whole quality wherefore; I fear We shall be much unwelcome. AENEAS. That I assure you: Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece Than Cressid borne from Troy. PARIS. There is no help; The bitter disposition of the time Will have it so. On, lord; we’ll follow you. AENEAS. Good morrow, all. [_Exit with servant_.] PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true, Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship, Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best, Myself, or Menelaus? DIOMEDES. Both alike: He merits well to have her that doth seek her, Not making any scruple of her soilure, With such a hell of pain and world of charge; And you as well to keep her that defend her, Not palating the taste of her dishonour, With such a costly loss of wealth and friends. He like a puling cuckold would drink up The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece; You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins Are pleas’d to breed out your inheritors. Both merits pois’d, each weighs nor less nor more, But he as he, the heavier for a whore. PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman. DIOMEDES. She’s bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris: For every false drop in her bawdy veins A Grecian’s life hath sunk; for every scruple Of her contaminated carrion weight A Trojan hath been slain. Since she could speak, She hath not given so many good words breath As for her Greeks and Trojans suff’red death. PARIS. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do, Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy; But we in silence hold this virtue well, We’ll not commend what we intend to sell. Here lies our way. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE II. Troy. The court of Pandarus’ house. Enter Troilus and Cressida. TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold. CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I’ll call mine uncle down; He shall unbolt the gates. TROILUS. Trouble him not; To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses As infants empty of all thought! CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then. TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed. CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me? TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day, Wak’d by the lark, hath rous’d the ribald crows, And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, I would not from thee. CRESSIDA. Night hath been too brief. TROILUS. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love With wings more momentary-swift than thought. You will catch cold, and curse me. CRESSIDA. Prithee tarry. You men will never tarry. O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off, And then you would have tarried. Hark! there’s one up. PANDARUS. [_Within._] What’s all the doors open here? TROILUS. It is your uncle. Enter Pandarus. CRESSIDA. A pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking. I shall have such a life! PANDARUS. How now, how now! How go maidenheads? Here, you maid! Where’s my cousin Cressid? CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle. You bring me to do, and then you flout me too. PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her say what. What have I brought you to do? CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your heart! You’ll ne’er be good, nor suffer others. PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! Ah, poor capocchia! Hast not slept tonight? Would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A bugbear take him! CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock’d i’ th’ head! [_One knocks_.] Who’s that at door? Good uncle, go and see. My lord, come you again into my chamber. You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily. TROILUS. Ha! ha! CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv’d, I think of no such thing. [_Knock_.] How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in: I would not for half Troy have you seen here. [_Exeunt Troilus and Cressida_.] PANDARUS. Who’s there? What’s the matter? Will you beat down the door? How now? What’s the matter? Enter Aeneas. AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. PANDARUS. Who’s there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth, I knew you not. What news with you so early? AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here? PANDARUS. Here! What should he do here? AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him. It doth import him much to speak with me. PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It’s more than I know, I’ll be sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here? AENEAS. Who, nay then! Come, come, you’ll do him wrong ere you are ware; you’ll be so true to him to be false to him. Do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go. Re-enter Troilus. TROILUS. How now! What’s the matter? AENEAS. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you, My matter is so rash. There is at hand Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith, Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour, We must give up to Diomedes’ hand The Lady Cressida. TROILUS. Is it so concluded? AENEAS. By Priam and the general state of Troy. They are at hand, and ready to effect it. TROILUS. How my achievements mock me! I will go meet them; and, my Lord Aeneas, We met by chance; you did not find me here. AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar Have not more gift in taciturnity. [_Exeunt Troilus and Aeneas_.] PANDARUS. Is’t possible? No sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! The young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke’s neck. Re-enter Cressida. CRESSIDA. How now! What’s the matter? Who was here? PANDARUS. Ah, ah! CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where’s my lord? Gone? Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s the matter? PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above! CRESSIDA. O the gods! What’s the matter? PANDARUS. Pray thee get thee in. Would thou hadst ne’er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death! O, poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor! CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you, what’s the matter? PANDARUS. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art chang’d for Antenor; thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus. ’Twill be his death; ’twill be his bane; he cannot bear it. CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go. PANDARUS. Thou must. CRESSIDA. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father; I know no touch of consanguinity, No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine, Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood, If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death, Do to this body what extremes you can, But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it. I’ll go in and weep— PANDARUS. Do, do. CRESSIDA. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks, Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart, With sounding ‘Troilus.’ I will not go from Troy. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE III. Troy. A street before Pandarus’ house. Enter Paris, Troilus, Aeneas, Deiphobus, Antenor and Diomedes. PARIS. It is great morning; and the hour prefix’d For her delivery to this valiant Greek Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, Tell you the lady what she is to do And haste her to the purpose. TROILUS. Walk into her house. I’ll bring her to the Grecian presently; And to his hand when I deliver her, Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus A priest, there off’ring to it his own heart. [_Exit_.] PARIS. I know what ’tis to love, And would, as I shall pity, I could help! Please you walk in, my lords? [_Exeunt_.] SCENE IV. Troy. Pandarus’ house. Enter Pandarus and Cressida. PANDARUS. Be moderate, be moderate. CRESSIDA. Why tell you me of moderation? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it? If I could temporize with my affections Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, The like allayment could I give my grief. My love admits no qualifying dross; No more my grief, in such a precious loss. Enter Troilus. PANDARUS. Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks! CRESSIDA. [_Embracing him_.] O Troilus! Troilus! PANDARUS. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too. ‘O heart,’ as the goodly saying is,— O heart, heavy heart, Why sigh’st thou without breaking? where he answers again Because thou canst not ease thy smart By friendship nor by speaking. There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse. We see it, we see it. How now, lambs! TROILUS. Cressid, I love thee in so strain’d a purity That the bless’d gods, as angry with my fancy, More bright in zeal than the devotion which Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me. CRESSIDA. Have the gods envy? PANDARUS. Ay, ay, ay, ay; ’tis too plain a case. CRESSIDA. And is it true that I must go from Troy? TROILUS. A hateful truth. CRESSIDA. What! and from Troilus too? TROILUS. From Troy and Troilus. CRESSIDA. Is’t possible? TROILUS. And suddenly; where injury of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents Our lock’d embrasures, strangles our dear vows Even in the birth of our own labouring breath. We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one. Injurious time now with a robber’s haste Crams his rich thiev’ry up, he knows not how. As many farewells as be stars in heaven, With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them, He fumbles up into a loose adieu, And scants us with a single famish’d kiss, Distasted with the salt of broken tears. AENEAS. [_Within_.] My lord, is the lady ready? TROILUS. Hark! you are call’d. Some say the Genius Cries so to him that instantly must die. Bid them have patience; she shall come anon. PANDARUS. Where are my tears? Rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by my throat! [_Exit_.] CRESSIDA. I must then to the Grecians? TROILUS. No remedy. CRESSIDA. A woeful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks! When shall we see again? TROILUS. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart. CRESSIDA. I true? How now! What wicked deem is this? TROILUS. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, For it is parting from us. I speak not ‘Be thou true’ as fearing thee, For I will throw my glove to Death himself That there’s no maculation in thy heart; But ‘Be thou true’ say I to fashion in My sequent protestation: be thou true, And I will see thee. CRESSIDA. O! you shall be expos’d, my lord, to dangers As infinite as imminent! But I’ll be true. TROILUS. And I’ll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve. CRESSIDA. And you this glove. When shall I see you? TROILUS. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels To give thee nightly visitation. But yet be true. CRESSIDA. O heavens! ‘Be true’ again! TROILUS. Hear why I speak it, love. The Grecian youths are full of quality; They’re loving, well compos’d, with gifts of nature, Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exercise. How novelty may move, and parts with person, Alas, a kind of godly jealousy, Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin, Makes me afear’d. CRESSIDA. O heavens! you love me not! TROILUS. Die I a villain then! In this I do not call your faith in question So mainly as my merit. I cannot sing, Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk, Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all, To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant; But I can tell that in each grace of these There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil That tempts most cunningly. But be not tempted. CRESSIDA. Do you think I will? TROILUS. No. But something may be done that we will not; And sometimes we are devils to ourselves, When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency. AENEAS. [_Within_.] Nay, good my lord! TROILUS. Come, kiss; and let us part. PARIS. [_Within_.] Brother Troilus! TROILUS. Good brother, come you hither; And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you. CRESSIDA. My lord, will you be true? TROILUS. Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault! Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion, I with great truth catch mere simplicity; Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns, With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare. Fear not my truth: the moral of my wit Is plain and true; there’s all the reach of it. Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus and Diomedes. Welcome, Sir Diomed! Here is the lady Which for Antenor we deliver you; At the port, lord, I’ll give her to thy hand, And by the way possess thee what she is. Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek, If e’er thou stand at mercy of my sword, Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe As Priam is in Ilion. DIOMEDES. Fair Lady Cressid, So please you, save the thanks this prince expects. The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek, Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed You shall be mistress, and command him wholly. TROILUS. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously To shame the zeal of my petition to thee In praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece, She is as far high-soaring o’er thy praises As thou unworthy to be call’d her servant. I charge thee use her well, even for my charge; For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard, I’ll cut thy throat. DIOMEDES. O, be not mov’d, Prince Troilus. Let me be privileg’d by my place and message To be a speaker free: when I am hence I’ll answer to my lust. And know you, lord, I’ll nothing do on charge: to her own worth She shall be priz’d. But that you say ‘Be’t so,’ I speak it in my spirit and honour, ‘No.’ TROILUS. Come, to the port. I’ll tell thee, Diomed, This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head. Lady, give me your hand; and, as we walk, To our own selves bend we our needful talk. [_Exeunt Troilus, Cressida and Diomedes_.] [_Sound trumpet_.] PARIS. Hark! Hector’s trumpet. AENEAS. How have we spent this morning! The Prince must think me tardy and remiss, That swore to ride before him to the field. PARIS. ’Tis Troilus’ fault. Come, come to field with him. DEIPHOBUS. Let us make ready straight. AENEAS. Yea, with a bridegroom’s fresh alacrity Let us address to tend on Hector’s heels. The glory of our Troy doth this day lie On his fair worth and single chivalry. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE V. The Grecian camp. Lists set out. Enter Ajax, armed; Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus, Menelaus, Ulysses, Nestor and others. AGAMEMNON. Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair, Anticipating time with starting courage. Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, Thou dreadful Ajax, that the appalled air May pierce the head of the great combatant, And hale him hither. AJAX. Thou, trumpet, there’s my purse. Now crack thy lungs and split thy brazen pipe; Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek Out-swell the colic of puff’d Aquilon. Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood: Thou blowest for Hector. [_Trumpet sounds_.] ULYSSES. No trumpet answers. ACHILLES. ’Tis but early days. AGAMEMNON. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas’ daughter? ULYSSES. ’Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait: He rises on the toe. That spirit of his In aspiration lifts him from the earth. Enter Diomedes and Cressida. AGAMEMNON. Is this the Lady Cressid? DIOMEDES. Even she. AGAMEMNON. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady. NESTOR. Our general doth salute you with a kiss. ULYSSES. Yet is the kindness but particular; ’Twere better she were kiss’d in general. NESTOR. And very courtly counsel: I’ll begin. So much for Nestor. ACHILLES. I’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady. Achilles bids you welcome. MENELAUS. I had good argument for kissing once. PATROCLUS. But that’s no argument for kissing now; For thus popp’d Paris in his hardiment, And parted thus you and your argument. ULYSSES. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns! For which we lose our heads to gild his horns. PATROCLUS. The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, mine: Patroclus kisses you. MENELAUS. O, this is trim! PATROCLUS. Paris and I kiss evermore for him. MENELAUS. I’ll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave. CRESSIDA. In kissing, do you render or receive? PATROCLUS. Both take and give. CRESSIDA. I’ll make my match to live, The kiss you take is better than you give; Therefore no kiss. MENELAUS. I’ll give you boot; I’ll give you three for one. CRESSIDA. You are an odd man; give even or give none. MENELAUS. An odd man, lady! Every man is odd. CRESSIDA. No, Paris is not; for you know ’tis true That you are odd, and he is even with you. MENELAUS. You fillip me o’ th’head. CRESSIDA. No, I’ll be sworn. ULYSSES. It were no match, your nail against his horn. May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you? CRESSIDA. You may. ULYSSES. I do desire it. CRESSIDA. Why, beg then. ULYSSES. Why then, for Venus’ sake give me a kiss When Helen is a maid again, and his. CRESSIDA. I am your debtor; claim it when ’tis due. ULYSSES. Never’s my day, and then a kiss of you. DIOMEDES. Lady, a word. I’ll bring you to your father. [_Exit with_ Cressida.] NESTOR. A woman of quick sense. ULYSSES. Fie, fie upon her! There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body. O! these encounterers so glib of tongue That give a coasting welcome ere it comes, And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts To every tickling reader! Set them down For sluttish spoils of opportunity, And daughters of the game. [_Trumpet within_.] ALL. The Trojans’ trumpet. AGAMEMNON. Yonder comes the troop. Enter Hector, armed; Aeneas, Troilus, Paris, Deiphobus and other Trojans, with attendants. AENEAS. Hail, all you state of Greece! What shall be done To him that victory commands? Or do you purpose A victor shall be known? Will you the knights Shall to the edge of all extremity Pursue each other, or shall be divided By any voice or order of the field? Hector bade ask. AGAMEMNON. Which way would Hector have it? AENEAS. He cares not; he’ll obey conditions. AGAMEMNON. ’Tis done like Hector. ACHILLES. But securely done, A little proudly, and great deal misprising The knight oppos’d. AENEAS. If not Achilles, sir, What is your name? ACHILLES. If not Achilles, nothing. AENEAS. Therefore Achilles. But whate’er, know this: In the extremity of great and little Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector; The one almost as infinite as all, The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, And that which looks like pride is courtesy. This Ajax is half made of Hector’s blood; In love whereof half Hector stays at home; Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek This blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek. ACHILLES. A maiden battle then? O! I perceive you. Re-enter Diomedes. AGAMEMNON. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight, Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord Aeneas Consent upon the order of their fight, So be it; either to the uttermost, Or else a breath. The combatants being kin Half stints their strife before their strokes begin. Ajax and Hector enter the lists. ULYSSES. They are oppos’d already. AGAMEMNON. What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy? ULYSSES. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight; Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word; Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue; Not soon provok’d, nor being provok’d soon calm’d; His heart and hand both open and both free; For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows, Yet gives he not till judgement guide his bounty, Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath; Manly as Hector, but more dangerous; For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes To tender objects, but he in heat of action Is more vindicative than jealous love. They call him Troilus, and on him erect A second hope as fairly built as Hector. Thus says Aeneas, one that knows the youth Even to his inches, and, with private soul, Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me. [_Alarum. Hector and Ajax fight._] AGAMEMNON. They are in action. NESTOR. Now, Ajax, hold thine own! TROILUS. Hector, thou sleep’st; awake thee! AGAMEMNON. His blows are well dispos’d. There, Ajax! [_Trumpets cease_.] DIOMEDES. You must no more. AENEAS. Princes, enough, so please you. AJAX. I am not warm yet; let us fight again. DIOMEDES. As Hector pleases. HECTOR. Why, then will I no more. Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son, A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed; The obligation of our blood forbids A gory emulation ’twixt us twain: Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so That thou could’st say ‘This hand is Grecian all, And this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s blood Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister Bounds in my father’s; by Jove multipotent, Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member Wherein my sword had not impressure made Of our rank feud; but the just gods gainsay That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy mother, My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword Be drained! Let me embrace thee, Ajax. By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms; Hector would have them fall upon him thus. Cousin, all honour to thee! AJAX. I thank thee, Hector. Thou art too gentle and too free a man. I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence A great addition earned in thy death. HECTOR. Not Neoptolemus so mirable, On whose bright crest Fame with her loud’st Oyes Cries ‘This is he!’ could promise to himself A thought of added honour torn from Hector. AENEAS. There is expectance here from both the sides What further you will do. HECTOR. We’ll answer it: The issue is embracement. Ajax, farewell. AJAX. If I might in entreaties find success, As seld’ I have the chance, I would desire My famous cousin to our Grecian tents. DIOMEDES. ’Tis Agamemnon’s wish; and great Achilles Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector. HECTOR. Aeneas, call my brother Troilus to me, And signify this loving interview To the expecters of our Trojan part; Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin; I will go eat with thee, and see your knights. Agamemnon and the rest of the Greeks come forward. AJAX. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here. HECTOR. The worthiest of them tell me name by name; But for Achilles, my own searching eyes Shall find him by his large and portly size. AGAMEMNON. Worthy all arms! as welcome as to one That would be rid of such an enemy. But that’s no welcome. Understand more clear, What’s past and what’s to come is strew’d with husks And formless ruin of oblivion; But in this extant moment, faith and troth, Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing, Bids thee with most divine integrity, From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome. HECTOR. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon. AGAMEMNON. [_To Troilus._] My well-fam’d lord of Troy, no less to you. MENELAUS. Let me confirm my princely brother’s greeting. You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither. HECTOR. Who must we answer? AENEAS. The noble Menelaus. HECTOR. O you, my lord? By Mars his gauntlet, thanks! Mock not that I affect the untraded oath; Your quondam wife swears still by Venus’ glove. She’s well, but bade me not commend her to you. MENELAUS. Name her not now, sir; she’s a deadly theme. HECTOR. O, pardon; I offend. NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft, Labouring for destiny, make cruel way Through ranks of Greekish youth; and I have seen thee, As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, Despising many forfeits and subduements, When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i’ th’air, Not letting it decline on the declined; That I have said to some my standers-by ‘Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!’ And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath, When that a ring of Greeks have shrap’d thee in, Like an Olympian wrestling. This have I seen; But this thy countenance, still lock’d in steel, I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire, And once fought with him. He was a soldier good, But, by great Mars, the captain of us all, Never like thee. O, let an old man embrace thee; And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents. AENEAS. ’Tis the old Nestor. HECTOR. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle, That hast so long walk’d hand in hand with time. Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee. NESTOR. I would my arms could match thee in contention As they contend with thee in courtesy. HECTOR. I would they could. NESTOR. Ha! By this white beard, I’d fight with thee tomorrow. Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time. ULYSSES. I wonder now how yonder city stands, When we have here her base and pillar by us. HECTOR. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well. Ah, sir, there’s many a Greek and Trojan dead, Since first I saw yourself and Diomed In Ilion on your Greekish embassy. ULYSSES. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue. My prophecy is but half his journey yet; For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet. HECTOR. I must not believe you. There they stand yet; and modestly I think The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost A drop of Grecian blood. The end crowns all; And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it. ULYSSES. So to him we leave it. Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome. After the General, I beseech you next To feast with me and see me at my tent. ACHILLES. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou! Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee; I have with exact view perus’d thee, Hector, And quoted joint by joint. HECTOR. Is this Achilles? ACHILLES. I am Achilles. HECTOR. Stand fair, I pray thee; let me look on thee. ACHILLES. Behold thy fill. HECTOR. Nay, I have done already. ACHILLES. Thou art too brief. I will the second time, As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb. HECTOR. O, like a book of sport thou’lt read me o’er; But there’s more in me than thou understand’st. Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye? ACHILLES. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body Shall I destroy him? Whether there, or there, or there? That I may give the local wound a name, And make distinct the very breach whereout Hector’s great spirit flew. Answer me, heavens. HECTOR. It would discredit the blest gods, proud man, To answer such a question. Stand again. Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly As to prenominate in nice conjecture Where thou wilt hit me dead? ACHILLES. I tell thee yea. HECTOR. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so, I’d not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well; For I’ll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there; But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, I’ll kill thee everywhere, yea, o’er and o’er. You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag. His insolence draws folly from my lips; But I’ll endeavour deeds to match these words, Or may I never— AJAX. Do not chafe thee, cousin; And you, Achilles, let these threats alone Till accident or purpose bring you to’t. You may have every day enough of Hector, If you have stomach. The general state, I fear, Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. HECTOR. I pray you let us see you in the field; We have had pelting wars since you refus’d The Grecians’ cause. ACHILLES. Dost thou entreat me, Hector? Tomorrow do I meet thee, fell as death; Tonight all friends. HECTOR. Thy hand upon that match. AGAMEMNON. First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent; There in the full convive we; afterwards, As Hector’s leisure and your bounties shall Concur together, severally entreat him. Beat loud the tambourines, let the trumpets blow, That this great soldier may his welcome know. [_Exeunt all but Troilus and Ulysses_.] TROILUS. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you, In what place of the field doth Calchas keep? ULYSSES. At Menelaus’ tent, most princely Troilus. There Diomed doth feast with him tonight, Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view On the fair Cressid. TROILUS. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much, After we part from Agamemnon’s tent, To bring me thither? ULYSSES. You shall command me, sir. As gentle tell me of what honour was This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there That wails her absence? TROILUS. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? She was belov’d, she lov’d; she is, and doth; But still sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth. [_Exeunt_.] ACT V SCENE I. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles. Enter Achilles and Patroclus. ACHILLES. I’ll heat his blood with Greekish wine tonight, Which with my scimitar I’ll cool tomorrow. Patroclus, let us feast him to the height. PATROCLUS. Here comes Thersites. Enter Thersites. ACHILLES. How now, thou core of envy! Thou crusty batch of nature, what’s the news? THERSITES. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here’s a letter for thee. ACHILLES. From whence, fragment? THERSITES. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy. PATROCLUS. Who keeps the tent now? THERSITES. The surgeon’s box or the patient’s wound. PATROCLUS. Well said, adversity! And what needs these tricks? THERSITES. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou art said to be Achilles’ male varlet. PATROCLUS. Male varlet, you rogue! What’s that? THERSITES. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, lime-kilns i’ th’ palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries! PATROCLUS. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus? THERSITES. Do I curse thee? PATROCLUS. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no. THERSITES. No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of sleave silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such water-flies, diminutives of nature! PATROCLUS. Out, gall! THERSITES. Finch egg! ACHILLES. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite From my great purpose in tomorrow’s battle. Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, A token from her daughter, my fair love, Both taxing me and gaging me to keep An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it. Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I’ll obey. Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent; This night in banqueting must all be spent. Away, Patroclus! [_Exit with_ Patroclus.] THERSITES. With too much blood and too little brain these two may run mad; but, if with too much brain and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen. Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique memorial of cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain at his brother’s leg, to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice, and malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were nothing: he is both ass and ox. To an ox, were nothing: he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchook, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day! sprites and fires! Enter Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Menelaus and Diomedes with lights. AGAMEMNON. We go wrong, we go wrong. AJAX. No, yonder ’tis; There, where we see the lights. HECTOR. I trouble you. AJAX. No, not a whit. ULYSSES. Here comes himself to guide you. Re-enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all. AGAMEMNON. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night; Ajax commands the guard to tend on you. HECTOR. Thanks, and good night to the Greeks’ general. MENELAUS. Good night, my lord. HECTOR. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus. THERSITES. Sweet draught! ‘Sweet’ quoth a’! Sweet sink, sweet sewer! ACHILLES. Good night and welcome, both at once, to those That go or tarry. AGAMEMNON. Good night. [_Exeunt Agamemnon and Menelaus_.] ACHILLES. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed, Keep Hector company an hour or two. DIOMEDES. I cannot, lord; I have important business, The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector. HECTOR. Give me your hand. ULYSSES. [_Aside to Troilus._] Follow his torch; he goes to Calchas’ tent; I’ll keep you company. TROILUS. Sweet sir, you honour me. HECTOR. And so, good night. [_Exit Diomedes, Ulysses and Troilus following._] ACHILLES. Come, come, enter my tent. [_Exeunt all but_ Thersites.] THERSITES. That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it: it is prodigious, there will come some change; the sun borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector than not to dog him. They say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas’ tent. I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! All incontinent varlets! [_Exit_.] SCENE II. The Grecian camp. Before Calchas’ tent. Enter Diomedes. DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho! Speak. CALCHAS. [_Within_.] Who calls? DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where’s your daughter? CALCHAS. [_Within_.] She comes to you. Enter Troilus and Ulysses, at a distance; after them Thersites. ULYSSES. Stand where the torch may not discover us. Enter Cressida. TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him. DIOMEDES. How now, my charge! CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you. [_Whispers_.] TROILUS. Yea, so familiar? ULYSSES. She will sing any man at first sight. THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff; she’s noted. DIOMEDES. Will you remember? CRESSIDA. Remember! Yes. DIOMEDES. Nay, but do, then; And let your mind be coupled with your words. TROILUS. What should she remember? ULYSSES. List! CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly. THERSITES. Roguery! DIOMEDES. Nay, then— CRESSIDA. I’ll tell you what— DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn. CRESSIDA. In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do? THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be secretly open. DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me? CRESSIDA. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath; Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek. DIOMEDES. Good night. TROILUS. Hold, patience! ULYSSES. How now, Trojan! CRESSIDA. Diomed! DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I’ll be your fool no more. TROILUS. Thy better must. CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear. TROILUS. O plague and madness! ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray, Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous; The time right deadly; I beseech you, go. TROILUS. Behold, I pray you. ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off; You flow to great distraction; come, my lord. TROILUS. I pray thee stay. ULYSSES. You have not patience; come. TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell’s torments, I will not speak a word. DIOMEDES. And so, good night. CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger. TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth! ULYSSES. How now, my lord? TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient. CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek! DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! adieu! you palter. CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once again. ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go? You will break out. TROILUS. She strokes his cheek. ULYSSES. Come, come. TROILUS. Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word: There is between my will and all offences A guard of patience. Stay a little while. THERSITES. How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and potato finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry! DIOMEDES. But will you, then? CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, la; never trust me else. DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it. CRESSIDA. I’ll fetch you one. [_Exit_.] ULYSSES. You have sworn patience. TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord; I will not be myself, nor have cognition Of what I feel. I am all patience. Re-enter Cressida. THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now! CRESSIDA. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve. TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith? ULYSSES. My lord! TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will. CRESSIDA. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well. He lov’d me—O false wench!—Give’t me again. DIOMEDES. Whose was’t? CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I have’t again. I will not meet with you tomorrow night. I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more. THERSITES. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone. DIOMEDES. I shall have it. CRESSIDA. What, this? DIOMEDES. Ay, that. CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge! Thy master now lies thinking on his bed Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove, And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me; He that takes that doth take my heart withal. DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it. TROILUS. I did swear patience. CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not; I’ll give you something else. DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it? CRESSIDA. It is no matter. DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was. CRESSIDA. ’Twas one’s that lov’d me better than you will. But, now you have it, take it. DIOMEDES. Whose was it? CRESSIDA. By all Diana’s waiting women yond, And by herself, I will not tell you whose. DIOMEDES. Tomorrow will I wear it on my helm, And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it. TROILUS. Wert thou the devil and wor’st it on thy horn, It should be challeng’d. CRESSIDA. Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past; and yet it is not; I will not keep my word. DIOMEDES. Why, then farewell; Thou never shalt mock Diomed again. CRESSIDA. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word But it straight starts you. DIOMEDES. I do not like this fooling. THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you Pleases me best. DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour? CRESSIDA. Ay, come; O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu’d. DIOMEDES. Farewell till then. CRESSIDA. Good night. I prithee come. [_Exit_ Diomedes.] Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee; But with my heart the other eye doth see. Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find, The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err; O, then conclude, Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude. [_Exit_.] THERSITES. A proof of strength she could not publish more, Unless she said ‘My mind is now turn’d whore.’ ULYSSES. All’s done, my lord. TROILUS. It is. ULYSSES. Why stay we, then? TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul Of every syllable that here was spoke. But if I tell how these two did co-act, Shall I not lie in publishing a truth? Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, An esperance so obstinately strong, That doth invert th’attest of eyes and ears; As if those organs had deceptious functions Created only to calumniate. Was Cressid here? ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Trojan. TROILUS. She was not, sure. ULYSSES. Most sure she was. TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness. ULYSSES. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now. TROILUS. Let it not be believ’d for womanhood. Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, For depravation, to square the general sex By Cressid’s rule. Rather think this not Cressid. ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers? TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she. THERSITES. Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes? TROILUS. This she? No; this is Diomed’s Cressida. If beauty have a soul, this is not she; If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies, If sanctimony be the god’s delight, If there be rule in unity itself, This was not she. O madness of discourse, That cause sets up with and against itself! Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt Without perdition, and loss assume all reason Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid. Within my soul there doth conduce a fight Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate Divides more wider than the sky and earth; And yet the spacious breadth of this division Admits no orifice for a point as subtle As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter. Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates: Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven. Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself: The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and loos’d; And with another knot, five-finger-tied, The fractions of her faith, orts of her love, The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics Of her o’er-eaten faith, are given to Diomed. ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be half attach’d With that which here his passion doth express? TROILUS. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well In characters as red as Mars his heart Inflam’d with Venus. Never did young man fancy With so eternal and so fix’d a soul. Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love, So much by weight hate I her Diomed. That sleeve is mine that he’ll bear on his helm; Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout Which shipmen do the hurricano call, Constring’d in mass by the almighty sun, Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear In his descent than shall my prompted sword Falling on Diomed. THERSITES. He’ll tickle it for his concupy. TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false! Let all untruths stand by thy stained name, And they’ll seem glorious. ULYSSES. O, contain yourself; Your passion draws ears hither. Enter Aeneas. AENEAS. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord. Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy; Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home. TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu. Fairwell, revolted fair! and, Diomed, Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head. ULYSSES. I’ll bring you to the gates. TROILUS. Accept distracted thanks. [_Exeunt Troilus, Aeneas and Ulysses_.] THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me anything for the intelligence of this whore; the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A burning devil take them! [_Exit_.] SCENE III. Troy. Before Priam’s palace. Enter Hector and Andromache. ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently temper’d To stop his ears against admonishment? Unarm, unarm, and do not fight today. HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in. By all the everlasting gods, I’ll go. ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day. HECTOR. No more, I say. Enter Cassandra. CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector? ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm’d, and bloody in intent. Consort with me in loud and dear petition, Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter. CASSANDRA. O, ’tis true! HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound. CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother! HECTOR. Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear. CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows; They are polluted off’rings, more abhorr’d Than spotted livers in the sacrifice. ANDROMACHE. O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy To hurt by being just. It is as lawful, For we would give much, to use violent thefts And rob in the behalf of charity. CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold. Unarm, sweet Hector. HECTOR. Hold you still, I say. Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate. Life every man holds dear; but the dear man Holds honour far more precious dear than life. Enter Troilus. How now, young man! Mean’st thou to fight today? ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade. [_Exit_ Cassandra.] HECTOR. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth; I am today i’ th’vein of chivalry. Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, And tempt not yet the brushes of the war. Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy, I’ll stand today for thee and me and Troy. TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, Which better fits a lion than a man. HECTOR. What vice is that? Good Troilus, chide me for it. TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian falls, Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, You bid them rise and live. HECTOR. O, ’tis fair play! TROILUS. Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector. HECTOR. How now? how now? TROILUS. For th’ love of all the gods, Let’s leave the hermit Pity with our mother; And when we have our armours buckled on, The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords, Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth! HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie! TROILUS. Hector, then ’tis wars. HECTOR. Troilus, I would not have you fight today. TROILUS. Who should withhold me? Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire; Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, Their eyes o’er-galled with recourse of tears; Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn, Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way, But by my ruin. Re-enter Cassandra with Priam. CASSANDRA. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast; He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay, Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, Fall all together. PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back. Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother hath had visions; Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt To tell thee that this day is ominous. Therefore, come back. HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field; And I do stand engag’d to many Greeks, Even in the faith of valour, to appear This morning to them. PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not go. HECTOR. I must not break my faith. You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir, Let me not shame respect; but give me leave To take that course by your consent and voice Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam. CASSANDRA. O Priam, yield not to him! ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father. HECTOR. Andromache, I am offended with you. Upon the love you bear me, get you in. [_Exit_ Andromache.] TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl Makes all these bodements. CASSANDRA. O, farewell, dear Hector! Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye turns pale. Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents. Hark how Troy roars; how Hecuba cries out; How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth; Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement, Like witless antics, one another meet, And all cry, ‘Hector! Hector’s dead! O Hector!’ TROILUS. Away, away! CASSANDRA. Farewell! yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave. Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive. [_Exit_.] HECTOR. You are amaz’d, my liege, at her exclaim. Go in, and cheer the town; we’ll forth, and fight, Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night. PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee! [_Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums._] TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe, I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve. Enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear? TROILUS. What now? PANDARUS. Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl. TROILUS. Let me read. PANDARUS. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick, so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o’ these days; and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that unless a man were curs’d I cannot tell what to think on’t. What says she there? TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart; Th’effect doth operate another way. [_Tearing the letter_.] Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together. My love with words and errors still she feeds, But edifies another with her deeds. [_Exeunt severally_.] SCENE IV. The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp. Alarums. Excursions. Enter Thersites. THERSITES. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I’ll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave’s sleeve of Troy there in his helm. I would fain see them meet, that that same young Trojan ass that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of a sleeve-less errand. O’ the other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not prov’d worth a blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur, Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm today; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion. Enter Diomedes, Troilus following. Soft! here comes sleeve, and t’other. TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx, I would swim after. DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire. I do not fly; but advantageous care Withdrew me from the odds of multitude. Have at thee! THERSITES. Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore, Trojan! now the sleeve, now the sleeve! [_Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes fighting_.] Enter Hector. HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector’s match? Art thou of blood and honour? THERSITES. No, no I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy rogue. HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live. [_Exit_.] THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them. [_Exit_.] SCENE V. Another part of the plain. Enter Diomedes and a Servant. DIOMEDES. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse; Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid. Fellow, commend my service to her beauty; Tell her I have chastis’d the amorous Trojan, And am her knight by proof. SERVANT. I go, my lord. [_Exit_.] Enter Agamemnon. AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas Hath beat down Menon; bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain; Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt; Patroclus ta’en, or slain; and Palamedes Sore hurt and bruis’d. The dreadful Sagittary Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed, To reinforcement, or we perish all. Enter Nestor. NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles, And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame. There is a thousand Hectors in the field; Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot, And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls Before the belching whale; then is he yonder, And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge, Fall down before him like the mower’s swath. Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes; Dexterity so obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is call’d impossibility. Enter Ulysses. ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance. Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy blood, Together with his mangled Myrmidons, That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it, Roaring for Troilus; who hath done today Mad and fantastic execution, Engaging and redeeming of himself With such a careless force and forceless care As if that lust, in very spite of cunning, Bade him win all. Enter Ajax. AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus! [_Exit_.] DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there. NESTOR. So, so, we draw together. [_Exit_.] Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Where is this Hector? Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; Know what it is to meet Achilles angry. Hector! where’s Hector? I will none but Hector. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE VI. Another part of the plain. Enter Ajax. AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head. Enter Diomedes. DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where’s Troilus? AJAX. What wouldst thou? DIOMEDES. I would correct him. AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus! Enter Troilus. TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor, And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse. DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there? AJAX. I’ll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed. DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon. TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you both! [_Exeunt fighting_.] Enter Hector. HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother! Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Now do I see thee. Ha! have at thee, Hector! HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt. ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan. Be happy that my arms are out of use; My rest and negligence befriend thee now, But thou anon shalt hear of me again; Till when, go seek thy fortune. [_Exit_.] HECTOR. Fare thee well. I would have been much more a fresher man, Had I expected thee. Re-enter Troilus. How now, my brother! TROILUS. Ajax hath ta’en Aeneas. Shall it be? No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, He shall not carry him; I’ll be ta’en too, Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say: I reck not though thou end my life today. [_Exit_.] Enter one in armour. HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark. No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well; I’ll frush it and unlock the rivets all But I’ll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide? Why then, fly on; I’ll hunt thee for thy hide. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE VII. Another part of the plain. Enter Achilles with Myrmidons. ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel; Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath; And when I have the bloody Hector found, Empale him with your weapons round about; In fellest manner execute your arms. Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye. It is decreed Hector the great must die. [_Exeunt_.] Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting; then Thersites. THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! Now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, ’loo! now my double-hen’d Spartan! ’loo, Paris, ’loo! The bull has the game. ’Ware horns, ho! [_Exeunt Paris and Menelaus_.] Enter Margarelon. MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight. THERSITES. What art thou? MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam’s. THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgement. Farewell, bastard. [_Exit_.] MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward! [_Exit_.] SCENE VIII. Another part of the plain. Enter Hector. HECTOR. Most putrified core so fair without, Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take my breath: Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death! [_Disarms_.] Enter Achilles and Myrmidons. ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set, How ugly night comes breathing at his heels; Even with the vail and dark’ning of the sun, To close the day up, Hector’s life is done. HECTOR. I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek. ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek. [_Hector falls_.] So, Ilion, fall thou next! Now, Troy, sink down; Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain ‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’ [_A retreat sounded_.] Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part. MYRMIDON. The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord. ACHILLES. The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth And, stickler-like, the armies separates. My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed, Pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. [_Sheathes his sword_.] Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail; Along the field I will the Trojan trail. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE IX. Another part of the plain. Sound retreat. Shout. Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes and the rest, marching. AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this? NESTOR. Peace, drums! SOLDIERS. [_Within_.] Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain. Achilles! DIOMEDES. The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles. AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be; Great Hector was as good a man as he. AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent To pray Achilles see us at our tent. If in his death the gods have us befriended; Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE X. Another part of the plain. Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor and Deiphobus. AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. Never go home; here starve we out the night. Enter Troilus. TROILUS. Hector is slain. ALL. Hector! The gods forbid! TROILUS. He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed. Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy. I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on. AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host. TROILUS. You understand me not that tell me so. I do not speak of flight, of fear of death, But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone. Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’ There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away; Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare, I’ll through and through you. And, thou great-siz’d coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates; I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go; Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. Enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you! TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name! [_Exeunt all but_ Pandarus.] PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see— Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; And being once subdu’d in armed trail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of Pandar’s hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made. It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases. [_Exit_.] TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL Contents ACT I Scene I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace. Scene II. The sea-coast. Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Scene V. A Room in Olivia’s House. ACT II Scene I. The sea-coast. Scene II. A street. Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Scene V. Olivia’s garden. ACT III Scene I. Olivia’s garden. Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene III. A street. Scene IV. Olivia’s garden. ACT IV Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene III. Olivia’s Garden. ACT V Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Dramatis Personæ ORSINO, Duke of Illyria. VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke VIOLA, in love with the Duke. SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, twin brother to Viola. A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian. OLIVIA, a rich Countess. MARIA, Olivia’s Woman. SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia. SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK. MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia. FABIAN, Servant to Olivia. CLOWN, Servant to Olivia. PRIEST Lords, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants. SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it. ACT I. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending. DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall; O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour. Enough; no more; ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, That notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soever, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy, That it alone is high fantastical. CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord? DUKE. What, Curio? CURIO. The hart. DUKE. Why so I do, the noblest that I have. O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn’d into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me. How now? what news from her? Enter Valentine. VALENTINE. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years’ heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But like a cloistress she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance. DUKE. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill’d Her sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers, Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The sea-coast. Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors. VIOLA. What country, friends, is this? CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady. VIOLA. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance he is not drown’d. What think you, sailors? CAPTAIN. It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d. VIOLA. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be. CAPTAIN. True, madam; and to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and those poor number sav’d with you, Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself, (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) To a strong mast that liv’d upon the sea; Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves So long as I could see. VIOLA. For saying so, there’s gold! Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know’st thou this country? CAPTAIN. Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born Not three hours’ travel from this very place. VIOLA. Who governs here? CAPTAIN. A noble duke, in nature as in name. VIOLA. What is his name? CAPTAIN. Orsino. VIOLA. Orsino! I have heard my father name him. He was a bachelor then. CAPTAIN. And so is now, or was so very late; For but a month ago I went from hence, And then ’twas fresh in murmur, (as, you know, What great ones do, the less will prattle of) That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. VIOLA. What’s she? CAPTAIN. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died; for whose dear love They say, she hath abjur’d the company And sight of men. VIOLA. O that I served that lady, And might not be delivered to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is. CAPTAIN. That were hard to compass, Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the Duke’s. VIOLA. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain; And though that nature with a beauteous wall Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee I will believe thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I pray thee, and I’ll pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am, and be my aid For such disguise as haply shall become The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke; Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing, And speak to him in many sorts of music, That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap, to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. CAPTAIN. Be you his eunuch and your mute I’ll be; When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. VIOLA. I thank thee. Lead me on. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby and Maria. SIR TOBY. What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to life. MARIA. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. SIR TOBY. Why, let her except, before excepted. MARIA. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. SIR TOBY. Confine? I’ll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. MARIA. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer. SIR TOBY. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek? MARIA. Ay, he. SIR TOBY. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria. MARIA. What’s that to th’ purpose? SIR TOBY. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. MARIA. Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats. He’s a very fool, and a prodigal. SIR TOBY. Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. MARIA. He hath indeed, almost natural: for, besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. SIR TOBY. By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are they? MARIA. They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company. SIR TOBY. With drinking healths to my niece; I’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria. He’s a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish top. What, wench! _Castiliano vulgo:_ for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface. Enter Sir Andrew. AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch? SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew! SIR ANDREW. Bless you, fair shrew. MARIA. And you too, sir. SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. SIR ANDREW. What’s that? SIR TOBY. My niece’s chamber-maid. SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. MARIA. My name is Mary, sir. SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Mary Accost,— SIR TOBY. You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her. SIR ANDREW. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost? MARIA. Fare you well, gentlemen. SIR TOBY. And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again. SIR ANDREW. And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? MARIA. Sir, I have not you by the hand. SIR ANDREW. Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my hand. MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to th’ buttery bar and let it drink. SIR ANDREW. Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor? MARIA. It’s dry, sir. SIR ANDREW. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest? MARIA. A dry jest, sir. SIR ANDREW. Are you full of them? MARIA. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit Maria._] SIR TOBY. O knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down? SIR ANDREW. Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. SIR TOBY. No question. SIR ANDREW. And I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride home tomorrow, Sir Toby. SIR TOBY. _Pourquoy_, my dear knight? SIR ANDREW. What is _pourquoy?_ Do, or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O, had I but followed the arts! SIR TOBY. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. SIR ANDREW. Why, would that have mended my hair? SIR TOBY. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature. SIR ANDREW. But it becomes me well enough, does’t not? SIR TOBY. Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. SIR ANDREW. Faith, I’ll home tomorrow, Sir Toby; your niece will not be seen, or if she be, it’s four to one she’ll none of me; the Count himself here hard by woos her. SIR TOBY. She’ll none o’ the Count; she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear’t. Tut, there’s life in’t, man. SIR ANDREW. I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kick-shawses, knight? SIR ANDREW. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man. SIR TOBY. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? SIR ANDREW. Faith, I can cut a caper. SIR TOBY. And I can cut the mutton to’t. SIR ANDREW. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria. SIR TOBY. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before ’em? Are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. SIR ANDREW. Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a dam’d-colour’d stock. Shall we set about some revels? SIR TOBY. What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus? SIR ANDREW. Taurus? That’s sides and heart. SIR TOBY. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher: ha, ha, excellent! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Valentine and Viola in man’s attire. VALENTINE. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. VIOLA. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? VALENTINE. No, believe me. Enter Duke, Curio and Attendants. VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the Count. DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho? VIOLA. On your attendance, my lord, here. DUKE. Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario, Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d To thee the book even of my secret soul. Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her, Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience. VIOLA. Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. DUKE. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. VIOLA. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then? DUKE. O then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith; It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect. VIOLA. I think not so, my lord. DUKE. Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman’s part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair. Some four or five attend him: All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company. Prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine. VIOLA. I’ll do my best To woo your lady. [_Aside._] Yet, a barful strife! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Maria and Clown. MARIA. Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence. CLOWN. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours. MARIA. Make that good. CLOWN. He shall see none to fear. MARIA. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was born, of I fear no colours. CLOWN. Where, good Mistress Mary? MARIA. In the wars, and that may you be bold to say in your foolery. CLOWN. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents. MARIA. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or to be turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you? CLOWN. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer bear it out. MARIA. You are resolute then? CLOWN. Not so, neither, but I am resolved on two points. MARIA. That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break, your gaskins fall. CLOWN. Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria. MARIA. Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [_Exit._] Enter Olivia with Malvolio. CLOWN. Wit, and’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit. God bless thee, lady! OLIVIA. Take the fool away. CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. OLIVIA. Go to, y’are a dry fool; I’ll no more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest. CLOWN. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself, if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything that’s mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool, therefore, I say again, take her away. OLIVIA. Sir, I bade them take away you. CLOWN. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, _cucullus non facit monachum:_ that’s as much to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. OLIVIA. Can you do it? CLOWN. Dexteriously, good madonna. OLIVIA. Make your proof. CLOWN. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. OLIVIA. Well sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll ’bide your proof. CLOWN. Good madonna, why mourn’st thou? OLIVIA. Good fool, for my brother’s death. CLOWN. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. OLIVIA. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. CLOWN. The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen. OLIVIA. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend? MALVOLIO. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. CLOWN. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool. OLIVIA. How say you to that, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies. OLIVIA. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. CLOWN. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak’st well of fools! Enter Maria. MARIA. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you. OLIVIA. From the Count Orsino, is it? MARIA. I know not, madam; ’tis a fair young man, and well attended. OLIVIA. Who of my people hold him in delay? MARIA. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. OLIVIA. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him! [_Exit Maria._] Go you, Malvolio. If it be a suit from the Count, I am sick, or not at home. What you will, to dismiss it. [_Exit Malvolio._] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. CLOWN. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes, one of thy kin has a most weak _pia mater_. Enter Sir Toby. OLIVIA. By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin? SIR TOBY. A gentleman. OLIVIA. A gentleman? What gentleman? SIR TOBY. ’Tis a gentleman here. A plague o’ these pickle-herrings! How now, sot? CLOWN. Good Sir Toby. OLIVIA. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy? SIR TOBY. Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate. OLIVIA. Ay, marry, what is he? SIR TOBY. Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. What’s a drunken man like, fool? CLOWN. Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. OLIVIA. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink; he’s drowned. Go, look after him. CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [_Exit Clown._] Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? He’s fortified against any denial. OLIVIA. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. MALVOLIO. Has been told so; and he says he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he’ll speak with you. OLIVIA. What kind o’ man is he? MALVOLIO. Why, of mankind. OLIVIA. What manner of man? MALVOLIO. Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no. OLIVIA. Of what personage and years is he? MALVOLIO. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling, when ’tis almost an apple. ’Tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly. One would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him. OLIVIA. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman. MALVOLIO. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [_Exit._] Enter Maria. OLIVIA. Give me my veil; come, throw it o’er my face. We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy. Enter Viola. VIOLA. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? OLIVIA. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will? VIOLA. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her. I would be loath to cast away my speech; for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage. OLIVIA. Whence came you, sir? VIOLA. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. OLIVIA. Are you a comedian? VIOLA. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house? OLIVIA. If I do not usurp myself, I am. VIOLA. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message. OLIVIA. Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise. VIOLA. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical. OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. MARIA. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way. VIOLA. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind. I am a messenger. OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office. VIOLA. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter. OLIVIA. Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you? VIOLA. The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other’s, profanation. OLIVIA. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [_Exit Maria._] Now, sir, what is your text? VIOLA. Most sweet lady— OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text? VIOLA. In Orsino’s bosom. OLIVIA. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom? VIOLA. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. OLIVIA. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say? VIOLA. Good madam, let me see your face. OLIVIA. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. [_Unveiling._] Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. Is’t not well done? VIOLA. Excellently done, if God did all. OLIVIA. ’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather. VIOLA. ’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on. Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy. OLIVIA. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? VIOLA. I see you what you are, you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you. O, such love Could be but recompens’d though you were crown’d The nonpareil of beauty! OLIVIA. How does he love me? VIOLA. With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. OLIVIA. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him: Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant, And in dimension and the shape of nature, A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him. He might have took his answer long ago. VIOLA. If I did love you in my master’s flame, With such a suff’ring, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense, I would not understand it. OLIVIA. Why, what would you? VIOLA. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love, And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Hallow your name to the reverberate hills, And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me. OLIVIA. You might do much. What is your parentage? VIOLA. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman. OLIVIA. Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more, Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me. VIOLA. I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse; My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love, And let your fervour like my master’s be Plac’d in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. What is your parentage? ‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast: soft, soft! Unless the master were the man. How now? Even so quickly may one catch the plague? Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections With an invisible and subtle stealth To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. What ho, Malvolio! Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. Here, madam, at your service. OLIVIA. Run after that same peevish messenger The County’s man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not; tell him, I’ll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him. If that the youth will come this way tomorrow, I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio. MALVOLIO. Madam, I will. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force, ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so! [_Exit._] ACT II. SCENE I. The sea-coast. Enter Antonio and Sebastian. ANTONIO. Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that I go with you? SEBASTIAN. By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. ANTONIO. Let me know of you whither you are bound. SEBASTIAN. No, sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in. Therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! But you, sir, altered that, for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. ANTONIO. Alas the day! SEBASTIAN. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful. But though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. ANTONIO. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. SEBASTIAN. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. ANTONIO. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. SEBASTIAN. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once; my bosom is full of kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court: farewell. [_Exit._] ANTONIO. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, Else would I very shortly see thee there: But come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A street. Enter Viola; Malvolio at several doors. MALVOLIO. Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia? VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. MALVOLIO. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so. VIOLA. She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it. MALVOLIO. Come sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [_Exit._] VIOLA. I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her! She made good view of me, indeed, so much, That methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord’s ring? Why, he sent her none. I am the man; if it be so, as ’tis, Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper false In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we, For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master’s love; As I am woman (now alas the day!) What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I, It is too hard a knot for me t’untie! [_Exit._] SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be abed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know’st. SIR ANDREW. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up late. SIR TOBY. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our lives consist of the four elements? SIR ANDREW. Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking. SIR TOBY. Th’art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine. Enter Clown. SIR ANDREW. Here comes the fool, i’ faith. CLOWN. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”? SIR TOBY. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch. SIR ANDREW. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou spok’st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it? CLOWN. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. SIR ANDREW. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. SIR TOBY. Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song. SIR ANDREW. There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a— CLOWN. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? SIR TOBY. A love-song, a love-song. SIR ANDREW. Ay, ay. I care not for good life. CLOWN. [_sings._] _O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know._ SIR ANDREW. Excellent good, i’ faith. SIR TOBY. Good, good. CLOWN. _What is love? ’Tis not hereafter, Present mirth hath present laughter. What’s to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty. Youth’s a stuff will not endure._ SIR ANDREW. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. SIR TOBY. A contagious breath. SIR ANDREW. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith. SIR TOBY. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that? SIR ANDREW. And you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch. CLOWN. By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. SIR ANDREW. Most certain. Let our catch be, “Thou knave.” CLOWN. “Hold thy peace, thou knave” knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight. SIR ANDREW. ’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins “Hold thy peace.” CLOWN. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. SIR ANDREW. Good, i’ faith! Come, begin. [_Catch sung._] Enter Maria. MARIA. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. SIR TOBY. My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and [_Sings._] _Three merry men be we._ Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally! “Lady”! _There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, Lady._ CLOWN. Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling. SIR ANDREW. Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _O’ the twelfth day of December—_ MARIA. For the love o’ God, peace! Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an ale-house of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? SIR TOBY. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! MALVOLIO. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone._ MARIA. Nay, good Sir Toby. CLOWN. [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._ MALVOLIO. Is’t even so? SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _But I will never die._ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _Sir Toby, there you lie._ MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you. SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go?_ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _What and if you do?_ SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go, and spare not?_ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _O, no, no, no, no, you dare not._ SIR TOBY. Out o’ tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too. SIR TOBY. Th’art i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria! MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand. [_Exit._] MARIA. Go shake your ears. SIR ANDREW. ’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him. SIR TOBY. Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. MARIA. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the youth of the Count’s was today with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it. SIR TOBY. Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him. MARIA. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. SIR ANDREW. O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog. SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight? SIR ANDREW. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough. MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him. And on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. SIR TOBY. What wilt thou do? MARIA. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device. SIR ANDREW. I have’t in my nose too. SIR TOBY. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him. MARIA. My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour. SIR ANDREW. And your horse now would make him an ass. MARIA. Ass, I doubt not. SIR ANDREW. O ’twill be admirable! MARIA. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter. Observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Good night, Penthesilea. SIR ANDREW. Before me, she’s a good wench. SIR TOBY. She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that? SIR ANDREW. I was adored once too. SIR TOBY. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money. SIR ANDREW. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me cut. SIR ANDREW. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. SIR TOBY. Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack, ’tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight, come, knight. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and others. DUKE. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night; Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse. CURIO. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. DUKE. Who was it? CURIO. Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house. DUKE. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. [_Exit Curio. Music plays._] Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me: For such as I am, all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune? VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned. DUKE. Thou dost speak masterly. My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves. Hath it not, boy? VIOLA. A little, by your favour. DUKE. What kind of woman is’t? VIOLA. Of your complexion. DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith? VIOLA. About your years, my lord. DUKE. Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women’s are. VIOLA. I think it well, my lord. DUKE. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. VIOLA. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow! Enter Curio and Clown. DUKE. O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age. CLOWN. Are you ready, sir? DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing. [_Music._] The Clown’s song. _ Come away, come away, death. And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death no one so true Did share it._ _ Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there._ DUKE. There’s for thy pains. CLOWN. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. DUKE. I’ll pay thy pleasure, then. CLOWN. Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another. DUKE. Give me now leave to leave thee. CLOWN. Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [_Exit Clown._] DUKE. Let all the rest give place. [_Exeunt Curio and Attendants._] Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty. Tell her my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her, Tell her I hold as giddily as fortune; But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. VIOLA. But if she cannot love you, sir? DUKE. I cannot be so answer’d. VIOLA. Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so. Must she not then be answer’d? DUKE. There is no woman’s sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart: no woman’s heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. Alas, their love may be called appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much. Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia. VIOLA. Ay, but I know— DUKE. What dost thou know? VIOLA. Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. DUKE. And what’s her history? VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more, but indeed, Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. DUKE. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? VIOLA. I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady? DUKE. Ay, that’s the theme. To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Olivia’s garden. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian. SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. FABIAN. Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? FABIAN. I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here. SIR TOBY. To anger him we’ll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew? SIR ANDREW. And we do not, it is pity of our lives. Enter Maria. SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India? MARIA. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio’s coming down this walk; he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [_The men hide themselves._] Lie thou there; [_Throws down a letter_] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [_Exit Maria._] Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. ’Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me, and I have heard herself come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t? SIR TOBY. Here’s an overweening rogue! FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes! SIR ANDREW. ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue! SIR TOBY. Peace, I say. MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio. SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue! SIR ANDREW. Pistol him, pistol him. SIR TOBY. Peace, peace. MALVOLIO. There is example for’t. The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. SIR ANDREW. Fie on him, Jezebel! FABIAN. O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him. MALVOLIO. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state— SIR TOBY. O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye! MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping. SIR TOBY. Fire and brimstone! FABIAN. O, peace, peace. MALVOLIO. And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby. SIR TOBY. Bolts and shackles! FABIAN. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now. MALVOLIO. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me— SIR TOBY. Shall this fellow live? FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace! MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control— SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then? MALVOLIO. Saying ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech—’ SIR TOBY. What, what? MALVOLIO. ‘You must amend your drunkenness.’ SIR TOBY. Out, scab! FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. MALVOLIO. ‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight—’ SIR ANDREW. That’s me, I warrant you. MALVOLIO. ‘One Sir Andrew.’ SIR ANDREW. I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool. MALVOLIO. [_Taking up the letter._] What employment have we here? FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin. SIR TOBY. O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him! MALVOLIO. By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s, and thus makes she her great P’s. It is in contempt of question, her hand. SIR ANDREW. Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that? MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes._ Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be? FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all. MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _ Jove knows I love, But who? Lips, do not move, No man must know._ ‘No man must know.’ What follows? The numbers alter’d! ‘No man must know.’—If this should be thee, Malvolio? SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock! MALVOLIO. _ I may command where I adore, But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; M.O.A.I. doth sway my life._ FABIAN. A fustian riddle! SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I. MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’—Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see. FABIAN. What dish o’ poison has she dressed him! SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it! MALVOLIO. ‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. And the end—what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me! Softly! ‘M.O.A.I.’— SIR TOBY. O, ay, make up that:—he is now at a cold scent. FABIAN. Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox. MALVOLIO. ‘M’—Malvolio; ‘M!’ Why, that begins my name! FABIAN. Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults. MALVOLIO. ‘M’—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: ‘A’ should follow, but ‘O’ does. FABIAN. And ‘O’ shall end, I hope. SIR TOBY. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry ‘O!’ MALVOLIO. And then ‘I’ comes behind. FABIAN. Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you. MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I.’ This simulation is not as the former: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft, here follows prose. [_Reads._] _If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy fates open their hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so. If not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee, The Fortunate Unhappy._ Daylight and champian discovers not more! This is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered, and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here is yet a postscript. [_Reads._] _Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertain’st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee._ Jove, I thank thee. I will smile, I will do everything that thou wilt have me. [_Exit._] FABIAN. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy. SIR TOBY. I could marry this wench for this device. SIR ANDREW. So could I too. SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest. Enter Maria. SIR ANDREW. Nor I neither. FABIAN. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck? SIR ANDREW. Or o’ mine either? SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave? SIR ANDREW. I’ faith, or I either? SIR TOBY. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad. MARIA. Nay, but say true, does it work upon him? SIR TOBY. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife. MARIA. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me. SIR TOBY. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit! SIR ANDREW. I’ll make one too. [_Exeunt._] ACT III. SCENE I. Olivia’s garden. Enter Viola and Clown with a tabor. VIOLA. Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor? CLOWN. No, sir, I live by the church. VIOLA. Art thou a churchman? CLOWN. No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church. VIOLA. So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church. CLOWN. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a chev’ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward! VIOLA. Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton. CLOWN. I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir. VIOLA. Why, man? CLOWN. Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced them. VIOLA. Thy reason, man? CLOWN. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them. VIOLA. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and car’st for nothing. CLOWN. Not so, sir, I do care for something. But in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you. If that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible. VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool? CLOWN. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly. She will keep no fool, sir, till she be married, and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there. VIOLA. Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee. CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! VIOLA. By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within? CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir? VIOLA. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. VIOLA. I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged. CLOWN. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin. I might say “element”, but the word is overworn. [_Exit._] VIOLA. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well, craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man’s art: For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit; But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. SIR TOBY. Save you, gentleman. VIOLA. And you, sir. SIR ANDREW. _Dieu vous garde, monsieur._ VIOLA. _Et vous aussi; votre serviteur._ SIR ANDREW. I hope, sir, you are, and I am yours. SIR TOBY. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. VIOLA. I am bound to your niece, sir, I mean, she is the list of my voyage. SIR TOBY. Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion. VIOLA. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. SIR TOBY. I mean, to go, sir, to enter. VIOLA. I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented. Enter Olivia and Maria. Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! SIR ANDREW. That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours,’ well. VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. SIR ANDREW. ‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’—I’ll get ’em all three ready. OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. [_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Maria._] Give me your hand, sir. VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service. OLIVIA. What is your name? VIOLA. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess. OLIVIA. My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world, Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment: Y’are servant to the Count Orsino, youth. VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours. Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam. OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me! VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf. OLIVIA. O, by your leave, I pray you. I bade you never speak again of him. But would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that Than music from the spheres. VIOLA. Dear lady— OLIVIA. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you. So did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. Under your hard construction must I sit; To force that on you in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours. What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom, Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak. VIOLA. I pity you. OLIVIA. That’s a degree to love. VIOLA. No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof That very oft we pity enemies. OLIVIA. Why then methinks ’tis time to smile again. O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! If one should be a prey, how much the better To fall before the lion than the wolf! [_Clock strikes._] The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you. And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, Your wife is like to reap a proper man. There lies your way, due west. VIOLA. Then westward ho! Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship! You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? OLIVIA. Stay: I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me. VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are. OLIVIA. If I think so, I think the same of you. VIOLA. Then think you right; I am not what I am. OLIVIA. I would you were as I would have you be. VIOLA. Would it be better, madam, than I am? I wish it might, for now I am your fool. OLIVIA. O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night is noon. Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, I love thee so, that maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; But rather reason thus with reason fetter: Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. VIOLA. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has; nor never none Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so adieu, good madam; never more Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. OLIVIA. Yet come again: for thou perhaps mayst move That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian. SIR ANDREW. No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer. SIR TOBY. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason. FABIAN. You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew. SIR ANDREW. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count’s servingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ th’ orchard. SIR TOBY. Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that. SIR ANDREW. As plain as I see you now. FABIAN. This was a great argument of love in her toward you. SIR ANDREW. ’Slight! will you make an ass o’ me? FABIAN. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason. SIR TOBY. And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor. FABIAN. She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her, and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady’s opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy. SIR ANDREW. And’t be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician. SIR TOBY. Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the Count’s youth to fight with him. Hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it, and assure thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour. FABIAN. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. SIR ANDREW. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him? SIR TOBY. Go, write it in a martial hand, be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention. Taunt him with the licence of ink. If thou ‘thou’st’ him some thrice, it shall not be amiss, and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em down. Go about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it. SIR ANDREW. Where shall I find you? SIR TOBY. We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go. [_Exit Sir Andrew._] FABIAN. This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby. SIR TOBY. I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so. FABIAN. We shall have a rare letter from him; but you’ll not deliver it. SIR TOBY. Never trust me then. And by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of th’ anatomy. FABIAN. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty. Enter Maria. SIR TOBY. Look where the youngest wren of nine comes. MARIA. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian that means to be saved by believing rightly can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings. SIR TOBY. And cross-gartered? MARIA. Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i’ th’ church. I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such a thing as ’tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him. If she do, he’ll smile and take’t for a great favour. SIR TOBY. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A street. Enter Sebastian and Antonio. SEBASTIAN. I would not by my will have troubled you, But since you make your pleasure of your pains, I will no further chide you. ANTONIO. I could not stay behind you: my desire, More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; And not all love to see you, though so much, As might have drawn one to a longer voyage, But jealousy what might befall your travel, Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, Unguided and unfriended, often prove Rough and unhospitable. My willing love, The rather by these arguments of fear, Set forth in your pursuit. SEBASTIAN. My kind Antonio, I can no other answer make but thanks, And thanks, and ever thanks; and oft good turns Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay. But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm, You should find better dealing. What’s to do? Shall we go see the relics of this town? ANTONIO. Tomorrow, sir; best first go see your lodging. SEBASTIAN. I am not weary, and ’tis long to night; I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes With the memorials and the things of fame That do renown this city. ANTONIO. Would you’d pardon me. I do not without danger walk these streets. Once in a sea-fight, ’gainst the Count his galleys, I did some service, of such note indeed, That were I ta’en here, it would scarce be answer’d. SEBASTIAN. Belike you slew great number of his people. ANTONIO. Th’ offence is not of such a bloody nature, Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel Might well have given us bloody argument. It might have since been answered in repaying What we took from them, which for traffic’s sake, Most of our city did. Only myself stood out, For which, if I be lapsed in this place, I shall pay dear. SEBASTIAN. Do not then walk too open. ANTONIO. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here’s my purse. In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge With viewing of the town. There shall you have me. SEBASTIAN. Why I your purse? ANTONIO. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy You have desire to purchase; and your store, I think, is not for idle markets, sir. SEBASTIAN. I’ll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour. ANTONIO. To th’ Elephant. SEBASTIAN. I do remember. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Olivia’s garden. Enter Olivia and Maria. OLIVIA. I have sent after him. He says he’ll come; How shall I feast him? What bestow of him? For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or borrow’d. I speak too loud.— Where’s Malvolio?—He is sad and civil, And suits well for a servant with my fortunes; Where is Malvolio? MARIA. He’s coming, madam: But in very strange manner. He is sure possessed, madam. OLIVIA. Why, what’s the matter? Does he rave? MARIA. No, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come, for sure the man is tainted in ’s wits. OLIVIA. Go call him hither. I’m as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be. Enter Malvolio. How now, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. Sweet lady, ho, ho! OLIVIA. Smil’st thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. MALVOLIO. Sad, lady? I could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering. But what of that? If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: ‘Please one and please all.’ OLIVIA. Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee? MALVOLIO. Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think we do know the sweet Roman hand. OLIVIA. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I’ll come to thee. OLIVIA. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? MARIA. How do you, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. At your request? Yes, nightingales answer daws! MARIA. Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? MALVOLIO. ‘Be not afraid of greatness.’ ’Twas well writ. OLIVIA. What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. ‘Some are born great’— OLIVIA. Ha? MALVOLIO. ‘Some achieve greatness’— OLIVIA. What say’st thou? MALVOLIO. ‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’ OLIVIA. Heaven restore thee! MALVOLIO. ‘Remember who commended thy yellow stockings’— OLIVIA. Thy yellow stockings? MALVOLIO. ‘And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’ OLIVIA. Cross-gartered? MALVOLIO. ‘Go to: thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so:’— OLIVIA. Am I made? MALVOLIO. ‘If not, let me see thee a servant still.’ OLIVIA. Why, this is very midsummer madness. Enter Servant. SERVANT. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned; I could hardly entreat him back. He attends your ladyship’s pleasure. OLIVIA. I’ll come to him. [_Exit Servant._] Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt Olivia and Maria._] MALVOLIO. O ho, do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me. This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants, let thy tongue tang with arguments of state, put thyself into the trick of singularity,’ and consequently, sets down the manner how: as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her, but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away now, ‘Let this fellow be looked to;’ ‘Fellow!’ not ‘Malvolio’, nor after my degree, but ‘fellow’. Why, everything adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance. What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. Enter Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria. SIR TOBY. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him. FABIAN. Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? How is’t with you, man? MALVOLIO. Go off, I discard you. Let me enjoy my private. Go off. MARIA. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! Did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. MALVOLIO. Ah, ha! does she so? SIR TOBY. Go to, go to; peace, peace, we must deal gently with him. Let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? How is’t with you? What, man! defy the devil! Consider, he’s an enemy to mankind. MALVOLIO. Do you know what you say? MARIA. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God he be not bewitched. FABIAN. Carry his water to th’ wise woman. MARIA. Marry, and it shall be done tomorrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I’ll say. MALVOLIO. How now, mistress! MARIA. O Lord! SIR TOBY. Prithee hold thy peace, this is not the way. Do you not see you move him? Let me alone with him. FABIAN. No way but gentleness, gently, gently. The fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. SIR TOBY. Why, how now, my bawcock? How dost thou, chuck? MALVOLIO. Sir! SIR TOBY. Ay, biddy, come with me. What, man, ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier! MARIA. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray. MALVOLIO. My prayers, minx? MARIA. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness. MALVOLIO. Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things. I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Is’t possible? FABIAN. If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. SIR TOBY. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. MARIA. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint. FABIAN. Why, we shall make him mad indeed. MARIA. The house will be the quieter. SIR TOBY. Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s mad. We may carry it thus for our pleasure, and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him, at which time we will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see! Enter Sir Andrew. FABIAN. More matter for a May morning. SIR ANDREW. Here’s the challenge, read it. I warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in’t. FABIAN. Is’t so saucy? SIR ANDREW. Ay, is’t, I warrant him. Do but read. SIR TOBY. Give me. [_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ FABIAN. Good, and valiant. SIR TOBY. _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for’t._ FABIAN. A good note, that keeps you from the blow of the law. SIR TOBY. _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for._ FABIAN. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense—less. SIR TOBY. _I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me—_ FABIAN. Good. SIR TOBY. _Thou kill’st me like a rogue and a villain._ FABIAN. Still you keep o’ th’ windy side of the law. Good. SIR TOBY. _Fare thee well, and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, Andrew Aguecheek._ If this letter move him not, his legs cannot. I’ll give’t him. MARIA. You may have very fit occasion for’t. He is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. SIR TOBY. Go, Sir Andrew. Scout me for him at the corner of the orchard, like a bum-baily. So soon as ever thou seest him, draw, and as thou draw’st, swear horrible, for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away. SIR ANDREW. Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Now will not I deliver his letter, for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less. Therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth. He will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth, set upon Aguecheek notable report of valour, and drive the gentleman (as I know his youth will aptly receive it) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. Enter Olivia and Viola. FABIAN. Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take leave, and presently after him. SIR TOBY. I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria._] OLIVIA. I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honour too unchary on’t: There’s something in me that reproves my fault: But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof. VIOLA. With the same ’haviour that your passion bears Goes on my master’s griefs. OLIVIA. Here, wear this jewel for me, ’tis my picture. Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you. And I beseech you come again tomorrow. What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny, That honour sav’d, may upon asking give? VIOLA. Nothing but this, your true love for my master. OLIVIA. How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you? VIOLA. I will acquit you. OLIVIA. Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well; A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. [_Exit._] Enter Sir Toby and Fabian. SIR TOBY. Gentleman, God save thee. VIOLA. And you, sir. SIR TOBY. That defence thou hast, betake thee to’t. Of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not, but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end. Dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. VIOLA. You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me. My remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. SIR TOBY. You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you. Therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard, for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. VIOLA. I pray you, sir, what is he? SIR TOBY. He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier, and on carpet consideration, but he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and his incensement at this moment is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob is his word; give’t or take’t. VIOLA. I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk. SIR TOBY. Sir, no. His indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury; therefore, get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him. Therefore on, or strip your sword stark naked, for meddle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you. VIOLA. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is. It is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. SIR TOBY. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_Exit Sir Toby._] VIOLA. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? FABIAN. I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement, but nothing of the circumstance more. VIOLA. I beseech you, what manner of man is he? FABIAN. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can. VIOLA. I shall be much bound to you for’t. I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_Exeunt._] Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. SIR TOBY. Why, man, he’s a very devil. I have not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the stuck-in with such a mortal motion that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hits the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy. SIR ANDREW. Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him. SIR TOBY. Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. SIR ANDREW. Plague on’t, an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I’d have seen him damned ere I’d have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, grey Capilet. SIR TOBY. I’ll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on’t. This shall end without the perdition of souls. [_Aside._] Marry, I’ll ride your horse as well as I ride you. Enter Fabian and Viola. [_To Fabian._] I have his horse to take up the quarrel. I have persuaded him the youth’s a devil. FABIAN. He is as horribly conceited of him, and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels. SIR TOBY. There’s no remedy, sir, he will fight with you for’s oath sake. Marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of. Therefore, draw for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you. VIOLA. [_Aside._] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. FABIAN. Give ground if you see him furious. SIR TOBY. Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy, the gentleman will for his honour’s sake have one bout with you. He cannot by the duello avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on: to’t. SIR ANDREW. [_Draws._] Pray God he keep his oath! Enter Antonio. VIOLA. [_Draws._] I do assure you ’tis against my will. ANTONIO. Put up your sword. If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me. If you offend him, I for him defy you. SIR TOBY. You, sir? Why, what are you? ANTONIO. [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will. SIR TOBY. [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. Enter Officers. FABIAN. O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers. SIR TOBY. [_To Antonio._] I’ll be with you anon. VIOLA. [_To Sir Andrew._] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please. SIR ANDREW. Marry, will I, sir; and for that I promised you, I’ll be as good as my word. He will bear you easily, and reins well. FIRST OFFICER. This is the man; do thy office. SECOND OFFICER. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit Of Count Orsino. ANTONIO. You do mistake me, sir. FIRST OFFICER. No, sir, no jot. I know your favour well, Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.— Take him away, he knows I know him well. ANTONIO. I must obey. This comes with seeking you; But there’s no remedy, I shall answer it. What will you do? Now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me Much more for what I cannot do for you, Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz’d, But be of comfort. SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, away. ANTONIO. I must entreat of you some of that money. VIOLA. What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have show’d me here, And part being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something. My having is not much; I’ll make division of my present with you. Hold, there’s half my coffer. ANTONIO. Will you deny me now? Is’t possible that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery, Lest that it make me so unsound a man As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you. VIOLA. I know of none, Nor know I you by voice or any feature. I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood. ANTONIO. O heavens themselves! SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, I pray you go. ANTONIO. Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death, Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love; And to his image, which methought did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion. FIRST OFFICER. What’s that to us? The time goes by. Away! ANTONIO. But O how vile an idol proves this god! Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. In nature there’s no blemish but the mind; None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind. Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil Are empty trunks, o’erflourished by the devil. FIRST OFFICER. The man grows mad, away with him. Come, come, sir. ANTONIO. Lead me on. [_Exeunt Officers with Antonio._] VIOLA. Methinks his words do from such passion fly That he believes himself; so do not I. Prove true, imagination, O prove true, That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you! SIR TOBY. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. We’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws. VIOLA. He nam’d Sebastian. I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such and so In favour was my brother, and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, For him I imitate. O if it prove, Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. FABIAN. A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. SIR ANDREW. ’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him. SIR TOBY. Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword. SIR ANDREW. And I do not— [_Exit._] FABIAN. Come, let’s see the event. SIR TOBY. I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV. SCENE I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Enter Sebastian and Clown. CLOWN. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you? SEBASTIAN. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow. Let me be clear of thee. CLOWN. Well held out, i’ faith! No, I do not know you, nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so, is so. SEBASTIAN. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else, Thou know’st not me. CLOWN. Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming? SEBASTIAN. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me. There’s money for thee; if you tarry longer I shall give worse payment. CLOWN. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report—after fourteen years’ purchase. Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby and Fabian. SIR ANDREW. Now sir, have I met you again? There’s for you. [_Striking Sebastian._] SEBASTIAN. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad? [_Beating Sir Andrew._] SIR TOBY. Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house. CLOWN. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for twopence. [_Exit Clown._] SIR TOBY. Come on, sir, hold! SIR ANDREW. Nay, let him alone, I’ll go another way to work with him. I’ll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that. SEBASTIAN. Let go thy hand! SIR TOBY. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed. Come on. SEBASTIAN. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword. [_Draws._] SIR TOBY. What, what? Nay, then, I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_Draws._] Enter Olivia. OLIVIA. Hold, Toby! On thy life I charge thee hold! SIR TOBY. Madam. OLIVIA. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne’er were preach’d! Out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario. Rudesby, be gone! [_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian._] I prithee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go. Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, He started one poor heart of mine, in thee. SEBASTIAN. What relish is in this? How runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! OLIVIA. Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou’dst be ruled by me! SEBASTIAN. Madam, I will. OLIVIA. O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Maria and Clown. MARIA. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate. Do it quickly. I’ll call Sir Toby the whilst. [_Exit Maria._] CLOWN. Well, I’ll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in’t, and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student, but to be said, an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter. Enter Sir Toby and Maria. SIR TOBY. Jove bless thee, Master Parson. CLOWN. _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘That that is, is’: so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for what is ‘that’ but ‘that’? and ‘is’ but ‘is’? SIR TOBY. To him, Sir Topas. CLOWN. What ho, I say! Peace in this prison! SIR TOBY. The knave counterfeits well. A good knave. Malvolio within. MALVOLIO. Who calls there? CLOWN. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. CLOWN. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? Talkest thou nothing but of ladies? SIR TOBY. Well said, Master Parson. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad. They have laid me here in hideous darkness. CLOWN. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms, for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Say’st thou that house is dark? MALVOLIO. As hell, Sir Topas. CLOWN. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction? MALVOLIO. I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this house is dark. CLOWN. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. MALVOLIO. I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are. Make the trial of it in any constant question. CLOWN. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wildfowl? MALVOLIO. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. CLOWN. What think’st thou of his opinion? MALVOLIO. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. CLOWN. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness. Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas! SIR TOBY. My most exquisite Sir Topas! CLOWN. Nay, I am for all waters. MARIA. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown. He sees thee not. SIR TOBY. To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou find’st him. I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber. [_Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria._] CLOWN. [_Singing._] _Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does._ MALVOLIO. Fool! CLOWN. _My lady is unkind, perdy._ MALVOLIO. Fool! CLOWN. _Alas, why is she so?_ MALVOLIO. Fool, I say! CLOWN. _She loves another_— Who calls, ha? MALVOLIO. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper. As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for’t. CLOWN. Master Malvolio? MALVOLIO. Ay, good fool. CLOWN. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? MALVOLIO. Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. CLOWN. But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. MALVOLIO. They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits. CLOWN. Advise you what you say: the minister is here. [_As Sir Topas_] Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore. Endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas! CLOWN. [_As Sir Topas_] Maintain no words with him, good fellow. [_As himself_] Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God buy you, good Sir Topas. [_As Sir Topas_] Marry, amen. [_As himself_] I will sir, I will. MALVOLIO. Fool, fool, fool, I say! CLOWN. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you. MALVOLIO. Good fool, help me to some light and some paper. I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria. CLOWN. Well-a-day that you were, sir! MALVOLIO. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady. It shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. CLOWN. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit? MALVOLIO. Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true. CLOWN. Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. MALVOLIO. Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee be gone. CLOWN. [_Singing._] _I am gone, sir, and anon, sir, I’ll be with you again, In a trice, like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain; Who with dagger of lath, in his rage and his wrath, Cries ‘ah, ha!’ to the devil: Like a mad lad, ‘Pare thy nails, dad. Adieu, goodman devil.’_ [_Exit._] SCENE III. Olivia’s Garden. Enter Sebastian. SEBASTIAN. This is the air; that is the glorious sun, This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t, And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then? I could not find him at the Elephant, Yet there he was, and there I found this credit, That he did range the town to seek me out. His counsel now might do me golden service. For though my soul disputes well with my sense That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad, Or else the lady’s mad; yet if ’twere so, She could not sway her house, command her followers, Take and give back affairs and their dispatch, With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing As I perceive she does. There’s something in’t That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. Enter Olivia and a Priest. OLIVIA. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there, before him And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith, That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. He shall conceal it Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth. What do you say? SEBASTIAN. I’ll follow this good man, and go with you, And having sworn truth, ever will be true. OLIVIA. Then lead the way, good father, and heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine! [_Exeunt._] ACT V. SCENE I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Enter Clown and Fabian. FABIAN. Now, as thou lov’st me, let me see his letter. CLOWN. Good Master Fabian, grant me another request. FABIAN. Anything. CLOWN. Do not desire to see this letter. FABIAN. This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and Lords. DUKE. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends? CLOWN. Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings. DUKE. I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow? CLOWN. Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends. DUKE. Just the contrary; the better for thy friends. CLOWN. No, sir, the worse. DUKE. How can that be? CLOWN. Marry, sir, they praise me, and make an ass of me. Now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused. So that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes. DUKE. Why, this is excellent. CLOWN. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends. DUKE. Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there’s gold. CLOWN. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another. DUKE. O, you give me ill counsel. CLOWN. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. DUKE. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there’s another. CLOWN. _Primo, secundo, tertio_, is a good play, and the old saying is, the third pays for all; the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind—one, two, three. DUKE. You can fool no more money out of me at this throw. If you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further. CLOWN. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir, but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness: but as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon. [_Exit Clown._] Enter Antonio and Officers. VIOLA. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. DUKE. That face of his I do remember well. Yet when I saw it last it was besmear’d As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war. A baubling vessel was he captain of, For shallow draught and bulk unprizable, With which such scathful grapple did he make With the most noble bottom of our fleet, That very envy and the tongue of loss Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter? FIRST OFFICER. Orsino, this is that Antonio That took the _Phoenix_ and her fraught from Candy, And this is he that did the _Tiger_ board When your young nephew Titus lost his leg. Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, In private brabble did we apprehend him. VIOLA. He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side, But in conclusion, put strange speech upon me. I know not what ’twas, but distraction. DUKE. Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief, What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear, Hast made thine enemies? ANTONIO. Orsino, noble sir, Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me: Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, Though, I confess, on base and ground enough, Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither: That most ingrateful boy there by your side From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was. His life I gave him, and did thereto add My love, without retention or restraint, All his in dedication. For his sake Did I expose myself, pure for his love, Into the danger of this adverse town; Drew to defend him when he was beset; Where being apprehended, his false cunning (Not meaning to partake with me in danger) Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, And grew a twenty years’ removed thing While one would wink; denied me mine own purse, Which I had recommended to his use Not half an hour before. VIOLA. How can this be? DUKE. When came he to this town? ANTONIO. Today, my lord; and for three months before, No int’rim, not a minute’s vacancy, Both day and night did we keep company. Enter Olivia and Attendants. DUKE. Here comes the Countess, now heaven walks on earth. But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months this youth hath tended upon me; But more of that anon. Take him aside. OLIVIA. What would my lord, but that he may not have, Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable? Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. VIOLA. Madam? DUKE. Gracious Olivia— OLIVIA. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord— VIOLA. My lord would speak, my duty hushes me. OLIVIA. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear As howling after music. DUKE. Still so cruel? OLIVIA. Still so constant, lord. DUKE. What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady, To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars My soul the faithfull’st off’rings hath breathed out That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do? OLIVIA. Even what it please my lord that shall become him. DUKE. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it, Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, Kill what I love?—a savage jealousy That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this: Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, And that I partly know the instrument That screws me from my true place in your favour, Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still. But this your minion, whom I know you love, And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, Him will I tear out of that cruel eye Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.— Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief: I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. VIOLA. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly, To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. OLIVIA. Where goes Cesario? VIOLA. After him I love More than I love these eyes, more than my life, More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife. If I do feign, you witnesses above Punish my life for tainting of my love. OLIVIA. Ah me, detested! how am I beguil’d! VIOLA. Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong? OLIVIA. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long? Call forth the holy father. [_Exit an Attendant._] DUKE. [_To Viola._] Come, away! OLIVIA. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay. DUKE. Husband? OLIVIA. Ay, husband. Can he that deny? DUKE. Her husband, sirrah? VIOLA. No, my lord, not I. OLIVIA. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear That makes thee strangle thy propriety. Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art As great as that thou fear’st. Enter Priest. O, welcome, father! Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence Here to unfold—though lately we intended To keep in darkness what occasion now Reveals before ’tis ripe—what thou dost know Hath newly passed between this youth and me. PRIEST. A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands, Attested by the holy close of lips, Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact Sealed in my function, by my testimony; Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave, I have travelled but two hours. DUKE. O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case? Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow? Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. VIOLA. My lord, I do protest— OLIVIA. O, do not swear. Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear. Enter Sir Andrew. SIR ANDREW. For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby. OLIVIA. What’s the matter? SIR ANDREW. ’Has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home. OLIVIA. Who has done this, Sir Andrew? SIR ANDREW. The Count’s gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate. DUKE. My gentleman, Cesario? SIR ANDREW. ’Od’s lifelings, here he is!—You broke my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do’t by Sir Toby. VIOLA. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you: You drew your sword upon me without cause, But I bespake you fair and hurt you not. Enter Sir Toby, drunk, led by the Clown. SIR ANDREW. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me. I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting, you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled you othergates than he did. DUKE. How now, gentleman? How is’t with you? SIR TOBY. That’s all one; ’has hurt me, and there’s th’ end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot? CLOWN. O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i’ th’ morning. SIR TOBY. Then he’s a rogue, and a passy measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue. OLIVIA. Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them? SIR ANDREW. I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be dressed together. SIR TOBY. Will you help? An ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull? OLIVIA. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to. [_Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew._] Enter Sebastian. SEBASTIAN. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman; But had it been the brother of my blood, I must have done no less with wit and safety. You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that I do perceive it hath offended you. Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows We made each other but so late ago. DUKE. One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons! A natural perspective, that is, and is not! SEBASTIAN. Antonio, O my dear Antonio! How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me Since I have lost thee. ANTONIO. Sebastian are you? SEBASTIAN. Fear’st thou that, Antonio? ANTONIO. How have you made division of yourself? An apple cleft in two is not more twin Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian? OLIVIA. Most wonderful! SEBASTIAN. Do I stand there? I never had a brother: Nor can there be that deity in my nature Of here and everywhere. I had a sister, Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured. Of charity, what kin are you to me? What countryman? What name? What parentage? VIOLA. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father; Such a Sebastian was my brother too: So went he suited to his watery tomb. If spirits can assume both form and suit, You come to fright us. SEBASTIAN. A spirit I am indeed, But am in that dimension grossly clad, Which from the womb I did participate. Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, And say, ‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola.’ VIOLA. My father had a mole upon his brow. SEBASTIAN. And so had mine. VIOLA. And died that day when Viola from her birth Had numbered thirteen years. SEBASTIAN. O, that record is lively in my soul! He finished indeed his mortal act That day that made my sister thirteen years. VIOLA. If nothing lets to make us happy both But this my masculine usurp’d attire, Do not embrace me till each circumstance Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump That I am Viola; which to confirm, I’ll bring you to a captain in this town, Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help I was preserv’d to serve this noble count. All the occurrence of my fortune since Hath been between this lady and this lord. SEBASTIAN. [_To Olivia._] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook. But nature to her bias drew in that. You would have been contracted to a maid; Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived: You are betroth’d both to a maid and man. DUKE. Be not amazed; right noble is his blood. If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, I shall have share in this most happy wreck. [_To Viola._] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. VIOLA. And all those sayings will I over-swear, And all those swearings keep as true in soul As doth that orbed continent the fire That severs day from night. DUKE. Give me thy hand, And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds. VIOLA. The captain that did bring me first on shore Hath my maid’s garments. He, upon some action, Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s suit, A gentleman and follower of my lady’s. OLIVIA. He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither. And yet, alas, now I remember me, They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract. Enter Clown, with a letter and Fabian. A most extracting frenzy of mine own From my remembrance clearly banished his. How does he, sirrah? CLOWN. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave’s end as well as a man in his case may do. Has here writ a letter to you. I should have given it you today morning, but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered. OLIVIA. Open ’t, and read it. CLOWN. Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman. _By the Lord, madam,—_ OLIVIA. How now, art thou mad? CLOWN. No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow _vox_. OLIVIA. Prithee, read i’ thy right wits. CLOWN. So I do, madonna. But to read his right wits is to read thus; therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear. OLIVIA. [_To Fabian._] Read it you, sirrah. FABIAN. [_Reads._] _By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it. Though you have put me into darkness and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury. The madly-used Malvolio._ OLIVIA. Did he write this? CLOWN. Ay, madam. DUKE. This savours not much of distraction. OLIVIA. See him delivered, Fabian, bring him hither. [_Exit Fabian._] My lord, so please you, these things further thought on, To think me as well a sister, as a wife, One day shall crown th’ alliance on’t, so please you, Here at my house, and at my proper cost. DUKE. Madam, I am most apt t’ embrace your offer. [_To Viola._] Your master quits you; and for your service done him, So much against the mettle of your sex, So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, And since you call’d me master for so long, Here is my hand; you shall from this time be Your master’s mistress. OLIVIA. A sister? You are she. Enter Fabian and Malvolio. DUKE. Is this the madman? OLIVIA. Ay, my lord, this same. How now, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. Madam, you have done me wrong, Notorious wrong. OLIVIA. Have I, Malvolio? No. MALVOLIO. Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter. You must not now deny it is your hand, Write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase, Or say ’tis not your seal, not your invention: You can say none of this. Well, grant it then, And tell me, in the modesty of honour, Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you, To put on yellow stockings, and to frown Upon Sir Toby, and the lighter people; And acting this in an obedient hope, Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d, Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, And made the most notorious geck and gull That e’er invention played on? Tell me why? OLIVIA. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, Though I confess, much like the character: But out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand. And now I do bethink me, it was she First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling, And in such forms which here were presuppos’d Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content. This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee. But when we know the grounds and authors of it, Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge Of thine own cause. FABIAN. Good madam, hear me speak, And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come, Taint the condition of this present hour, Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not, Most freely I confess, myself and Toby Set this device against Malvolio here, Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ The letter, at Sir Toby’s great importance, In recompense whereof he hath married her. How with a sportful malice it was follow’d May rather pluck on laughter than revenge, If that the injuries be justly weigh’d That have on both sides passed. OLIVIA. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee! CLOWN. Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude, one Sir Topas, sir, but that’s all one. ‘By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.’ But do you remember? ‘Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? And you smile not, he’s gagged’? And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. MALVOLIO. I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. He hath been most notoriously abus’d. DUKE. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace: He hath not told us of the captain yet. When that is known, and golden time convents, A solemn combination shall be made Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister, We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come: For so you shall be while you are a man; But when in other habits you are seen, Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen. [_Exeunt._] Clown sings. _ When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ But when I came to man’s estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, ’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that’s all one, our play is done, And we’ll strive to please you every day._ [_Exit._] THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA Contents ACT I Scene I. Verona. An open place Scene II. The same. The garden of Julia’s house Scene III. The same. A room in Antonio’s house ACT II Scene I. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Scene II. Verona. A room in Julia’s house Scene III. The same. A street Scene IV. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Scene V. The same. A street Scene VI. The same. The Duke’s palace Scene VII. Verona. A room in Julia’s house ACT III Scene I. Milan. An anteroom in the Duke’s palace Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace ACT IV Scene I. A forest between Milan and Verona Scene II. Milan. The court of the Duke’s palace Scene III. The same Scene IV. The same ACT V Scene I. Milan. An abbey Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace Scene III. Frontiers of Mantua. The forest Scene IV. Another part of the forest Dramatis Personæ DUKE OF MILAN, father to Silvia VALENTINE, one of the two gentlemen PROTEUS, one of the two gentlemen ANTONIO, father to Proteus THURIO, a foolish rival to Valentine EGLAMOUR, agent for Silvia in her escape SPEED, a clownish servant to Valentine LANCE, the like to Proteus PANTINO, servant to Antonio HOST, where Julia lodges in Milan OUTLAWS, with Valentine JULIA, a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus SILVIA, beloved of Valentine LUCETTA, waiting-woman to Julia Servants, Musicians SCENE: Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua ACT I SCENE I. Verona. An open place Enter Valentine and Proteus. VALENTINE. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus. Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. Were’t not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honoured love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. But since thou lov’st, love still, and thrive therein, Even as I would when I to love begin. PROTEUS. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu. Think on thy Proteus when thou haply seest Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel. Wish me partaker in thy happiness When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, For I will be thy headsman, Valentine. VALENTINE. And on a love-book pray for my success? PROTEUS. Upon some book I love I’ll pray for thee. VALENTINE. That’s on some shallow story of deep love, How young Leander crossed the Hellespont. PROTEUS. That’s a deep story of a deeper love, For he was more than over shoes in love. VALENTINE. ’Tis true; for you are over boots in love, And yet you never swam the Hellespont. PROTEUS. Over the boots? Nay, give me not the boots. VALENTINE. No, I will not, for it boots thee not. PROTEUS. What? VALENTINE. To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment’s mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights. If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; If lost, why then a grievous labour won; However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished. PROTEUS. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. VALENTINE. So, by your circumstance, I fear you’ll prove. PROTEUS. ’Tis love you cavil at. I am not Love. VALENTINE. Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. PROTEUS. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. VALENTINE. And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turned to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes. But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee That art a votary to fond desire? Once more adieu. My father at the road Expects my coming, there to see me shipped. PROTEUS. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. VALENTINE. Sweet Proteus, no. Now let us take our leave. To Milan let me hear from thee by letters Of thy success in love, and what news else Betideth here in absence of thy friend; And I likewise will visit thee with mine. PROTEUS. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan. VALENTINE. As much to you at home, and so farewell. [_Exit._] PROTEUS. He after honour hunts, I after love. He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, War with good counsel, set the world at nought; Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. Enter Speed. SPEED. Sir Proteus, ’save you. Saw you my master? PROTEUS. But now he parted hence to embark for Milan. SPEED. Twenty to one, then, he is shipped already, And I have played the sheep in losing him. PROTEUS. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be a while away. SPEED. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and I a sheep? PROTEUS. I do. SPEED. Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep. PROTEUS. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. SPEED. This proves me still a sheep. PROTEUS. True, and thy master a shepherd. SPEED. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. PROTEUS. It shall go hard but I’ll prove it by another. SPEED. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me. Therefore I am no sheep. PROTEUS. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep. Thou for wages followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore thou art a sheep. SPEED. Such another proof will make me cry “baa”. PROTEUS. But dost thou hear? Gav’st thou my letter to Julia? SPEED. Ay, sir. I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. PROTEUS. Here’s too small a pasture for such store of muttons. SPEED. If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her. PROTEUS. Nay, in that you are astray; ’twere best pound you. SPEED. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter. PROTEUS. You mistake; I mean the pound, a pinfold. SPEED. From a pound to a pin? Fold it over and over, ’Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. PROTEUS. But what said she? SPEED. [_Nods his head_.] Ay. PROTEUS. Nod—“Ay”. Why, that’s “noddy”. SPEED. You mistook, sir. I say she did nod, and you ask me if she did nod; and I say “Ay”. PROTEUS. And that set together is “noddy”. SPEED. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains. PROTEUS. No, no, you shall have it for bearing the letter. SPEED. Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you. PROTEUS. Why, sir, how do you bear with me? SPEED. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly, having nothing but the word “noddy” for my pains. PROTEUS. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. SPEED. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. PROTEUS. Come, come, open the matter; in brief, what said she? SPEED. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered. PROTEUS. [_Giving him a coin_.] Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she? SPEED. Truly, sir, I think you’ll hardly win her. PROTEUS. Why? Couldst thou perceive so much from her? SPEED. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter. And being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she’ll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones, for she’s as hard as steel. PROTEUS. What said she, nothing? SPEED. No, not so much as “Take this for thy pains.” To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself. And so, sir, I’ll commend you to my master. PROTEUS. Go, go, begone, to save your ship from wrack, Which cannot perish having thee aboard, Being destined to a drier death on shore. [_Exit Speed._] I must go send some better messenger. I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, Receiving them from such a worthless post. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. The garden of Julia’s house Enter Julia and Lucetta. JULIA. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love? LUCETTA. Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully. JULIA. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love? LUCETTA. Please you, repeat their names, I’ll show my mind According to my shallow simple skill. JULIA. What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour? LUCETTA. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine; But, were I you, he never should be mine. JULIA. What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio? LUCETTA. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so-so. JULIA. What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus? LUCETTA. Lord, Lord, to see what folly reigns in us! JULIA. How now? What means this passion at his name? LUCETTA. Pardon, dear madam, ’tis a passing shame That I, unworthy body as I am, Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. JULIA. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? LUCETTA. Then thus: of many good I think him best. JULIA. Your reason? LUCETTA. I have no other but a woman’s reason: I think him so because I think him so. JULIA. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him? LUCETTA. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. JULIA. Why, he of all the rest hath never moved me. LUCETTA. Yet he of all the rest I think best loves ye. JULIA. His little speaking shows his love but small. LUCETTA. Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all. JULIA. They do not love that do not show their love. LUCETTA. O, they love least that let men know their love. JULIA. I would I knew his mind. LUCETTA. Peruse this paper, madam. [_Gives her a letter._] JULIA. _To Julia_—Say, from whom? LUCETTA. That the contents will show. JULIA. Say, say, who gave it thee? LUCETTA. Sir Valentine’s page, and sent, I think, from Proteus. He would have given it you, but I, being in the way, Did in your name receive it. Pardon the fault, I pray. JULIA. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? To whisper and conspire against my youth? Now trust me, ’tis an office of great worth, And you an officer fit for the place. There, take the paper; see it be returned, Or else return no more into my sight. LUCETTA. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. JULIA. Will ye be gone? LUCETTA. That you may ruminate. [_Exit._] JULIA. And yet I would I had o’erlooked the letter. It were a shame to call her back again And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. What fool is she, that knows I am a maid And would not force the letter to my view, Since maids in modesty say “No” to that Which they would have the profferer construe “Ay”. Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly I taught my brow to frown, When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! My penance is to call Lucetta back And ask remission for my folly past. What ho! Lucetta! Enter Lucetta. LUCETTA. What would your ladyship? JULIA. Is ’t near dinner time? LUCETTA. I would it were, That you might kill your stomach on your meat And not upon your maid. [_Drops and picks up the letter._] JULIA. What is’t that you took up so gingerly? LUCETTA. Nothing. JULIA. Why didst thou stoop, then? LUCETTA. To take a paper up that I let fall. JULIA. And is that paper nothing? LUCETTA. Nothing concerning me. JULIA. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. LUCETTA. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter. JULIA. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. LUCETTA. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. Give me a note. Your ladyship can set— JULIA. As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tune of “Light o’ Love”. LUCETTA. It is too heavy for so light a tune. JULIA. Heavy? Belike it hath some burden then? LUCETTA. Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it. JULIA. And why not you? LUCETTA. I cannot reach so high. JULIA. Let’s see your song. [_Taking the letter_.] How now, minion! LUCETTA. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out. And yet methinks I do not like this tune. JULIA. You do not? LUCETTA. No, madam, it is too sharp. JULIA. You, minion, are too saucy. LUCETTA. Nay, now you are too flat And mar the concord with too harsh a descant. There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. JULIA. The mean is drowned with your unruly bass. LUCETTA. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. JULIA. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! [_Tears the letter_.] Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie. You would be fingering them to anger me. LUCETTA. She makes it strange, but she would be best pleased To be so angered with another letter. [_Exit._] JULIA. Nay, would I were so angered with the same! O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey And kill the bees that yield it with your stings! I’ll kiss each several paper for amends. Look, here is writ _kind Julia_. Unkind Julia! As in revenge of thy ingratitude, I throw thy name against the bruising stones, Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. And here is writ _love-wounded Proteus_. Poor wounded name, my bosom as a bed Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly healed; And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. But twice or thrice was _Proteus_ written down. Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away Till I have found each letter in the letter Except mine own name. That some whirlwind bear Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock, And throw it thence into the raging sea. Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ: _Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, To the sweet Julia._ That I’ll tear away; And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to his complaining names. Thus will I fold them one upon another. Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. Enter Lucetta. LUCETTA. Madam, dinner is ready, and your father stays. JULIA. Well, let us go. LUCETTA. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? JULIA. If you respect them, best to take them up. LUCETTA. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down. Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. [_Picks up pieces of the letter._] JULIA. I see you have a month’s mind to them. LUCETTA. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; I see things too, although you judge I wink. JULIA. Come, come, will’t please you go? [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A room in Antonio’s house Enter Antonio and Pantino. ANTONIO. Tell me, Pantino, what sad talk was that Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? PANTINO. ’Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. ANTONIO. Why, what of him? PANTINO. He wondered that your lordship Would suffer him to spend his youth at home While other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some to the wars to try their fortune there; Some to discover islands far away; Some to the studious universities. For any or for all these exercises He said that Proteus your son was meet, And did request me to importune you To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age In having known no travel in his youth. ANTONIO. Nor need’st thou much importune me to that Whereon this month I have been hammering. I have considered well his loss of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, Not being tried and tutored in the world. Experience is by industry achieved And perfected by the swift course of time. Then tell me whither were I best to send him? PANTINO. I think your lordship is not ignorant How his companion, youthful Valentine, Attends the Emperor in his royal court. ANTONIO. I know it well. PANTINO. ’Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither. There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, And be in eye of every exercise Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. ANTONIO. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised, And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it, The execution of it shall make known. Even with the speediest expedition I will dispatch him to the Emperor’s court. PANTINO. Tomorrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso With other gentlemen of good esteem Are journeying to salute the Emperor And to commend their service to his will. ANTONIO. Good company. With them shall Proteus go. Enter Proteus reading a letter. And in good time! Now will we break with him. PROTEUS. Sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn. O, that our fathers would applaud our loves To seal our happiness with their consents. O heavenly Julia! ANTONIO. How now? What letter are you reading there? PROTEUS. May’t please your lordship, ’tis a word or two Of commendations sent from Valentine, Delivered by a friend that came from him. ANTONIO. Lend me the letter. Let me see what news. PROTEUS. There is no news, my lord, but that he writes How happily he lives, how well beloved And daily graced by the Emperor, Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. ANTONIO. And how stand you affected to his wish? PROTEUS. As one relying on your lordship’s will, And not depending on his friendly wish. ANTONIO. My will is something sorted with his wish. Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed, For what I will, I will, and there an end. I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time With Valentinus in the Emperor’s court. What maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. Tomorrow be in readiness to go. Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. PROTEUS. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided; Please you deliberate a day or two. ANTONIO. Look what thou want’st shall be sent after thee. No more of stay. Tomorrow thou must go. Come on, Pantino, you shall be employed To hasten on his expedition. [_Exeunt Antonio and Pantino._] PROTEUS. Thus have I shunned the fire for fear of burning And drenched me in the sea, where I am drowned. I feared to show my father Julia’s letter Lest he should take exceptions to my love, And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by an by a cloud takes all away. Enter Pantino. PANTINO. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you. He is in haste. Therefore, I pray you, go. PROTEUS. Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto, And yet a thousand times it answers “No”. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Valentine and Speed. SPEED. Sir, your glove. VALENTINE. Not mine. My gloves are on. SPEED. Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one. VALENTINE. Ha? Let me see. Ay, give it me, it’s mine. Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia! SPEED. [_Calling_.] Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia! VALENTINE. How now, sirrah? SPEED. She is not within hearing, sir. VALENTINE. Why, sir, who bade you call her? SPEED. Your worship, sir, or else I mistook. VALENTINE. Well, you’ll still be too forward. SPEED. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. VALENTINE. Go to, sir. Tell me, do you know Madam Silvia? SPEED. She that your worship loves? VALENTINE. Why, how know you that I am in love? SPEED. Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a schoolboy that had lost his ABC; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money. And now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. VALENTINE. Are all these things perceived in me? SPEED. They are all perceived without ye. VALENTINE. Without me? They cannot. SPEED. Without you? Nay, that’s certain, for without you were so simple, none else would. But you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. VALENTINE. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? SPEED. She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper? VALENTINE. Hast thou observed that? Even she I mean. SPEED. Why, sir, I know her not. VALENTINE. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet know’st her not? SPEED. Is she not hard-favoured, sir? VALENTINE. Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. SPEED. Sir, I know that well enough. VALENTINE. What dost thou know? SPEED. That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favoured. VALENTINE. I mean that her beauty is exquisite but her favour infinite. SPEED. That’s because the one is painted, and the other out of all count. VALENTINE. How painted? And how out of count? SPEED. Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty. VALENTINE. How esteem’st thou me? I account of her beauty. SPEED. You never saw her since she was deformed. VALENTINE. How long hath she been deformed? SPEED. Ever since you loved her. VALENTINE. I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful. SPEED. If you love her, you cannot see her. VALENTINE. Why? SPEED. Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes, or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered! VALENTINE. What should I see then? SPEED. Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. VALENTINE. Belike, boy, then you are in love, for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. SPEED. True, sir, I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. VALENTINE. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. SPEED. I would you were set, so your affection would cease. VALENTINE. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves. SPEED. And have you? VALENTINE. I have. SPEED. Are they not lamely writ? VALENTINE. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace, here she comes. Enter Silvia. SPEED. [_Aside_.] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! Now will he interpret to her. VALENTINE. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows. SPEED. [_Aside_.] O, give ye good e’en! Here’s a million of manners. SILVIA. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. SPEED. [_Aside_.] He should give her interest, and she gives it him. VALENTINE. As you enjoined me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours, Which I was much unwilling to proceed in But for my duty to your ladyship. [_Gives her a letter._] SILVIA. I thank you, gentle servant, ’tis very clerkly done. VALENTINE. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off, For, being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at random, very doubtfully. SILVIA. Perchance you think too much of so much pains? VALENTINE. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much. And yet— SILVIA. A pretty period. Well, I guess the sequel; And yet I will not name it. And yet I care not. And yet take this again. [_Offers him the letter._] And yet I thank you, Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. SPEED. [_Aside_.] And yet you will; and yet another “yet”. VALENTINE. What means your ladyship? Do you not like it? SILVIA. Yes, yes, the lines are very quaintly writ, But, since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. [_Offers the letter again._] VALENTINE. Madam, they are for you. SILVIA. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request, But I will none of them. They are for you. I would have had them writ more movingly. VALENTINE. Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another. SILVIA. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. VALENTINE. If it please me, madam? What then? SILVIA. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. And so good morrow, servant. [_Exit._] SPEED. [_Aside_.] O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple! My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better? That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter? VALENTINE. How now, sir? What are you reasoning with yourself? SPEED. Nay, I was rhyming. ’Tis you that have the reason. VALENTINE. To do what? SPEED. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia. VALENTINE. To whom? SPEED. To yourself. Why, she woos you by a figure. VALENTINE. What figure? SPEED. By a letter, I should say. VALENTINE. Why, she hath not writ to me. SPEED. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? VALENTINE. No, believe me. SPEED. No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest? VALENTINE. She gave me none, except an angry word. SPEED. Why, she hath given you a letter. VALENTINE. That’s the letter I writ to her friend. SPEED. And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end. VALENTINE. I would it were no worse. SPEED. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well. For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply, Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’Tis dinner time. VALENTINE. I have dined. SPEED. Ay, but hearken, sir, though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Verona. A room in Julia’s house Enter Proteus and Julia. PROTEUS. Have patience, gentle Julia. JULIA. I must, where is no remedy. PROTEUS. When possibly I can, I will return. JULIA. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake. [_Gives him a ring._] PROTEUS. Why, then we’ll make exchange. Here, take you this. [_Gives her a ring._] JULIA. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. PROTEUS. Here is my hand for my true constancy. And when that hour o’erslips me in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, The next ensuing hour some foul mischance Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness. My father stays my coming; answer not. The tide is now—nay, not thy tide of tears, That tide will stay me longer than I should. Julia, farewell. [_Exit Julia._] What, gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do. It cannot speak, For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. Enter Pantino. PANTINO. Sir Proteus, you are stayed for. PROTEUS. Go, I come, I come. Alas, this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A street Enter Lance with his dog Crab. LANCE. Nay, ’twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Lances have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial’s court. I think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebblestone, and has no more pity in him than a dog. A Jew would have wept to have seen our parting. Why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I’ll show you the manner of it. This shoe is my father. No, this left shoe is my father; no, no, this left shoe is my mother. Nay, that cannot be so neither. Yes, it is so, it is so; it hath the worser sole. This shoe with the hole in it is my mother, and this my father. A vengeance on ’t, there ’tis. Now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand. This hat is Nan, our maid. I am the dog. No, the dog is himself, and I am the dog. O, the dog is me, and I am myself. Ay, so, so. Now come I to my father: “Father, your blessing.” Now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping. Now should I kiss my father. Well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother. O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her. Why there ’tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I to my sister. Mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. Enter Pantino. PANTINO. Lance, away, away! Aboard! Thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? Why weep’st thou, man? Away, ass. You’ll lose the tide if you tarry any longer. LANCE. It is no matter if the tied were lost, for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. PANTINO. What’s the unkindest tide? LANCE. Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog. PANTINO. Tut, man, I mean thou’lt lose the flood, and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy service—why dost thou stop my mouth? LANCE. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. PANTINO. Where should I lose my tongue? LANCE. In thy tale. PANTINO. In thy tail! LANCE. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied? Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. PANTINO. Come, come away, man. I was sent to call thee. LANCE. Sir, call me what thou dar’st. PANTINO. Will thou go? LANCE. Well, I will go. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Valentine, Silvia, Thurio and Speed. SILVIA. Servant! VALENTINE. Mistress? SPEED. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. VALENTINE. Ay, boy, it’s for love. SPEED. Not of you. VALENTINE. Of my mistress, then. SPEED. ’Twere good you knocked him. SILVIA. Servant, you are sad. VALENTINE. Indeed, madam, I seem so. THURIO. Seem you that you are not? VALENTINE. Haply I do. THURIO. So do counterfeits. VALENTINE. So do you. THURIO. What seem I that I am not? VALENTINE. Wise. THURIO. What instance of the contrary? VALENTINE. Your folly. THURIO. And how quote you my folly? VALENTINE. I quote it in your jerkin. THURIO. My jerkin is a doublet. VALENTINE. Well, then, I’ll double your folly. THURIO. How! SILVIA. What, angry, Sir Thurio? Do you change colour? VALENTINE. Give him leave, madam, he is a kind of chameleon. THURIO. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. VALENTINE. You have said, sir. THURIO. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. VALENTINE. I know it well, sir. You always end ere you begin. SILVIA. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off. VALENTINE. ’Tis indeed, madam, we thank the giver. SILVIA. Who is that, servant? VALENTINE. Yourself, sweet lady, for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company. THURIO. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. VALENTINE. I know it well, sir. You have an exchequer of words and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words. SILVIA. No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father. Enter Duke. DUKE. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. Sir Valentine, your father is in good health. What say you to a letter from your friends Of much good news? VALENTINE. My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. DUKE. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman? VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman To be of worth and worthy estimation, And not without desert so well reputed. DUKE. Hath he not a son? VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord, a son that well deserves The honour and regard of such a father. DUKE. You know him well? VALENTINE. I knew him as myself, for from our infancy We have conversed and spent our hours together. And though myself have been an idle truant, Omitting the sweet benefit of time To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that’s his name, Made use and fair advantage of his days: His years but young, but his experience old; His head unmellowed, but his judgement ripe; And in a word, for far behind his worth Comes all the praises that I now bestow, He is complete in feature and in mind, With all good grace to grace a gentleman. DUKE. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, He is as worthy for an empress’ love As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor. Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me With commendation from great potentates, And here he means to spend his time awhile. I think ’tis no unwelcome news to you. VALENTINE. Should I have wished a thing, it had been he. DUKE. Welcome him then according to his worth. Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio. For Valentine, I need not cite him to it. I will send him hither to you presently. [_Exit._] VALENTINE. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship Had come along with me but that his mistresss Did hold his eyes locked in her crystal looks. SILVIA. Belike that now she hath enfranchised them Upon some other pawn for fealty. VALENTINE. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still. SILVIA. Nay, then, he should be blind, and being blind How could he see his way to seek out you? VALENTINE. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. THURIO. They say that Love hath not an eye at all. VALENTINE. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself. Upon a homely object, Love can wink. SILVIA. Have done, have done. Here comes the gentleman. Enter Proteus. VALENTINE. Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you Confirm his welcome with some special favour. SILVIA. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wished to hear from. VALENTINE. Mistress, it is. Sweet lady, entertain him To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. SILVIA. Too low a mistress for so high a servant. PROTEUS. Not so, sweet lady, but too mean a servant To have a look of such a worthy mistress. VALENTINE. Leave off discourse of disability. Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. PROTEUS. My duty will I boast of, nothing else. SILVIA. And duty never yet did want his meed. Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. PROTEUS. I’ll die on him that says so but yourself. SILVIA. That you are welcome? PROTEUS. That you are worthless. Enter Servant. SERVANT. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. SILVIA. I wait upon his pleasure. [_Exit Servant._] Come, Sir Thurio, Go with me.—Once more, new servant, welcome. I’ll leave you to confer of home affairs; When you have done, we look to hear from you. PROTEUS. We’ll both attend upon your ladyship. [_Exeunt Silvia and Thurio._] VALENTINE. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came? PROTEUS. Your friends are well and have them much commended. VALENTINE. And how do yours? PROTEUS. I left them all in health. VALENTINE. How does your lady? And how thrives your love? PROTEUS. My tales of love were wont to weary you; I know you joy not in a love-discourse. VALENTINE. Ay, Proteus, but that life is altered now. I have done penance for contemning Love, Whose high imperious thoughts have punished me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs; For in revenge of my contempt of love, Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes And made them watchers of mine own heart’s sorrow. O gentle Proteus, Love’s a mighty lord, And hath so humbled me as I confess There is no woe to his correction, Nor to his service no such joy on earth. Now, no discourse, except it be of love; Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep Upon the very naked name of love. PROTEUS. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so? VALENTINE. Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint? PROTEUS. No, but she is an earthly paragon. VALENTINE. Call her divine. PROTEUS. I will not flatter her. VALENTINE. O, flatter me, for love delights in praises. PROTEUS. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, And I must minister the like to you. VALENTINE. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, Yet let her be a principality, Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. PROTEUS. Except my mistress. VALENTINE. Sweet, except not any, Except thou wilt except against my love. PROTEUS. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? VALENTINE. And I will help thee to prefer her too: She shall be dignified with this high honour, To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower And make rough winter everlastingly. PROTEUS. Why, Valentine, what braggartism is this? VALENTINE. Pardon me, Proteus, all I can is nothing To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. PROTEUS. Then let her alone. VALENTINE. Not for the world! Why, man, she is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, Because thou seest me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes Only for his possessions are so huge, Is gone with her along, and I must after, For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy. PROTEUS. But she loves you? VALENTINE. Ay, and we are betrothed; nay more, our marriage hour, With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determined of: how I must climb her window, The ladder made of cords, and all the means Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. PROTEUS. Go on before; I shall enquire you forth. I must unto the road to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use, And then I’ll presently attend you. VALENTINE. Will you make haste? PROTEUS. I will. [_Exit Valentine._] Even as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another, So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine eye, or Valentine’s praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me reasonless to reason thus? She is fair; and so is Julia that I love— That I did love, for now my love is thawed, Which like a waxen image ’gainst a fire Bears no impression of the thing it was. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love him not as I was wont. O, but I love his lady too too much, And that’s the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice That thus without advice begin to love her? ’Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, And that hath dazzled my reason’s light; But when I look on her perfections, There is no reason but I shall be blind. If I can check my erring love, I will; If not, to compass her I’ll use my skill. [_Exit._] SCENE V. The same. A street Enter Speed and Lance with his dog Crab. SPEED. Lance, by mine honesty, welcome to Milan! LANCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say “Welcome”. SPEED. Come on, you madcap. I’ll to the alehouse with you presently, where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? LANCE. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. SPEED. But shall she marry him? LANCE. No. SPEED. How then? Shall he marry her? LANCE. No, neither. SPEED. What, are they broken? LANCE. No, they are both as whole as a fish. SPEED. Why then, how stands the matter with them? LANCE. Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. SPEED. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not. LANCE. What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff understands me. SPEED. What thou sayst? LANCE. Ay, and what I do too. Look thee, I’ll but lean, and my staff understands me. SPEED. It stands under thee indeed. LANCE. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. SPEED. But tell me true, will’t be a match? LANCE. Ask my dog. If he say “Ay”, it will; if he say “No”, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. SPEED. The conclusion is, then, that it will. LANCE. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. SPEED. ’Tis well that I get it so. But, Lance, how sayst thou that my master is become a notable lover? LANCE. I never knew him otherwise. SPEED. Than how? LANCE. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. SPEED. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak’st me. LANCE. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master. SPEED. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. LANCE. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. SPEED. Why? LANCE. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? SPEED. At thy service. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. The Duke’s palace Enter Proteus alone. PROTEUS. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn. And e’en that power which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury. Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinned, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it. At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken, And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit t’ exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferred With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose; If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss, For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself, And Silvia—witness heaven that made her fair— Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Remembering that my love to her is dead; And Valentine I’ll hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. I cannot now prove constant to myself Without some treachery used to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. Now presently I’ll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight, Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine, For Thurio he intends shall wed his daughter. But Valentine being gone, I’ll quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift. [_Exit._] SCENE VII. Verona. A room in Julia’s house Enter Julia and Lucetta. JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me, And ev’n in kind love I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly charactered and engraved, To lesson me and tell me some good mean How with my honour I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long. JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return. JULIA. O, know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s food? Pity the dearth that I have pined in By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, But qualify the fire’s extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JULIA. The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know’st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th’ enamelled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean. Then let me go and hinder not my course. I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream And make a pastime of each weary step Till the last step have brought me to my love, And there I’ll rest as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along? JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men. Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair. JULIA. No, girl, I’ll knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? JULIA. That fits as well as “Tell me, good my lord, What compass will you wear your farthingale?” Why e’en what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta. LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favoured. LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a pin Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov’st me, let me have What thou think’st meet and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey? I fear me it will make me scandalized. LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not. JULIA. Nay, that I will not. LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, No matter who’s displeased when you are gone. I fear me he will scarce be pleased withal. JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear. A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men. JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth. His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. LUCETTA. Pray heav’n he prove so when you come to him. JULIA. Now, as thou lov’st me, do him not that wrong To bear a hard opinion of his truth. Only deserve my love by loving him. And presently go with me to my chamber To take a note of what I stand in need of To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently. I am impatient of my tarriance. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Milan. An anteroom in the Duke’s palace Enter Duke, Thurio and Proteus. DUKE. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about. [_Exit Thurio._] Now tell me, Proteus, what’s your will with me? PROTEUS. My gracious lord, that which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal, But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am, My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine my friend This night intends to steal away your daughter; Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates, And should she thus be stol’n away from you, It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows which would press you down, Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. DUKE. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care, Which to requite command me while I live. This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep, And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court. But fearing lest my jealous aim might err And so, unworthily, disgrace the man— A rashness that I ever yet have shunned— I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, The key whereof myself have ever kept; And thence she cannot be conveyed away. PROTEUS. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend And with a corded ladder fetch her down; For which the youthful lover now is gone, And this way comes he with it presently, Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at; For love of you, not hate unto my friend, Hath made me publisher of this pretence. DUKE. Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. PROTEUS. Adieu, my lord, Sir Valentine is coming. [_Exit._] Enter Valentine. DUKE. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? VALENTINE. Please it your Grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them. DUKE. Be they of much import? VALENTINE. The tenor of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court. DUKE. Nay then, no matter. Stay with me awhile; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. ’Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. VALENTINE. I know it well, my lord, and sure the match Were rich and honourable. Besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter. Cannot your grace win her to fancy him? DUKE. No, trust me, she is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty, Neither regarding that she is my child Nor fearing me as if I were her father; And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her, And where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherished by her childlike duty, I now am full resolved to take a wife And turn her out to who will take her in. Then let her beauty be her wedding dower, For me and my possessions she esteems not. VALENTINE. What would your Grace have me to do in this? DUKE. There is a lady of Verona here Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy, And nought esteems my aged eloquence. Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor— For long agone I have forgot to court; Besides, the fashion of the time is changed— How and which way I may bestow myself To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. VALENTINE. Win her with gifts if she respect not words; Dumb jewels often in their silent kind More than quick words do move a woman’s mind. DUKE. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. VALENTINE. A woman sometime scorns what best contents her. Send her another; never give her o’er, For scorn at first makes after-love the more. If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you. If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone, Forwhy the fools are mad if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For “Get you gone” she doth not mean “Away!” Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. DUKE. But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth, And kept severely from resort of men, That no man hath access by day to her. VALENTINE. Why then, I would resort to her by night. DUKE. Ay, but the doors be locked and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night. VALENTINE. What lets but one may enter at her window? DUKE. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life. VALENTINE. Why, then a ladder quaintly made of cords To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower, So bold Leander would adventure it. DUKE. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder. VALENTINE. When would you use it? Pray, sir, tell me that. DUKE. This very night; for Love is like a child That longs for everything that he can come by. VALENTINE. By seven o’clock I’ll get you such a ladder. DUKE. But, hark thee: I will go to her alone; How shall I best convey the ladder thither? VALENTINE. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. DUKE. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord. DUKE. Then let me see thy cloak; I’ll get me one of such another length. VALENTINE. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. DUKE. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak? I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. [_Takes Valentine’s cloak and finds a letter and a rope ladder concealed under it._] What letter is this same? What’s here?—_To Silvia?_ And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once. [_Reads_.] _My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly, And slaves they are to me that send them flying. O, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where, senseless, they are lying. My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them, While I, their king, that thither them importune, Do curse the grace that with such grace hath blest them, Because myself do want my servants’ fortune. I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord should be._ What’s here? [_Reads_.] _Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee._ ’Tis so; and here’s the ladder for the purpose. Why, Phaëthon—for thou art Merops’ son— Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, And with thy daring folly burn the world? Wilt thou reach stars because they shine on thee? Go, base intruder, overweening slave, Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates, And think my patience, more than thy desert, Is privilege for thy departure hence. Thank me for this more than for all the favours Which, all too much, I have bestowed on thee. But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter or thyself. Begone, I will not hear thy vain excuse, But, as thou lov’st thy life, make speed from hence. [_Exit._] VALENTINE. And why not death, rather than living torment? To die is to be banished from myself, And Silvia is myself; banished from her Is self from self—a deadly banishment. What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? Unless it be to think that she is by And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale. Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon. She is my essence, and I leave to be If I be not by her fair influence Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive. I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: Tarry I here, I but attend on death, But fly I hence, I fly away from life. Enter Proteus and Lance. PROTEUS. Run, boy, run, run, seek him out. LANCE. So-ho, so-ho! PROTEUS. What seest thou? LANCE. Him we go to find. There’s not a hair on ’s head but ’tis a Valentine. PROTEUS. Valentine? VALENTINE. No. PROTEUS. Who then? His spirit? VALENTINE. Neither. PROTEUS. What then? VALENTINE. Nothing. LANCE. Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike? PROTEUS. Who wouldst thou strike? LANCE. Nothing. PROTEUS. Villain, forbear. LANCE. Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing. I pray you— PROTEUS. Sirrah, I say, forbear.—Friend Valentine, a word. VALENTINE. My ears are stopped and cannot hear good news, So much of bad already hath possessed them. PROTEUS. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. VALENTINE. Is Silvia dead? PROTEUS. No, Valentine. VALENTINE. No Valentine indeed for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me? PROTEUS. No, Valentine. VALENTINE. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news? LANCE. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished. PROTEUS. That thou art banished—O, that’s the news— From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. VALENTINE. O, I have fed upon this woe already, And now excess of it will make me surfeit. Doth Silvia know that I am banished? PROTEUS. Ay, ay; and she hath offered to the doom— Which unreversed stands in effectual force— A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears; Those at her father’s churlish feet she tendered, With them, upon her knees, her humble self, Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them As if but now they waxed pale for woe. But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire; But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so, When she for thy repeal was suppliant, That to close prison he commanded her, With many bitter threats of biding there. VALENTINE. No more, unless the next word that thou speak’st Have some malignant power upon my life. If so, I pray thee breathe it in mine ear, As ending anthem of my endless dolour. PROTEUS. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament’st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence, Which, being writ to me, shall be delivered Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. The time now serves not to expostulate. Come, I’ll convey thee through the city-gate, And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love affairs. As thou lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself, Regard thy danger, and along with me. VALENTINE. I pray thee, Lance, an if thou seest my boy, Bid him make haste and meet me at the North Gate. PROTEUS. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. VALENTINE. O, my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine! [_Exeunt Valentine and Proteus._] LANCE. I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave; but that’s all one if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love, yet I am in love, but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a woman, but what woman I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian. [_Pulls out a paper_.] Here is the cate-log of her condition. _Imprimis, She can fetch and carry_. Why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. _Item, She can milk_. Look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. Enter Speed. SPEED. How now, Signior Lance? What news with your mastership? LANCE. With my master’s ship? Why, it is at sea. SPEED. Well, your old vice still: mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper? LANCE. The blackest news that ever thou heard’st. SPEED. Why, man? How black? LANCE. Why, as black as ink. SPEED. Let me read them. LANCE. Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou canst not read. SPEED. Thou liest. I can. LANCE. I will try thee. Tell me this, who begot thee? SPEED. Marry, the son of my grandfather. LANCE. O, illiterate loiterer! It was the son of thy grandmother. This proves that thou canst not read. SPEED. Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. LANCE. [_Gives him the paper_.] There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed. SPEED. _Imprimis, She can milk._ LANCE. Ay, that she can. SPEED. _Item, She brews good ale._ LANCE. And thereof comes the proverb, “Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.” SPEED. _Item, She can sew._ LANCE. That’s as much as to say, “Can she so?” SPEED. _Item, She can knit._ LANCE. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock? SPEED. _Item, She can wash and scour._ LANCE. A special virtue, for then she need not be washed and scoured. SPEED. _Item, She can spin._ LANCE. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. SPEED. _Item, She hath many nameless virtues._ LANCE. That’s as much as to say, “bastard virtues”, that indeed know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. SPEED. Here follow her vices. LANCE. Close at the heels of her virtues. SPEED. _Item, She is not to be kissed fasting in respect of her breath._ LANCE. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. SPEED. _Item, She hath a sweet mouth._ LANCE. That makes amends for her sour breath. SPEED. _Item, She doth talk in her sleep._ LANCE. It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. SPEED. _Item, She is slow in words._ LANCE. O villain, that set this down among her vices! To be slow in words is a woman’s only virtue. I pray thee, out with’t, and place it for her chief virtue. SPEED. _Item, She is proud._ LANCE. Out with that too; it was Eve’s legacy and cannot be ta’en from her. SPEED. _Item, She hath no teeth._ LANCE. I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. SPEED. _Item, She is curst._ LANCE. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. SPEED. _Item, She will often praise her liquor._ LANCE. If her liquor be good, she shall; if she will not, I will, for good things should be praised. SPEED. _Item, She is too liberal._ LANCE. Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I’ll keep shut. Now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. SPEED. _Item, She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults._ LANCE. Stop there; I’ll have her. She was mine and not mine twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. SPEED. _Item, She hath more hair than wit_— LANCE. More hair than wit. It may be; I’ll prove it: the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next? SPEED. _And more faults than hairs._ LANCE. That’s monstrous! O, that that were out! SPEED. _And more wealth than faults._ LANCE. Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I’ll have her; an if it be a match, as nothing is impossible— SPEED. What then? LANCE. Why, then will I tell thee that thy master stays for thee at the North Gate. SPEED. For me? LANCE. For thee? Ay, who art thou? He hath stayed for a better man than thee. SPEED. And must I go to him? LANCE. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn. SPEED. Why didst not tell me sooner? Pox of your love letters! [_Exit._] LANCE. Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Duke and Thurio. DUKE. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you Now Valentine is banished from her sight. THURIO. Since his exile she hath despised me most, Forsworn my company and railed at me, That I am desperate of obtaining her. DUKE. This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. Enter Proteus. How now, Sir Proteus? Is your countryman, According to our proclamation, gone? PROTEUS. Gone, my good lord. DUKE. My daughter takes his going grievously. PROTEUS. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. DUKE. So I believe, but Thurio thinks not so. Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee, For thou hast shown some sign of good desert, Makes me the better to confer with thee. PROTEUS. Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace Let me not live to look upon your Grace. DUKE. Thou know’st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter? PROTEUS. I do, my lord. DUKE. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant How she opposes her against my will? PROTEUS. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. DUKE. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? PROTEUS. The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. DUKE. Ay, but she’ll think that it is spoke in hate. PROTEUS. Ay, if his enemy deliver it; Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. DUKE. Then you must undertake to slander him. PROTEUS. And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do. ’Tis an ill office for a gentleman, Especially against his very friend. DUKE. Where your good word cannot advantage him, Your slander never can endamage him; Therefore the office is indifferent, Being entreated to it by your friend. PROTEUS. You have prevailed, my lord. If I can do it By aught that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. But say this weed her love from Valentine, It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. THURIO. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me, Which must be done by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. DUKE. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind Because we know, on Valentine’s report, You are already Love’s firm votary And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access Where you with Silvia may confer at large— For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you— Where you may temper her by your persuasion To hate young Valentine and love my friend. PROTEUS. As much as I can do I will effect. But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough. You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. DUKE. Ay, much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. PROTEUS. Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart. Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity. For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews, Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window With some sweet consort; to their instruments Tune a deploring dump; the night’s dead silence Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. DUKE. This discipline shows thou hast been in love. THURIO. And thy advice this night I’ll put in practice. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, Let us into the city presently To sort some gentlemen well skilled in music. I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. DUKE. About it, gentlemen! PROTEUS. We’ll wait upon your Grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. DUKE. Even now about it! I will pardon you. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. A forest between Milan and Verona Enter certain Outlaws. FIRST OUTLAW. Fellows, stand fast. I see a passenger. SECOND OUTLAW. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with ’em. Enter Valentine and Speed. THIRD OUTLAW. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye. If not, we’ll make you sit, and rifle you. SPEED. Sir, we are undone: these are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. VALENTINE. My friends— FIRST OUTLAW. That’s not so, sir. We are your enemies. SECOND OUTLAW. Peace! We’ll hear him. THIRD OUTLAW. Ay, by my beard, will we, for he is a proper man. VALENTINE. Then know that I have little wealth to lose. A man I am crossed with adversity; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. SECOND OUTLAW. Whither travel you? VALENTINE. To Verona. FIRST OUTLAW. Whence came you? VALENTINE. From Milan. THIRD OUTLAW. Have you long sojourned there? VALENTINE. Some sixteen months, and longer might have stayed If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. FIRST OUTLAW. What, were you banished thence? VALENTINE. I was. SECOND OUTLAW. For what offence? VALENTINE. For that which now torments me to rehearse; I killed a man, whose death I much repent, But yet I slew him manfully in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. FIRST OUTLAW. Why, ne’er repent it, if it were done so. But were you banished for so small a fault? VALENTINE. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. SECOND OUTLAW. Have you the tongues? VALENTINE. My youthful travel therein made me happy, Or else I often had been miserable. THIRD OUTLAW. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction. FIRST OUTLAW. We’ll have him. Sirs, a word. SPEED. Master, be one of them. It’s an honourable kind of thievery. VALENTINE. Peace, villain. SECOND OUTLAW. Tell us this: have you anything to take to? VALENTINE. Nothing but my fortune. THIRD OUTLAW. Know then that some of us are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungoverned youth Thrust from the company of awful men. Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady, An heir, and near allied unto the Duke. SECOND OUTLAW. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman Who, in my mood, I stabbed unto the heart. FIRST OUTLAW. And I for suchlike petty crimes as these. But to the purpose, for we cite our faults, That they may hold excused our lawless lives; And partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want— SECOND OUTLAW. Indeed because you are a banished man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. Are you content to be our general? To make a virtue of necessity And live as we do in this wilderness? THIRD OUTLAW. What sayst thou? Wilt thou be of our consort? Say “Ay”, and be the captain of us all, We’ll do thee homage and be ruled by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king. FIRST OUTLAW. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. SECOND OUTLAW. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offered. VALENTINE. I take your offer and will live with you, Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. THIRD OUTLAW. No, we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us; we’ll bring thee to our crews And show thee all the treasure we have got, Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Milan. The court of the Duke’s palace Enter Proteus. PROTEUS. Already have I been false to Valentine, And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him, I have access my own love to prefer. But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; When to her beauty I commend my vows, She bids me think how I have been forsworn In breaking faith with Julia, whom I loved; And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope, Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows and fawneth on her still. But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window, And give some evening music to her ear. Enter Thurio and Musicians. THURIO. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us? PROTEUS. Ay, gentle Thurio, for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. THURIO. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. PROTEUS. Sir, but I do, or else I would be hence. THURIO. Who? Silvia? PROTEUS. Ay, Silvia, for your sake. THURIO. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile. Enter Host and Julia in boy’s clothes, as Sebastian. HOST. Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly. I pray you, why is it? JULIA. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. HOST. Come, we’ll have you merry. I’ll bring you where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that you asked for. JULIA. But shall I hear him speak? HOST. Ay, that you shall. JULIA. That will be music. [_Music plays._] HOST. Hark, hark! JULIA. Is he among these? HOST. Ay; but peace, let’s hear ’em. SONG PROTEUS. Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling. To her let us garlands bring. HOST. How now, are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? The music likes you not. JULIA. You mistake; the musician likes me not. HOST. Why, my pretty youth? JULIA. He plays false, father. HOST. How, out of tune on the strings? JULIA. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. HOST. You have a quick ear. JULIA. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. HOST. I perceive you delight not in music. JULIA. Not a whit, when it jars so. HOST. Hark, what fine change is in the music! JULIA. Ay, that change is the spite. HOST. You would have them always play but one thing? JULIA. I would always have one play but one thing. But, host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on, Often resort unto this gentlewoman? HOST. I tell you what Lance, his man, told me: he loved her out of all nick. JULIA. Where is Lance? HOST. Gone to seek his dog, which tomorrow, by his master’s command, he must carry for a present to his lady. JULIA. Peace, stand aside. The company parts. PROTEUS. Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead That you shall say my cunning drift excels. THURIO. Where meet we? PROTEUS. At Saint Gregory’s well. THURIO. Farewell. [_Exeunt Thurio and Musicians._] Enter Silvia above. PROTEUS. Madam, good even to your ladyship. SILVIA. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake? PROTEUS. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth, You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. SILVIA. Sir Proteus, as I take it. PROTEUS. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. SILVIA. What’s your will? PROTEUS. That I may compass yours. SILVIA. You have your wish. My will is even this, That presently you hie you home to bed. Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man, Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, To be seduced by thy flattery, That hast deceived so many with thy vows? Return, return, and make thy love amends. For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, I am so far from granting thy request That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, And by and by intend to chide myself Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. PROTEUS. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady, But she is dead. JULIA. [_Aside_.] ’Twere false, if I should speak it, For I am sure she is not buried. SILVIA. Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend Survives, to whom, thyself art witness, I am betrothed. And art thou not ashamed To wrong him with thy importunacy? PROTEUS. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. SILVIA. And so suppose am I, for in his grave, Assure thyself, my love is buried. PROTEUS. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. SILVIA. Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence, Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. JULIA. [_Aside_.] He heard not that. PROTEUS. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, The picture that is hanging in your chamber; To that I’ll speak, to that I’ll sigh and weep; For since the substance of your perfect self Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; And to your shadow will I make true love. JULIA. [_Aside_.] If ’twere a substance you would sure deceive it And make it but a shadow, as I am. SILVIA. I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning, and I’ll send it. And so, good rest. [_Exit._] PROTEUS. As wretches have o’ernight That wait for execution in the morn. [_Exit._] JULIA. Host, will you go? HOST. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. JULIA. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? HOST. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think ’tis almost day. JULIA. Not so; but it hath been the longest night That e’er I watched, and the most heaviest. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same Enter Eglamour. EGLAMOUR. This is the hour that Madam Silvia Entreated me to call and know her mind; There’s some great matter she’d employ me in. Madam, madam! Enter Silvia above. SILVIA. Who calls? EGLAMOUR. Your servant and your friend; One that attends your ladyship’s command. SILVIA. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow. EGLAMOUR. As many, worthy lady, to yourself. According to your ladyship’s impose, I am thus early come to know what service It is your pleasure to command me in. SILVIA. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman— Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not— Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplished. Thou art not ignorant what dear good will I bear unto the banished Valentine, Nor how my father would enforce me marry Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhorred. Thyself hast loved, and I have heard thee say No grief did ever come so near thy heart As when thy lady and thy true love died, Upon whose grave thou vowed’st pure chastity. Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; And for the ways are dangerous to pass, I do desire thy worthy company, Upon whose faith and honour I repose. Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour, But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief, And on the justice of my flying hence To keep me from a most unholy match, Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues. I do desire thee, even from a heart As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, To bear me company and go with me; If not, to hide what I have said to thee, That I may venture to depart alone. EGLAMOUR. Madam, I pity much your grievances, Which, since I know they virtuously are placed, I give consent to go along with you, Recking as little what betideth me As much I wish all good befortune you. When will you go? SILVIA. This evening coming. EGLAMOUR. Where shall I meet you? SILVIA. At Friar Patrick’s cell, Where I intend holy confession. EGLAMOUR. I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, gentle lady. SILVIA. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same Enter Lance with his dog Crab. LANCE. When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard: one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him even as one would say precisely, “Thus I would teach a dog.” I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg. O, ’tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for’t; sure as I live, he had suffered for’t. You shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the Duke’s table; he had not been there—bless the mark!—a pissing-while but all the chamber smelt him. “Out with the dog!” says one; “What cur is that?” says another; “Whip him out”, says the third; “Hang him up”, says the Duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs. “Friend,” quoth I, “you mean to whip the dog?” “Ay, marry do I,” quoth he. “You do him the more wrong,” quoth I. “’Twas I did the thing you wot of.” He makes me no more ado but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I’ll be sworn I have sat in the stock for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed. I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for’t. [_To Crab_.] Thou think’st not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia. Did not I bid thee still mark me, and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman’s farthingale? Didst thou ever see me do such a trick? Enter Proteus and Julia disguised as Sebastian. PROTEUS. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well, And will employ thee in some service presently. JULIA. In what you please; I’ll do what I can. PROTEUS. I hope thou wilt. [_To Lance_.] How now, you whoreson peasant, Where have you been these two days loitering? LANCE. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me. PROTEUS. And what says she to my little jewel? LANCE. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a present. PROTEUS. But she received my dog? LANCE. No, indeed, did she not. Here have I brought him back again. PROTEUS. What, didst thou offer her this from me? LANCE. Ay, sir, the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman’s boys in the market-place, and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. PROTEUS. Go, get thee hence, and find my dog again, Or ne’er return again into my sight. Away, I say. Stayest thou to vex me here? A slave that still an end turns me to shame. [_Exit Lance with Crab._] Sebastian, I have entertained thee Partly that I have need of such a youth That can with some discretion do my business— For ’tis no trusting to yond foolish lout— But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, Which, if my augury deceive me not, Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth. Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee. Go presently, and take this ring with thee, Deliver it to Madam Silvia. She loved me well delivered it to me. JULIA. It seems you loved not her, to leave her token. She’s dead belike? PROTEUS. Not so; I think she lives. JULIA. Alas! PROTEUS. Why dost thou cry “Alas”? JULIA. I cannot choose But pity her. PROTEUS. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? JULIA. Because methinks that she loved you as well As you do love your lady Silvia. She dreams on him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. ’Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking on it makes me cry “Alas.” PROTEUS. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal This letter. That’s her chamber. Tell my lady I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary. [_Exit._] JULIA. How many women would do such a message? Alas, poor Proteus, thou hast entertained A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. Alas, poor fool, why do I pity him That with his very heart despiseth me? Because he loves her, he despiseth me; Because I love him, I must pity him. This ring I gave him when he parted from me, To bind him to remember my good will; And now am I, unhappy messenger, To plead for that which I would not obtain, To carry that which I would have refused, To praise his faith, which I would have dispraised. I am my master’s true confirmed love, But cannot be true servant to my master Unless I prove false traitor to myself. Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. Enter Silvia attended. Gentlewoman, good day. I pray you be my mean To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. SILVIA. What would you with her, if that I be she? JULIA. If you be she, I do entreat your patience To hear me speak the message I am sent on. SILVIA. From whom? JULIA. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. SILVIA. O, he sends you for a picture? JULIA. Ay, madam. SILVIA. Ursula, bring my picture there. [_She is brought the picture._] Go, give your master this. Tell him from me, One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. JULIA. Madam, please you peruse this letter. [_Gives her a letter._] Pardon me, madam, I have unadvised Delivered you a paper that I should not. This is the letter to your ladyship. [_Takes back the letter and gives her another._] SILVIA. I pray thee, let me look on that again. JULIA. It may not be. Good madam, pardon me. SILVIA. There, hold. I will not look upon your master’s lines. I know they are stuffed with protestations And full of new-found oaths, which he will break As easily as I do tear his paper. [_She tears the second letter._] JULIA. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. SILVIA. The more shame for him that he sends it me; For I have heard him say a thousand times His Julia gave it him at his departure. Though his false finger have profaned the ring, Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. JULIA. She thanks you. SILVIA. What sayst thou? JULIA. I thank you, madam, that you tender her. Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much. SILVIA. Dost thou know her? JULIA. Almost as well as I do know myself. To think upon her woes, I do protest That I have wept a hundred several times. SILVIA. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her? JULIA. I think she doth, and that’s her cause of sorrow. SILVIA. Is she not passing fair? JULIA. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is. When she did think my master loved her well, She, in my judgement, was as fair as you. But since she did neglect her looking-glass And threw her sun-expelling mask away, The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks And pinched the lily-tincture of her face, That now she is become as black as I. SILVIA. How tall was she? JULIA. About my stature; for at Pentecost, When all our pageants of delight were played, Our youth got me to play the woman’s part, And I was trimmed in Madam Julia’s gown, Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgements, As if the garment had been made for me; Therefore I know she is about my height. And at that time I made her weep agood, For I did play a lamentable part. Madam, ’twas Ariadne, passioning For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight, Which I so lively acted with my tears That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead If I in thought felt not her very sorrow. SILVIA. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! I weep myself to think upon thy words. Here, youth, there is my purse. I give thee this For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou lov’st her. Farewell. JULIA. And she shall thank you for’t, if e’er you know her. [_Exeunt Silvia and Attendants._] A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful. I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, Since she respects my mistress’ love so much. Alas, how love can trifle with itself! Here is her picture; let me see. I think If I had such a tire, this face of mine Were full as lovely as is this of hers; And yet the painter flattered her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow; If that be all the difference in his love, I’ll get me such a coloured periwig. Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine. Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as high. What should it be that he respects in her But I can make respective in myself, If this fond Love were not a blinded god? Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, Thou shalt be worshipped, kissed, loved, and adored; And were there sense in his idolatry, My substance should be statue in thy stead. I’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake, That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow, I should have scratched out your unseeing eyes To make my master out of love with thee. [_Exit._] ACT V SCENE I. Milan. An abbey Enter Eglamour. EGLAMOUR. The sun begins to gild the western sky, And now it is about the very hour That Silvia at Friar Patrick’s cell should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours, Unless it be to come before their time, So much they spur their expedition. Enter Silvia. See where she comes. Lady, a happy evening! SILVIA. Amen, amen. Go on, good Eglamour, Out at the postern by the abbey wall. I fear I am attended by some spies. EGLAMOUR. Fear not. The forest is not three leagues off; If we recover that, we are sure enough. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Thurio, Proteus and Julia. THURIO. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit? PROTEUS. O, sir, I find her milder than she was, And yet she takes exceptions at your person. THURIO. What? That my leg is too long? PROTEUS. No, that it is too little. THURIO. I’ll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder. JULIA. [_Aside_.] But love will not be spurred to what it loathes. THURIO. What says she to my face? PROTEUS. She says it is a fair one. THURIO. Nay, then, the wanton lies; my face is black. PROTEUS. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is, “Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.” JULIA. [_Aside_.] ’Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies’ eyes, For I had rather wink than look on them. THURIO. How likes she my discourse? PROTEUS. Ill, when you talk of war. THURIO. But well when I discourse of love and peace. JULIA. [_Aside_.] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. THURIO. What says she to my valour? PROTEUS. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. JULIA. [_Aside_.] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. THURIO. What says she to my birth? PROTEUS. That you are well derived. JULIA. [_Aside_.] True, from a gentleman to a fool. THURIO. Considers she my possessions? PROTEUS. O, ay, and pities them. THURIO. Wherefore? JULIA. [_Aside_.] That such an ass should owe them. PROTEUS. That they are out by lease. JULIA. Here comes the Duke. Enter Duke. DUKE. How now, Sir Proteus! How now, Thurio! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? THURIO. Not I. PROTEUS. Nor I. DUKE. Saw you my daughter? PROTEUS. Neither. DUKE. Why then, she’s fled unto that peasant Valentine, And Eglamour is in her company. ’Tis true, for Friar Lawrence met them both As he in penance wandered through the forest; Him he knew well, and guessed that it was she, But, being masked, he was not sure of it. Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick’s cell this even, and there she was not. These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently and meet with me Upon the rising of the mountain foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled. Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [_Exit._] THURIO. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl That flies her fortune when it follows her. I’ll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [_Exit._] PROTEUS. And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [_Exit._] JULIA. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Frontiers of Mantua. The forest Enter Silvia and Outlaws. FIRST OUTLAW. Come, come, be patient. We must bring you to our captain. SILVIA. A thousand more mischances than this one Have learned me how to brook this patiently. SECOND OUTLAW. Come, bring her away. FIRST OUTLAW. Where is the gentleman that was with her? SECOND OUTLAW. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us. But Moyses and Valerius follow him. Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; There is our captain. We’ll follow him that’s fled. The thicket is beset; he cannot ’scape. [_Exeunt Second and Third Outlaws._] FIRST OUTLAW. Come, I must bring you to our captain’s cave. Fear not; he bears an honourable mind And will not use a woman lawlessly. SILVIA. O Valentine, this I endure for thee! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Another part of the forest Enter Valentine. VALENTINE. How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale’s complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall And leave no memory of what it was. Repair me with thy presence, Silvia; Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain. [_Shouts within._] What hallowing and what stir is this today? These are my mates, that make their wills their law, Have some unhappy passenger in chase. They love me well; yet I have much to do To keep them from uncivil outrages. Withdraw thee, Valentine. Who’s this comes here? [_Steps aside._] Enter Proteus, Silvia and Julia as Sebastian. PROTEUS. Madam, this service I have done for you— Though you respect not aught your servant doth— To hazard life, and rescue you from him That would have forced your honour and your love. Vouchsafe me for my meed but one fair look; A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. VALENTINE. [_Aside_.] How like a dream is this I see and hear! Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. SILVIA. O miserable, unhappy that I am! PROTEUS. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came; But by my coming I have made you happy. SILVIA. By thy approach thou mak’st me most unhappy. JULIA. [_Aside_.] And me, when he approacheth to your presence. SILVIA. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, I would have been a breakfast to the beast Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. O heaven, be judge how I love Valentine, Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul! And full as much, for more there cannot be, I do detest false perjured Proteus. Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. PROTEUS. What dangerous action, stood it next to death, Would I not undergo for one calm look! O, ’tis the curse in love, and still approved, When women cannot love where they’re beloved. SILVIA. When Proteus cannot love where he’s beloved. Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love, For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths Descended into perjury to love me. Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou’dst two, And that’s far worse than none; better have none Than plural faith, which is too much by one. Thou counterfeit to thy true friend! PROTEUS. In love Who respects friend? SILVIA. All men but Proteus. PROTEUS. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, I’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end, And love you ’gainst the nature of love—force ye. [_He seizes her._] SILVIA. O heaven! PROTEUS. I’ll force thee yield to my desire. VALENTINE. [_Comes forward_.] Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion! PROTEUS. Valentine! VALENTINE. Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love, For such is a friend now. Treacherous man, Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me. Who should be trusted, when one’s right hand Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, ’Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst! PROTEUS. My shame and guilt confounds me. Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender ’t here. I do as truly suffer As e’er I did commit. VALENTINE. Then I am paid, And once again I do receive thee honest. Who by repentance is not satisfied Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased; By penitence th’ Eternal’s wrath’s appeased. And that my love may appear plain and free, All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. JULIA. O me unhappy! [_Swoons._] PROTEUS. Look to the boy. VALENTINE. Why, boy! Why, wag! How now? What’s the matter? Look up; speak. JULIA. O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which out of my neglect was never done. PROTEUS. Where is that ring, boy? JULIA. Here ’tis; this is it. [_Gives him a ring._] PROTEUS. How, let me see. Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. JULIA. O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook. This is the ring you sent to Silvia. [_Shows another ring._] PROTEUS. But how cam’st thou by this ring? At my depart I gave this unto Julia. JULIA. And Julia herself did give it me, And Julia herself have brought it hither. [_She reveals herself._] PROTEUS. How? Julia? JULIA. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths And entertained ’em deeply in her heart. How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush. Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me Such an immodest raiment, if shame live In a disguise of love. It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, Women to change their shapes than men their minds. PROTEUS. Than men their minds! ’Tis true. O heaven, were man But constant, he were perfect. That one error Fills him with faults, makes him run through all th’ sins; Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. What is in Silvia’s face but I may spy More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye? VALENTINE. Come, come, a hand from either. Let me be blest to make this happy close. ’Twere pity two such friends should be long foes. PROTEUS. Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish for ever. JULIA. And I mine. Enter Outlaws with Duke and Thurio. OUTLAWS. A prize, a prize, a prize! VALENTINE. Forbear, forbear, I say! It is my lord the Duke. Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced, Banished Valentine. DUKE. Sir Valentine! THURIO. Yonder is Silvia, and Silvia’s mine. VALENTINE. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death; Come not within the measure of my wrath. Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands; Take but possession of her with a touch— I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. THURIO. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I. I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not. I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. DUKE. The more degenerate and base art thou To make such means for her as thou hast done, And leave her on such slight conditions.— Now, by the honour of my ancestry, I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, And think thee worthy of an empress’ love. Know then, I here forget all former griefs, Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, Plead a new state in thy unrivalled merit, To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, Thou art a gentleman, and well derived; Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. VALENTINE. I thank your Grace; the gift hath made me happy. I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake, To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. DUKE. I grant it for thine own, whate’er it be. VALENTINE. These banished men, that I have kept withal, Are men endued with worthy qualities. Forgive them what they have committed here, And let them be recalled from their exile. They are reformed, civil, full of good, And fit for great employment, worthy lord. DUKE. Thou hast prevailed; I pardon them and thee. Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts. Come, let us go; we will include all jars With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. VALENTINE. And as we walk along, I dare be bold With our discourse to make your Grace to smile. What think you of this page, my lord? DUKE. I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes. VALENTINE. I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy. DUKE. What mean you by that saying? VALENTINE. Please you, I’ll tell you as we pass along, That you will wonder what hath fortuned. Come, Proteus, ’tis your penance but to hear The story of your loves discovered. That done, our day of marriage shall be yours, One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [_Exeunt._] THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN Contents ACT I