^ ^ ^ ^ nif W ^ W
NORTHWESTERN
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
The Gift ot
Mrs. George A,Carpenter
0^ 0^
THK
,v-/
PLAYS AND POEMS
Oh
SHAKESPEARE.
Wl I H
ONE HUNUHED AND SEVENTY ILLUSTRATIONS^
FMOM USSIGNS IJV HMINHNT AKIISIS
Blill'lih BY
A. J, VAI-l'V, A.M.,
PBLLOW OP hMMbHOKB CULLUOB, OXPOHU
FIFTEEN VOLUMES IN EIGHT.
VOL. i.
puii.A nrcLPH r A:
GEHBIE & BAKRIE, 615 SANSOM STREET
1878.
TIIE
PLAYS AND POEMS
OF
SHAKESPEARE.
VOL. 1.
ADVERTISEMENT.
In presenting the first volume of this edition
of the Works of Shakespeare to the notice of
the Public, the Editor deems it expedient to
point out the leading features by which it is
distinguished.
The text of Malone,as published in 1821, in
twenty-one volumes, is scrupulously followed;
and a brief Historical Sketch and Argument
are affixed to each Play.
Dr. Johnson has observed in his excellent
Preface, that 'notes are often necessary, but a
necessary evilsuch only are inserted as may
serve to elucidate obscure passages, or to ex-
plain obsolete words and phrases; by which
the Alitor hopes to obtain for his work the
appellation of 'aleffible edition of Shakespeare,'
uniform with the most popular productions of
the present day, and suited to the taste of the age.
CONTENTS
OP THB
FIRST VOLUME.
PAOS.
LIFE CP SHAKESPEARE ix
DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE Ivii
THE TEMPEST 1
TWO GENTLEMEN OP VERONA .... 97
ILLUSTRATIONS
TO THB
FIRST VOLUME.
ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.
PAOB.
1. Portrait of Shakspeare. Frontispiece.
2. Shakspeare nursed by Tragedy and Comedy, from a
Painting by Romney. viii
3. Infant Shakspeare attended by Nature and the Pas.
aions.—Romney. ziii
4. The Monument of Shakspeare in Stratford Church.
—BoydelU xU
5. Shakspeare between Poetry and Painting.—Ranks. IvU
THE TEMPEST.
6. Prospero and Miranda before the ceil of Prospero.
—Romney. . 1
7.*Prospero, Miranda, and Ariel.—Hamilton. . . 13
8. prospero, Miranda, Caliban, and Ariel.—Fasell. . 19
9. Trinculo, Stephano, and Caliban.—Smirke. . . 45
10. Ferdinand and Miranda.—Hamilton. ... 51
11. Prospero, Ferdinand, Miranda, Mask, Ac.— Wright. 70
12. Ferdinand and Miranda playing at Chess.— Wheatley. 87
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
13. Valentine, Proteus, Silvia, and Julia.— Angelica
Kauffman. . 190
14. Valentine, Proteus, Silvia, and Julia.—Stothard. . 192
LIFE
OF
WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE.
No feeling appears more universaly and natural to
the mind of man, than that which transfers an admi-
ration of works of genius into an inquiry respecting
the mind whence they emanated; and seldom has
curiosity been less gratified than in its researches
into the biography of the greatest genius ever known
in dramatic poetry. But little more than two cen-
turies have elapsed since the death of our author,
and almost as much is ascertained of the private life
of Homer, as can now be gleaned of William
Shakspeare, of whom little more can be learned,
save that he lived and died, and was buried in his
native town: yet his talents appear to have been
highly appreciated by his contemporaries, and still
more so by his immediate successors : and it might
sdak. I. h
Z MFK or SHAKSFEARB.
well be imagined, that interest or affection would
have induced some of these to collect every material
connected with his life, which his surviving relatives
would without doubt have been willing to commu-
nicate.
It is much to be regretted that no attempt of this
kind was made before the vear 1709, when an edi-
tion of Shakspeare was undertaken by Mr. Nicholas
Rowe, the dramatic poet, to which he predxtd some
biograpnical particulars, which were communicated
by Betterton, the celebrated player, who had visited
Warwickshire in order to obtain them : but too long
a period had now elapsed: most of the circumstances
of the poet's private life were irrecoverably lost, and
the inquiries of the tragedian were comparatively
unsuccessful. A few traditional anecdotes, trivial
in themselves, and unsupported by sufficient evi-
dence, were indeed procured, and learned men have
since added to the number of these scanty materials,
the most authentic of which we now present to the
reader. Perhaps the obscurity in which the circum-
cumstances of our author's life are involved shed a
sublimity and halo round his magic name, which a
rnore detailed narrative might fail to have afforded.
William Shakspeare, the son of John and Mary
Shakspeare, was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in
Warwickshire, on the 23rd of April, 1564, and was
baptised on the 26th of the same month. 'JHis fa-
LIFE OF PHAKSPEARB. xi
mily,' says Mr. Rowe, ' as appears by the register
and public writings relating to that town, were of
good figure and fashion there, and are mentioned as
gentlemen.' Certain it is that the family of Shak-
speare is of great antiquity in the county of War-
wick, where it was established long before our
author's time : we may presume, however, that the
patrimony of Mr. John Shakspeare, the father of
our dramatist, was insufficient for the support of his
family, independent of trade. He was, in fact, a
wool-stapler; and it may be conjectured that during
the former part of his life he was in prosperous cir-
cumstances, since we find that he was early chosen
a member of the corporation of Stratford, and shortly
after high bailiff or chief magistrate, now distin-
guished by the title of mayor. This office he filled
in 1569, as appears by the following extracts from
the books of the corporation
' Jan. 10. in the sixth year of the reign of our
sovereign lady. Queen Elizabeth, John Shakspeare
passed his chamberlain's accounts.'
' At the hall holden the eleventh day of Septem-
her, in the eleventh year of the reign of our sovereign
lady, Queen Elizabeth, 1569, were present Mr. lohn
Shakspeare, high bailiff.'
During the period that he filled this office he finst
oblmiied a grant of arms; and, in a note annexed
to tlie subsequent patent of 1596, now in the Col-
•
xii IIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.
lege of Arms, it is stated that he was likewise s
justice of the peace, and possessed of lands and
tenements to the amount of 5001.
Our author's mother was the daughter and heiress
of R. Arden, of Wellingcote, in the county of War-
wick, who, in the manuscript above referred to, is
called • a gentleman of worship.' This family ap-
pears to have been of considerable antiquity, R,
Arden, of Bromwich, Esq. being recorded in Fuller's
Worthies, among the names of the gentry of this
county returned by the commissioners in the twelfth
year of Henry VI, A. D. 1433. E. Arden was sheriff
for the county in 1568. In consequence of this
marriage, Mr. John Shakspeare and his posterity
were allowed, by the college of heralds, to impale
their arms with the ancient arms of the Ardens of
Wellingcote.
Although the father of Shakspeare, at the period
of his marriage, appears to have been in easy if not
afHuent circumstances, an unfavorable change in his
prospects may be inferred, because he was excused,
in 1579, the weekly payment of 4d., and dismissed
the corporation in 1586, as appears from the books,
where it is stated that-—
'At the hall holden November 19th, in the
twenty-first year of the reign of our sovereign lady.
Queen Elizabeth, it is ordained, that every alderman
shall be taxed to pay weekly 4d., saving J. yiiak-
tIFE OF SHAESPEARE. xUi
speare and R. Bruce, who shall not he taxed to pay
any thing; and every burgess to pay 2d.'
* At the hall holden on the sixth day of Septem-
her, in the twenty-eighth year of our sovereign lady.
Queen Elizabeth: at this hall W. Smith and R.
Courte are chosen to be aldermen, in the places of
J. Wheler and J. Shakspeare, for that Mr. Wheler
doth desire to be put out of the compan}', and Mr.
Shakspeare doth not come to the halls, when they
be warned, nor hath not done of a long time.'
Little more than two months had passed over
the head of the infant Shakspeare, when the plague,
which in that and the preceding year was so fatal
to England, broke out at Stratford-on-Avon, and
raged with such violence between the 30th of June
and the last day of December, that a seventh part
of the population were carried off by the disorder.
Fortunately for mankind, it did not reach the house
where the infant Shakspeare lay; for not one of
that name appears in the dead list.
It appears impossible to ascertain at what period
Shakspeare was sent by his father to the free-school
at Stratford, where he received his education. Of
his school-days, unfortunately, no account whatever
has come down to us: we are, therefore, unable to
mark his gradual advancement, or to point out the
early presages of future renown, which his extra-
ordinary parts must have afforded. Were our poet's
•
xiir LIFK OF SHAKSPEABE.
early history accurately known, it would unques-
tionabiy furnish us with many indications of that
genius, which afterwards rendered him the admira-
tion of the whole civilised world.
Although we know not how long he continued at
school, or what proficiency he made there, we may,
with the highest probability, assume, that he ac-
quired a competent, though perhaps not a profound
knowlege of the Latin language: for why should it
be supposed that he, who surpassed all mankind in
his maturer years, made less proficiency than his
fellows in his youth, while he had the benefit of in-
structors equally skilful? Even Ben Jonson, who
undoubtedly was inclined rather to depreciate than
overrate his rival's literary talents, allows that he
knew some Latin. In the school of Stratford, there-
fore, we see no reason to suppose that Shakspeare
was outstripped by his contemporaries. Dr. Farmer
indeed has proved by unanswerable arguments that
he was furnished by translations with most of those
topics, which for half a century had been urged as
indisputable proofs of his erudition. But though
his Essay is decisive in this respect, it by no means
proves that he had not acquired, at the school of
Stratford, a moderate knowlege of Latin, though,
perhaps, he never attained such a mastery of that
language as to read it without the occasional aid of
a dictionary. Like many other scholars who have not
LIFE OF SBAKSPEARE. XV
been thoroughly grounded in the ancient tongues,
from desuetude in the progress of life, he probably
found them daily more difficult; and hence, doubt-
less, indolence led him rather to English translations,
than the original authors, of whose works he wished
to avail himself in his dramatic compositions: on
which occasion he was certainly too careless mi-
nutely to examine whether particular passages were
faithfully rendered or not. That such a mind as his
was not idle or incurious, and that at this period of
his life he perused several of the easier Latin clas-
sics, cannot reasonably be doubted; though, perhaps,
he never attained a facility of reading those authors,
with whom he had not been familiarly acquainted at
school. He needed not however, as Dryden has
well observed, 'the spectacles of books' to read
men: there can he no doubt, that even from his
youth he was a curious and diligent observer of the
manners and characters, not only of his young as-
sociates, but of all around him ; a study, in which,
unquestionably, he took great delight, and pursued
with avidity during the whole course of his future
life. Fuller, who was a diligent and accurate in-
quirer, has given us, in his Worthies, printed in 1662,
the most full and express opinion on the subject.
• He was an eminent instance,' he remarks, ' of the
truth of that rule, poeta non fit, sed nascilur; one is
not made, but born a poet. Indeed his learning was
•
xvi life of shakspeare.
very little; so that as Cornish diamonds are net
polished by any lapidary, hut are pointed and
smoothed even as they are taken out of the earth ; so
nature itself was all the art which was used on him.'
It is generally admitted that Shakspeare was
withdrawn from school at a very early age, to direct
his attention to his father's business, in order that
he might assist in warding off from his family the
menacing approach of poverty. Mr. Malone, how-
ever, conjectures that he was placed in the office of
some country attorney, after leaving school, or with
the seneschal of some manor court, where he ac*
quired those technical law phrases that so frequently
occur in his plays, and could not have been in com-
mon use unless among professional men. But what-
ever doubts there may be as to his employment on
leaving school, it is certain that Shakspeare married
and became the father of a family at a very early
period; at a period, indeed, when most young men,
even in his own days, had only completed their
school education; for an entry in the Stratford
register mentions, that ' Susanna, daughter of Wil-
liam Shakspeare, was baptised May 26th, 1583,"
when he was only nineteen years of age. His wife
was Anne Hathaway, the daughter of Richard
Hathaway, a substantial yeoman-, residing at Shot-
tery, a village near Stratford. It appears also from
the tombstone of his widow in the church of Strat-
LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE. XVU
ford, that she must have been born in 1556, and
■was therefore eight years older than her husband, to
whom she brought three children, Susanna, Judith,
and Hamnct; the last two being twins, who were
baptised February 2d, 1584-5.
Shakspeare was now, to all appearance, settled in
the country; he ■was carrying on his own and his
father's business; he was married, and had a family
around him; a situation, in which the comforts of
domestic privacy might be predicted within his
reach, but which augured little of that splendid
destiny, that universal fame and unparalleled ce-
lebrity, which awaited his future career.
Shortly after the birth of his youngest children,
our author quitted Stratford for the metropolis : his
motive for taking this step must be admitted to be
involved in considerable obscurity. We are informed
by Rowe, that ' he had, by a misfortune common
enough to young fellows, fallen into ill company;
and amongst them, some that made a frequent prac-
tice of deer-stealing, engaged him more than once
in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas
Lucy, of Charlecote, near Stratford. For this he
was prosecuted by that gentleman, as he thought,
somewhat too severely; and in order to revenge that
ill usage, he made a ballad on him-, and though
this, probably the first essay of his poetry, is lost,
yet it is said to have been so very bitter, that it re-
•
Xvi'u LIFE OP SHAKSPEARE.
doubled the prosecution against him to that degree,
that he was obliged to leave his business and family
in Warwickshire for some time, and shelter himself
in London.'
The detection of Shakspeare in his adventurous
amusement, was followed, it is said, by confinement
for a short time in the keeper's lodge, until the charge
had been substantiated against him. A farm-house
in the park, situated on a spot called Daisy Hill, is
still pointed out as the very building which sheltered
the delinquent on this unfortunate occasion.
That Sir Thomas had reason to complain of this
violation of his property, and was warranted in taking
proper steps to prevent its recurrence, cannot be
denied; and yet it appears from tradition, that a
reprimand and public exposure of his conduct con-
stituted all the punishment that was at first inflicted
on the offender. Here the matter would have rested,
had not the irritable feelings of our young bard,
inflamed by the disgrace which he had suffered, in-
duced him to attempt a retaliation on the magistrate.
He had recourse to bis talents for satire, and the
ballad which he is said to ha.ve produced for this
purpose was probably his earliest effort as a writer.
Of this pasquinade, which the poet took care
should be affixed to Sir Thomas's park gates, and
extensively circulated through his neighborhood,
three stanzas have been brought forward as genuine
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. xix
fragments. The preservation of the whole would
certainly have been a most entertaining curiosity;
but even the authenticity of what is said to have
been preserved becomes a subject of interest, when
we recollect that the fate and fortunes of our author
hinged on this juvenile production.
Mr. William Oldys, (Norroy king at arms, and
well known from the share he had in compiling the
Biographia Britannica) among some collections
which he left for a life of Shakspeare, observes,
* that there was a very aged gentleman living in the
neighborhood of Stratford, where he died fifty years
since, who had not only heard from several old
people in that town of Shakspeare's transgression,
but could remember the first stanza of that bitter
ballad, which repeating to one of his acquaintance,
he preserved it in writing; and here it is, neither
better nor worse, but faithfully transcribed from the
copy which his relation very courteously communi*
cated to me:—
A parliamente member, a justice of peace.
At home a poor scare-crowe, at London an asM,
If lon-sie is Lucy, as some voike miscalle it.
Then ].ucy is lowsie whatever befall it:
He thinks himself greate.
Yet an asse in his state
allowe by his ears but with asses to mat^*
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it.
Sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it.'
Although neither the wit nor the poetry of this
XX LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.
satire deserves much praise, yet at the time when It
was written, it might have had sufficient power to
exasperate an irritable magistrate; especially as it
was affixed to his park gates, and consequently pub-
lished among his neighbors. It may be remarked
likewise, in favor of its authenticity, that the jingle
on which it turns occurs in the first scene of the
' Merry Wives of Windsor.* We may add too, that
Steevens considered Mr. Oldys' veracity as unim-
peachable, remarking, at the same time, that ' it is
not very probable that a ballad should be forged,
from which an undiscovered wag could derive no
triumph over antiquarian credulity.'
According to Mr. Capell, this ballad came ori-
ginally from Mr. Thomas Jones, who lived at Tarbick,
a village in Worcestershire, about 18 miles from
Stratford-on-Avon, and died in 1703, aged upwards
of ninety. ' He remembered to have heard from
several old people at Stratford the story of Shak-
speare's robbing Sir Thomas Lucy's park, and their
account of it agreed with Mr. Rowe's, with this
addition, that the ballad written against Sir T. Lucy
by Shakspeare was stuck on his park gate, which
exasperated the knight to apply to a lawyer at
Warwick to proceed against him. Mr. Jones put
down in writing the first stanza of this ballad, which
was all he remembered of it.' In a note on the
transcript with which Mr. Capell was furnished, it
LIFE OF SBAKSFEARE. XLl
ia said that * the people of those parts pronounce
lowsie like Lucy.' They do so to this day in Scot-
land. Mr. Wilkes, grandson of the gentleman to
■whom Mr. Jones repeated the stanza, appears to
have been the person who gave a copy of it to Mr.
Oldys and Mr. Capell.
In a manuscript History of the Stage, written
between the years 1727 and 1730, in which are
contained forgeries and falshoods of various kinds,
we meet with the following passage, on which
although we are unable to repose an equal degree
of confidence, still the internal evidence is such, as
to render its genuineness far from improbable :—
' Here we shall observe that the learned Mr. Joshua
Barnes, late Greek professor at Cambridge, baiting,
about 40 years ago, at an inn in Stratford, and
hearing an old woman singing part of the above song,
such was his respect for Shakspeare's genius, that he
gave her a new gown for the two following stanzas
in it; and, could she have said it all, he would (as
he often said in company when any discourse casually
arose about him) have given her ten guineas:—
Sir Thomas was too covetous
To covet so much deer,
When horns enough upon his head
Most plainly did appear.
Had not his worship one deer lefti
What then 1 He had a wife
Took pains enough to find him honu
Should last him during life '
0
xxn LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.
Mr. Malone has endeavored to prove that the
whole story of the deer-stealing is unworthy of
credit, that the verses are altogether spurious, and
that Sir T. Lucy never was in possession of a park
Charlecote; and thinks it much more probable
Jiat Shakspeare's own lively disposition made him
acquainted with some of the principal performers
who visited Stratford, a,;d that there he first deter-
mined to engage in the profession of a player. The
arrival of our author in I-ondon is generally supposed
to have taken place in 1586, when he was 22 years
of age.
Mr. Rowe nas affirmed, on a tradition which we
have no claim to dispute, that * he was obliged to
leave his family for some time ;' a fact in the highest
degree probable, from the causes which led to his
removal; for it is not to be supposed, situated as he
then was, that he would be willing to render his wile
acd children the partakers and companions of the
disasters and disappointments which it was probable
he had to encounter. Tradition farther says, as pre-
served in the manuscripts of Aubrey, that ' he was
wont to go to his native country once a yeare ;' and
Mr. Oldys, in his collections for a life of our author,
repeats this report with an additional circumstance,
remarking, ' if tradition may be trusted, Shakspeare
often baited at the Crown Inn, at Oxford, in his
journey to and from London.' The testimony of
LIFE OF SRAKSPEARE. xxiil
these statements will be strongly corroborated, if we
consult the parish register of Stratford; for it
appears on that record, that, merely including his
children, there is a succession of baptisms, marriages,
and deaths in his family at Stratford, from 1583 to
1616. In addition to this evidence, it may he re-
marked, that the poet, in a mortgage, dated the 10th
of March, 1612-13, is described as William Shak-
speare, of Stratford-on-Avon, gentleman; and that
by his contemporaries he was frequently styled ' the
sweet swan of Avon ;' designations, which must he
considered as implying the family residence of our
author. These circumstances induced Mr. Chalmers,
after much research, to conclude that Shakspeare
' had no fixed residence in the metropolis, nor ever
considered London as his home; hut had resolved
that his wife and family should remain through life
at Stratford, though he himself made frequent ex-
cursions to London, the scene of his profit, and the
theatre of his fame.'
Much controversy has been excited respecting
the nature of our author's early employment at the
London theatre, to which he appears to have been
introduced by Thomas Greene, a celebrated comedian
of the day, a native of Stratford, and, probably, a
relative of Shakspeare. We are informed by Kowe,
' that he was received into the company then in
being, at first, in a very mean rank.' It has hen
xxi7 LIFE OF SUA&SPEARB.
related that his first office was that of call-boy, cur
attendant on the prompter, and that his business was
to give notice to the performers when their different
entries on the stage were required. We may. how-
ever, reasonably conclude that Mr. Rowe only meant
to imply that his engagement as an actor was, at
first, in the performance of characters of the lowest
class, and that his rising talents afterwards recom-
mended him to the personation of a more elevated
range of parts. John Aubrey, a student at Oxford,
only 26 years after the poet's death, strongly sub-
stantiates this view of the case, when he tells us,
that ' being inclined naturally to poetry and acting,
he came to London, and was an actor at one of the
playhouses, and did act exceedingly well.'
Another tradition, which places him in a still
meaner occupation, is said to have been transmitted
through the medium of Sir W. Davenant to Mr.
Eetterton, who communicated it to Mr. Rowe, and
this gentleman to Mr. Pope, by whom, according to
Dr. Johnson, it was related in the following terms;
—' In the time of Elizabeth, coaches being yet un-
common, and hired coaches not at all in use, those
who were too proud, too tender, or too idle to walk,
went on horseback to any distant business or diver-
sion. Many came on horseback to the play; and
when Shakspeare fled to London from the terror of
a criminal prosecution, his first expedient was to
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. XXV
wait at the door of the pla3'house, and hold the
horses of those who had no servants, that they
might be ready again after the performance. In this
office he became so conspicuous for his care and
readiness, that, in a short time, every man, as he
alighted, called for Will Shakspeare, and scarcely
any other waiter was trusted with a horse while
Will Shakspeare could be had. This was the first
dawn of better fortune. Shakspeare, finding more
horses put into his hand than he could hold, hired boys
to wait under his inspection, who, when Will Shak*
speare was summoned, were immediately to present
themselves, ' I am Shakspeare's boy, sir.' In time,
Shakspeare found higher employment: but as long
as the practice of riding to the playhouse continued,
the waiters that held the horses retained the appel-
lation of Shakspeare's boys.'
The authenticity of this tradition appears very
questionable. It should be remembered that this
anecdote first appeared in Gibber's Lives of the
Poets ; and that if it were known to Mr. Rovve, it is
evident he thought it so little intitled to credit, that
he chose not to risk its insertion in his life of our
poet. In short, if we reflect for a moment, that,
Shakspeare, though he fled from Stratford to avoid
tlie severity of a prosecution, could not be destitute
of money or friends, as the necessity for that flight
was occamoned by an imprudent ebullition of wit,
SHAE 1 c
ZXvi LIFE OF SHAKSFEARB.
and not by any serious delinquency; that the father
of his wife was a yeoman both of respectability and
property; that his own father, though impoverished,
was still in business; and that he had, in all likeli-
hood, a ready admission to the stage through the
influence of persons of leading weight in its concerns;
we cannot, without doing the utmost violence to
)»rolmbility, conceive that, under these circumstances,
and in the 23rd year of his age, he would submit to
the degrading employment of either a horse-holder at
the door of a theatre, or of a call-boy within its walls.
That Shakspeare had a perfect knowlege of iiis
art is sufficiently proved by the instructions which
are given to the player in Hamlet, and by other pas-
sages in his works : it is improbable, however, that
he was entrusted with first-rate characters. Mr.
Rowe has mentioned as the sole result of his in-
quiries, that he excelled in representing the Ghost
in Hamlet; and if the names of the actors prefixed
to ' Every Man in his Humor' were arranged in the
same order as the persons of the drama, he must
have performed the part of Old Knowell in that
comedy. A traditionary anecdote relating to our
author's dramatic performances, preserved hy Mr.
Oldys, and communicated to him, as Mr. Malone
thinks, by Mr. T. Jones, of Tarbick, imports, (as
corrected by the learned commentator) that a rela-
tica of Shakspeare, then in advanced age, but who
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. XXvil
in his youth had been in the habit of visiting- London
for the purpose of seeing him act in some of his own
plays, told Mr. Jones, that he had a faint recollec-
tiuu ' of having once seen him act a part in one of
his own comedies, wherein, being to personate a do-
crepit old man, be wore a long beard, and appeared
80 weak, and drooping, and unable to walk, that he
was forced to be supported and carried by another
person to a table, at which he was seated among
some company, who were eating, and one of them
sang a song.' That this part was the character of
Adam, in * As You Like It,' there can be no doubt:
and hence, perhaps, we may be warranted in the
Conclusion, that the representation of aged charac-
ters was peculiarly his forte.
"We now come to that era in the life of Shakspeare
-when he began to write his immortal dramas, and to
develop those powers which have rendered him the
delight and wonder of successive ages. At the time
that he became in some degree a public character,
•we naturally expect to find many anecdotes recorded
of Ills literary history: but by a strange fatality, the
same want of authentic record, the same absence of
all contemporary anecdote, marks every stage of his
life. Even the date at whic'h his first play appeared
is unknown, and the greatest uncertainty prevails
with respect to the chronological order in which the
whole series was exhibited or published, of which 14
xzviii LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.
only were printed during the life-time of the poet.
As this subject was justly considered by Malone to
be both curious and interesting, he has appropriated
to its examination a long and laborious essay.
Chalmers, in his 'Supplemental Apology,' however
endeavors to controvert Malone's dates, and assigns
them to other eras. Dr. Drake suggests a new chro-
nological arrangement, and assigns very plausible ar-
guments in support of his opinions: he thinks that
the first drama, either wholly, or in great part
written by him, was 'Pericles,' which was produced
iu 1590. Malone says the 'First Part of Henry
VI.' published in 1589, and commonly attributed to
Sbakspeare, was not written by him, though it
might receive some corrections from his pen at a
subsequent period, in order to fit it for representa-
tion. The 'Second Part of Henry YI.' this writer
contends, ought therefore to be considered as Shak*
speare's first dramatic piece; and he thinks that it
might be composed about 1591, but certainly not
earlier than 1590.
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE.
Malone.
Chalmers.
Drafco
1.
Henry VI. Part 1. . .
1589
1696
.
2,
Pericles ....
1690
3. Henry VI. Part 2. . .
1691
1696
1692
4.
Henry VI. Part 3. . .
1691
1695
1692
6.
Two Gentlemen of Verona
1691
1695
1695
6.
Comedy of Errors . .
1692
1691
1591
7.
Richard II. . . •
1693
1596
1696
LIFE OF SIIAKSPEARE.
sxiz
Malone. Chalmers. .T>rake.
S. Richard III. ...
1593
1595
1595
9. Love's Labor's Lost .
1594
1592
1591
10. Merchant of Venice
1594
1597
1597
11. Midsummer Night's Dream
1594
1598
1593
12. Taming of the Shrew .
1596
1598
1594
12. Romeo and Juliet . .
1596
1592
1593
14. King John . . .
1596
1593
1598
15. Henry IV. Part 1. .
1597
1596
1596
IB. Henry IV. Part 2. .
1599
1597
1596
17. As You Like It . .
1599
1599
1600
18. Henry V. . . .
1599
1597
1599
19. Much Ado about Nothing
1600
1599
1599
20. Hamlet ....
1600
1597
1597
21. Merry Wives of Windsor
1601
1596
1601
22. Truilus and Cressida .
1602
1600
1601
23. Measure for Measure .
1603
1604
1603
24. Henry VIII. ...
1603
1613
1602
25. Othello . • « •
1604
1614
1612
26. King Lear . .
1605
1605
1604
27. Ail's Well that Ends Well
1606
1599
1598
28. Macbeth ...
1606
1606
1606
29. Julius Caesar ...
1607
1607
1607
30. Twelfth Night . .
1607
1613
1613
31. Antony and Cleopatra .
1608
1608
1608
32. Cymbeline ...
1609
1606
1605
33. Coriolanus ...
1610
1609
1609
34. TImon of Athens . .
1610
1601
1602
35. Winter's Tale ...
1611
1601
1610
36. Tempest ....
1611
1613
1611
Much has been said by different commentators on
certain plays ascribed to Shaksiieare, but which are
of such a doubtful class, that it is almost impossible
to identify their authors; and it is quite impossible
to prove them 'to be, or not to be,' the writings of
the bard of Avon. 'Titus Androuicus' is generally
classed with his plays; but all the critics, except
•
XXX LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.
Capell and Schlegel, consider it to be unworthy
of Shakspearc. The editors of the first folio edition
however have included it in that volume; which,
combined with other circumstances, implies that
they considered the play as his production. George
Meres, a contemporary and admirer of Shakspeare,
enumerates it among his works in 1598, and Meres
was personally acquainted with; and consulted by,
our poet. * I cannot conceive,' says Schlegel, ' that
all the critical scepticism in the worM would be
sufficient to get over such a testimony. The same
critic assigns other reasons to show, that this play
•was one of Shakspeare's early productions, between
1584 and 1590. 'Can we imagine,' he asks, 'that
such an active head would remain idle for six whole
years, without making any attempt to emerge by his
talents from an uncongenial situation ?' The fol-
lowing pieces appeared during Shakspeare's life-
time, and with his name to them;—1. Locrine; 2.
Sir John Oldcastle; 3. Lord Cromwell; 4. The
London Prodigal; 5. The Puritan; and, 6. A York-
shire Tn^gedy Schlegel, speaking of these plays,
says. ' The last three are not only unquestionably
Shakspeare's. but, in my opinion, they deserve to be
classed among his best and maturest works. Steevcns
admits, at least in some degree, that they are Shak-
speare's. as well as the others, excepting ' Locrine
but he. speaks of them all with great contempt, as
LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE. XXXi
quite worthless productions.' On the same subject
let lis hear the decided language of Dr. Drake:—
' Of these wretched dramas, it has been now posi-
tiveljr proved, through the medium of the Henslowe
papers, that the name of Shakspeare, which is printed
at length in the title-pages of Sir John Oldcastle,
1690, and The London Prodigal, 1605, was atiixed
to those pieces by a knavish bookseller, without any
foundation.' Eight other dramatic pieces have been
attributed to Shakspeare; all of which are con-
demned by Dr. Drake, who says, he does not beiieve
that • twenty lines can be found of Shakspeare in
* King Henry VI.' or ' Titus Andronicus,' and not
so many in the six above enumerated; and there-
fore,' says he, ' to enter into any critical discussion
of the merits or defects of these pieces, would be an
utter abuse of time.' The same may be said of
other volumes, consisting of poems, &c. which cer-
tain unprincipled booksellers have foisted on the
world, even with the name of Shakspeare in the
title-page. A rare little volume, called • Cupid s
Cabinet Unlocked,' in the possession of James Perry,
Esq., with the name of our author, was inspected by
that enthusiastic admirer of Shakspeare, Mr. Britton,
who pronounces it to have no other characteristic of '
the great author, whose name is thus prostituted.
Besides his thirty-six plays, Shakspeare wrote
some poetical pieces, which were published sepa-
rately, viz. Venus and Adonis, printed in 1593; The
xxxii LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.
Rape of Lucrece, in 1594; The Passionate Pilgrim,
in 1599; A Lover's Complaint, undated; and a
volume of Sonnets, in 1609. The first and second
of these productions were dedicated to his great
patron, the Earl of Southampton, who is reported,
at one time, to have given Shakspeare 1000/. to
enable him to complete a purchase; a sum which
in those days would be equal in value to more
than five times its present amount. This may
be, and probably is, an exaggeration; but that
it has been founded on the well-known liberality of
liord Southampton to Shakspeare; on a certain
knowlege that donations had passed from the peer
to the poet, there can be little doubt. The earls of
Pembroke and Montgomery are said to have vied
with this amiable nobleman in the patronage of our
author, who was soon after honored by the favor of
Queen Elizabeth, at whose desire he is stated to have
composed the ' Merry Wives of Windsor.' Tradition
says, this was executed in a fortnight, and afforded
Her Majesty entire satisfaction. The approbation
and encouragement of the two sovereigns, under
whose reigns he florished, was a subject of contem-
porary notoriety; for Ben Jonson, in his celebrated
eulogy, thus apostrophises his departed friend :—
Sweet swan of Avon, what a sight it were.
To see thee in our waters yet appear;
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That BO did take Eliza and our .Tames.
LIFE OF SUAKSPEARB. XXXui
The latter monarch was present at the representa-
tion of many of his pieces, and is stated by Lintot
to have written ' an amicable letter to Mr. Shak-
speare,' in return, as Dr. Fanner supposes, for the
compliment paid to him in Macbeth, where allusicn
is made to the kingdoms of England and Scotland
being united under one sovereign, and to James's
pretensions of curing the malady of the king's evil
by his royal touch. This letter is said to have re-
mained long in the possession of Sir W. Davenant,
who was by some persons thought to be an ilieg^ti-
mate son of our author, if the following traditionary
anecdote be worthy of credit:—
That Shakspeare was accustomed to pay an
annual visit to his native place has been already
noticed; and we leam from Antony Wood, that in
performing these journeys, he used to bait at the
Crown Inn at Oxford, which was then kept by J.
Davenant, the father of the poet. Antony represents
Mrs. Davenant as both beautiful and accomplished,
and her husband as a lover of plays, and a groat
admirer of Shakspeare. The frequent visits of the
bard, and the charms of his landlady, appear to have
given birth to some scandalous surmises; for Oldys,
repeating Wood's story, adds, on the authority of
Betterton and Pope, that their son, young Will
Davenant, afterwards Sit William, was then a little
8chool-boy in the town, of about seven or eight
j'cars old, and so fond also of Shakspeare, that
*
XXxiv LIFE OF SHAKSFEARF.
whenever he heard of his arrival, he would fly from
school to see him. One day, an old townsman,
observing the boy running homeward almost out of
oreath, asked him whither he was posting in that
heat and hurry. He answered, to see his yod-father
Shakspeare. ' There's a good boy,' said the other;
' but have a care that you don't take God's name in
vain.' It has been also said that Sir William had
the weakness to feel gratified by the publicity of
this supposition.
In the year 159G Shakspeare's feelings as a father
were put to a severe trial, by the loss of his only son,
Hamnet, who died in August, at the age of twelve.
Shakspeare was now residing, it would appear
from evidence referred to by Mr. Malone, near the
Bear Garden in Southwark; and in the following
year, 1597, he purchased of Wm. Underhill, Esq.
one of the best houses in his native town of Strat-
ford, which, having repaired and improved, he de-
nominated New Place. Whether this was the pur-
chase, in which he is said to have been so materially
assisted by Lord Southampton, cannot positively be
affirmed; but as he had not long emerged from his
difficulties, it is highly probable that, on this, as
well as on subsequent occasions, he was indebted to
the bount}' of his patron.* It must be gratifying to
' A late Reviewer has observed, in estimating the genius
of Byron and Shakspeare, that the former could never claim
LIFE OF FHAKSPEARE. XXXV
every reader to reflect, that one, to whom mankind
Las been so largely indebted for the pleasure and
instruction which his writings have afforded, was
not, while he was administering to the delight of
others, himself laboring under the pressure of po-
vorty; and we are rejoiced to find him, at the close
of life, leaving his family in a state of comparative
a/Huence.
The commencement of theantimaey between our
author and Ben Jonson has been commonly assigned
to the year 1598. We are informed by Mr. Rowe,
tJiat his friendship ' began with a remarkable piece
of humanity and good nature. Mr. Jonson, who
was at that time altogether unknown to the world,
equal talent with the latter in his delineations of high life;
since Sliakspeare never liaU the advantage of mixing in such
society, while Byron was bred and educated in the midst of
it. The same opinion has indeed been generally adopted,
and some Commentators have even considered that Shak-
speare always lived in a state of comparative obsfurity.
Such however cannot be the fact; for with the acknowleged
patronage of such men as Lords Southampton, Pembroke,
and Montgomery, it cannot well be doubted that he was
introduced to the society and intercourse of great as well as
good men.—Is it not a little surprising that Lord Byroii
should have disparaged tlie genius of Sliakspeare, whom
every great poet and philosopher has so universally and un.
equivocally admired and extolled? The excessive praise
bestowed by Byron on Pope suggests many reflections» wbicb
more properly belong to his own biography ; though perhaps
euch extreme approbation may have had some reference to
his own occasional controversies relative to that poet.
•
XXKVi LIFE OF SHAKSPEAUK.
had offered one of his plays to the players to have
it acted; and the persons into whose hands it was
put, after having turned it carelessly and super-
ciliously over, were just on the point of returning it
to him with an ill-natured answer, that it would lie
of no service to the company, when Shakspeare
luckily cast his eye on it, and found something so
well in it, as to engage him first to read it through,
and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson and hie
writings to the public.'
That this kind office was in perfect unison with
the general character of Shakspeare will readily be
admitted; yet there is much reason to conclude
that the whole account is without foundation. Both
Mr. M alone and Dr. Drake concur in disbelieving
the story; and ' that Jonson was altogether un-
known to the world,' remarks Mr. Gifford, ' is
a palpable untruth. At this period, 1598, Jonson
was as well known as Shakspeare, and perhaps
better. He was poor indeed, and very poor, and a
mere retainer of the theatres; but he was intimately
acquainted with Henslowe and Alleyn, and with all
the performers at their houses: he was familiar
with Drayton, Chapman, Rowley, Middleton, and
Fletcher; he had been writing for three years, in
conjunction with Marston, Decker, Chettle, Porter,
Bird, and with most of the poets of the day; he
was celebrated by Meres as one of the principal
LIVE OF SH^KSPEARE. xxxvil
vritcrs of tragedy; and he had long been rising in
reputation as a scholar and poet among the must
distinguished characters of the age. At this moment
he was employed on ' Every Man out of his Humor,'
which was acted in 1599; and, in the elegant de-
dication of that comedy to the gentlemen of the
Inns of Court, he says, * When I wrote this poem,
I had friendship .with divers of your societies, who
as they were great names in learning, so were they
no less examples of living. Of them, and then, that
I say no more, it was not despised.' And yet Jon-
son was, at this time, ' altogether unknown to the
world!' and offered a virgin comedy, which had
already been three years on the stage, to a player,
in the humble hope that it might be accepted!'
Neither are the charges of enmity, which have
been so often preferred against Jonson by Rowe and
otljers, better deserving of credit. Mr. Gifford,
after successfully overthrowing the long prevalent
stories of the hostility which is said to have sub-
sis ted between these two great men, thus remarks:
—' It is my fixed persuasion, not lightly adopted,
but deduced from a wide examination of the subject,
that Jonson and Shakspeare were friends and as-
sociates till the latter finally retired;—that no feud,
no jealousy ever disturbed tlieir connexion;—that
Shakspeare was pleased with Jonson, and that Jon-
son loved and admired Sliakspeare.'
•
XXXVlii LIFE OF SHAKSPEARB.
It appears not a little remarkable, that Jonson
seems to have maintained a higher place in the es-
timation of the public in general than our poet, tor
more than a century after the death of the latter.
"Within that period Jonson's works are said to nave
passed through several editions, while Shakspeare's
were comparatively neglected till the time of Rowe.
This circumstance is in a great measure to be ac-
counted for on the principle that classical litera-
ture and collegiate learning were regarded in those
days as the chief criterions of merit.
In 1599, Shakspeare's sister, Joan, was united
to Mr. William Hart, a hatter in Stratford;—an
occurrence, which, in the great dearth of events
unfortunately incident to our subject, is of some
importance: and on the 8th of September, 1601.
his father, Mr. John Shakspeare, expired, leaving a
name immortalized by the celebrity of his oflFspring.
In 1602, no other trace of our author is disco-
verable, independent of his literary exertions, than
that, on the first day of May, in that year, he pur-
chased, in Stratford, 107 acres of land, for 320/.
which lands appear to have been connected with
his former purchase of New Place, and to have
descended with it.
On the last day of 1607, our poet buried, at St.
Sariour, Southwark, his brother Edmond. who with
singular precision is entered in the register of that
LIFE OF SHAKSFEARB. XXXix
parish as • Edmond Shakspeare, a playerso that,
as Mr. Chalmers has observed, 'there were two
Shakspeares on the stage during the same period.'
Though Shakspeare continued to write till 1611
or 1613, he had probably declined appearing as an
actor long before that period; as no mention of his
name can be found among the list of players subse*
quent to the production of Ben Jonson's Sejanus in
1603, in which year he succeeded in obtaining a
license from King James, to exhibit comedies, tra-
gcdies, histories, &c. at the Globe theatre; and was
enabled to acquire, during his dramatic career from
this period, a considerable accumulation of property.
Gildon, in his Letters and Essays, 1694, estimated
the amount at 300/. per annum, a sum at least equal
to 1000/. in our days; but Mr. Malone thinks that
it could not exceed 200/., which yet was a consider-
able fortune in those times. Being thus in posses-
sion of an independence adequate to his wishes, he
quitted the business of the theatre, and passed the
remainder of his life in honorable ease, at his native
town.
The exact period at which Shakspeare quitted
tlie metropolis has not been ascertained; but as his
name does not occur in the accounts of the Globe
theatre for 1613, and no mention is made of it in
his will; it seems reasonable to infer, that he dis-
posed of his interest in that concern previous to
•
xl LIFP. OF SHAKSFEARB.
leaving London, which event probably took place in
the summer of that year.
That he was greatly honored and respected at
Stratford, we are induced to credit, not only from
tradition, but from the tone and disposition of heart
and intellect which his works everywhere evince;
and, accordingly, Rowe has told us, that ' his
pleasurable wit and good nature engaged him in the
acquaintance, and intitled him to the friendship, of
the gentlemen of the neighborhood.'
Shortly after the retirement of Shakspeare from
public life, his residence narrowly escaped a dreadful
conflagration, which, on July 9th, 1614, destroyed
54 houses at Stratford, and consumed much valuable
property.
It is not known what particular malady termi-
nated the life and labors of this incomparable genius.
He died on the 23d of April, 1616, his birth-day
when he had exactly completed his 5 2d year. It is
remarkable, that on the same day expired, in Spain,
his great and amiable contemporary, Cervantes; the
world being thus deprived, at nearly the same
moment, of the two most original writers which
modern Europe has produced.
On the second day after his decease the remmns
of Shakspeare were committed to the grave, within
the chancel of the parish church; where a flat stone
and monument were afterwards placed to point out
aCCinr3IEIfT CF SEAKSPEARE.
In. Stralfori CKwch.
LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE. xH
the spot, aud commemorate his likeness, name, and
memory. In what year the monument was erected
is not known, but certainly before 1623, as it is
mentioned in the verses of Leonard Digges in that
year. He is represented under an arch, in a sitting
posture, a cushion spread before bim, with a peji in
his right hand, and his left rested on a scroll of
paper. The following distich is engraved under the
cushion:—
Judicio Pylivm, genio Socratem, arte Maronem,
Terra tegit, popvlvs mceret, Olympvs babet.
In addition to this Latin inscription, the following
lines are found on a tablet immediately underneath
the cushion on his monument:—
Stay, passenger, why goest thov by so fast ?
Read, if thov canst, whom enviovs death hath plast
Within this monvment, Shakspeare ; with whome
Qvick natrre dide; whose name doth deck ys tombs
Far more than coste, sieth all yt. he hath writt.
Leaves living art hvt page to serve his witt.
Obiit Ano. Uoi. 1616. aetatis die 33 Ap.
On his ggave-stone underneath is the following in-
scription, expressed, as Mr. Steevens observes, in
an uncouth mixture of small and capital letters
Good Frend for lesus SAKE forbeare
• To dice T-E Dust EncloAsed HElle
Blese be T-£ Man ^ spares T-ES Stones
And curst he He ^ moves my Bones
flUAKs I
xhi LIFE OF SRAKSPEARB.
It is uncertain whether this epitaph was written -
hy Shakspeare himself, or by one of his friends after
his death. ' The imprecation contained in the last
line was probably suggested,' as Mr. Malone ha;
remarked, ' by an apprehension that his remains
might share the same fate with those of the rest of
his countrymen, and be added to the immense pile
of human bones deposited in the charnel-house at
Stratford.*
In the year 1741, another very noble and beautiful
monument was raised to his memory, at the public
expense, in Westminster Abbey, under the direction
of the Earl of Burlington, Dr. Mead, Mr. Pope, and
Mr. Martyn. It stands near the south door of the
Abbey, and was the work of Scheemaker, after a
design of Kent. The performers of each of the
London theatres gave a benefit to defray the ex-
penses, and the dean and chapter took nothing for
the ground.
We have now recorded the substance of the
scanty notices respecting the life of Shakspeare,
which we are enabled to collect from Rowe and
flora various commentators on his works. To these
we shall add the following anecdotes from John
Aubrey, in his manuscript collections in the Ashmo-
lean Museum at Oxford. It is worthy of note, that
Aubrey resided at Oxford for several years after
1642; that he Avas intimate with Sir W. Davenant
LIFE OF SHAKSPEAKE. xliii
Hobbcs, Milton, Ray, &c. ; that he made it a
practice to collect and write down anecdotes of his
friends and of public characters; that Davenant
knew Shakspeare; that there was frequent commu-
nication between Stratford and Oxford; and that,
although there are some variations in the accounts
of Rowe and Aubrey, the latter is, on the whole,
most intitled to credit.
* Mr. William Shakespear was borne at Stratford
upon Avon, in the county of Warwick: his father
was a butcher, and I have been told heretofore by
some of the neighbours, that when he was a boy he
exercised his father's trade; but when he kill'd a
calfe, he would doe it in a high style, and make a
speech. There was at that time another butcher's
son in this towne, that was helde not at all inferior
to him for a naturall witt, his acquaintance and
coetanean, but dyed young. This William, being
inclined naturally to poetry and acting, came to
London, I guesse about eighteen, and was an actor
at one of the playhouses, and did act exceedingly
well. Now Ben Jonson never was a good actor,
but an excellent instructor. He began early to
make essayes at dramatique poetry, which at that
time was very lowe, and his playes tooke well.
He was a handsome, well-shap't man, very g;ood
company, and of a very readie and pleasant smooth
witt: the humour of the constable in ' A Midsum-
»
Xliv ' LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.
mer Night's Dreame,' > he happened to take at
Grendon, in Bucks, which is the roade from London
to Stratford* and there was living that constable
about 1642. when I first came to Oxon. Mr. Jos.
Howe is of that parish, and knew him. Ben Jonson
and he did gather humours of men dayly, wherever
they came. One time, as he was at the tavern, at
Stratford-upon-Avon, one Combes, an old rich usurer,
was to be buryed; he makes there this extemporary
epitaph:—
Ten in tbe hundred the devill allowes.
But Combes will bave twelve be sweares and vowes:
If any one askes who lies in tbis tombe,
• Hob,' quoth the devill, ' 'tis my John o' Combe.'
• He was wont to goe to his native country once
a yeare. I think I have been told, that he left 200
or 300 lib. per annum, there and therabout, to a
sister. I have heard Sir William D'Avenant and
Mr. Thomas Shadwell, who is counted the best
comoedian we have now, say that he had a most
prodigious witt; and did admire his naturall parts
beyond all other dramaticall writers. He was wont
to say that he never blotted out a line in his life;
sayd Ben .lonson, ' 1 wish he had blotted out a
thousand.' His comoedies will remain witt as long as
the English tongue is understood, for that he handles
' Probably Dogberry, in ' Much Ado about Nothing.'
LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE. xlv
mores hominum : now our present writers reflect so
much upon particular persons and coxcombeities,
that twenty years hence they will not be understood.
' Though, as Ben Jonson sayes of him, that he
had hut little Latine and lesse Greek, he understood
Latine pretty well, for he had been in his younger
years a schoolmaster in the country.' See Letters
from the Bodleian Library, &c. iii. 307.
In order to reconcile these conflicting testimonies,
Malone supposes that Aubrey confounded the father
of our poet, with John, son of Thomas Shakspeare,
a butcher at Warwick, who lived at the same period.
Dr. Drake, however, conjectures that John Shak-
speare, when under the pressure of adversity, might
combine the two employments of wool-stapler and
butcher, which are in a certain degree connected
with each other. The same learned author seems
also inclined to believe, with Malone, that, in the
early part of his life, Shakspeare was employed in
the oflice of an attorney; that some uncertain rumor
of this kind might have continued to the middle of
the last century; and by the time it reached Aubrey,
our poet's original occupation was changed from a
scrivener to that of a schoolmaster.
To the disposition and moral character of Shak-
speare, to the felicity of his temper and the sweetness
of his manners, tradition has ever borne the most
uniform and favorable testimony: and, indeed, had
#
xlvi LIFE OF snAKSPEARE
she been silent on the subject, his own works would
have whispered to us the truth ; would have told us,
ill almost every page, of the gentleness, the benevo-
lence, and the goodness of his heart. That a temper
of this description, and combined with such talents,
should be the object of sincere and ardent friendship,
can excite no surprise. ' I loved the man,' says
Jonson, with a noble burst of enthusiasm, ' and do
honor his memory on this side idolatry as much as
any. He was indeed honest, and of an open and
free nature.' ' My gentle Shakspeare' is the Ian-
guage of the same great man, in his poem to the
memory of our b&rd; and Rowe, repeating the un-
contradicted rumor of times past, has told us, ' that
every one, who had a true sense of merit, and could
distinguish men, had generally a just value and
esteem for him;' adding, ' that his exceeding candor
and good nature must certainly have inclined all the
gentler part of the world to love him.'
Mrs. Shakspeare, who survived her husband eight
years, was buried between his grave and the north
wall of the chancel, under a stone inlaid with brass,
and thus inscribed :—
l leere lyeth interred the bodye of Anne, wife of Mr. William
Shakespeare, who depted. this life the 6th day of Avgvst,
16SS, being of the age of 67 yeares.
Ybera, tv. Mater, tv lac vitamq. dedisti;
Vm mibi! pro tanto mvnere saxa dabo.
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARB. xlvii
Qvam inallem, amoveat laptdem bonirs angel' ore.
Exeat vt Cliristi corpvs, imago tva.
Sed nil vota valent; venias cito, (Ihriste ; resvrget,
Clavsa licet tvmvlo, mater, et astra petet.
Of Shakspeare's two daughters, the eldest, Su-
sunna, married Dr. John Hall, a physician of Strat-
ford, who is said to have obtained much reputation
and practice. She brought her husband an only
child, Elizabeth, who was married, first, to Thomas
Nashe, Esq. and afterwards to Sir John Barnard, of
Abingdon, in Northamptonshire; but had no issue
by either of them. Judith, Shakspeare's second
daughter, married Thomas Quiney, a vintner of
Stratford, by whom she had three children; but
none of them reached their twentieth year, and they
left no posterity. Hence our poet's last lineal de-
scendant was Lady Barnard, who was buried at
Abingdon, February 17, 1669-70. Dr. Hall, her
father, died November 25, 1635, and her mother
July 11, 1649: and both were interred in Stratfoid
church.
Our poet's house and lands continued in the pos-
session of his descendants to the time of the Resto-
ration, when they were repurchased by tbe Clopton
family, the original proprietors. Sir Hugh Clopton,
who was knighted by George I., modernised the
residence by internal and external alterations, and
in 1742, entertained Macklin, Garrick, and Dr.
Delany under Shakspeare's mulberry-tree. By Sir
•
xlviii LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.
Hugh's executor it was sold to the Rev. Francis
Gastrell, vicar of Frodsham in Cheshire; who, if we
may judge by his actions, felt no pride or pleasure
in this charming retirement, no consciousness of
i being possessed of the sacred ground, which the
Aluses had consecrated to the memory of their fa-
vorite poet. The celebrated mulberry-tree, planted
by Shakspeare's hand, became first an object of his
dislike, because it subjected him to answer the fre-
quent importunities of travellers, whose zeal might
prompt them to visit it. In an evil hour the sacri-
legious priest ordered the tree, then remarkably
large and at its full growth, to be cut down; which
was no sooner done, than it was cleft to pieces for
fire-wood: this took place in 1756, to the great
vexation, not only of the inhabitants, but of every
admirer of our bard. I'he greater part of it was
however soon after purchased by Mr. T. Sharp,
watch-maker, of Stratford; who, well acquainted
with the value set on it by the world, turned it
much to his advantage, by converting every frag-
ment into small boxes, goblets, tooth-pick cases,
tobacco-stoppers, and numerous other articles. Nor
did New Place long escape the destructive hand of
Mr. Gastrell, who, being compelled to pay the
monthly assessments towards the maintenance of the
poor, some of which he expected to avoid because
he resided part of the year at Lichfield, though his
LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE. xlix
servants continued in the bouse at Stratford during
his absence ;—in the beat of bis anger declared, that
house should never be assessed again ; and to give
his imprecation due effect, and wishing as it seems
to be ' damn'd to everlasting fame,' the demolition
of New Place soon followed; for in 1759 be razed
the building to the ground, disposed of the materials,
and left Stratford amidst the rage and curses of its
inhabitants. Thus was the town deprived of one of
its principal ornaments and most valued relics, by a
man, who, had he been possessed of a true sense,
and a veneration for the memory of our bard, would
have rather preserved whatever particularly con-
cerned their great and immortal owner, than ig-
norantly have trodden the ground which had been
cultivated by the greatest genius in the world,
without feeling those emotions which naturally
arise in the breast of the generous enthusiast.
Many portraits have been engraved and published
as likenesses of our author; but it is a lamentable
and extraordinary fact, that there is no authority
attached to one of them. The pedigree of each is
defective, and even that in the title of the first folio
edition of the author's works, which has been po-
etically extolled by Jonson, is so badly drawn and
executed, that it cannot he considered a good like-
ness. Not so the monumental bust in Stratford
church; for this appeals to our eyes and under-
•
1 LIFK OF SHAKSFEARE.
standing with all the force of truth, and indeed has
always been esteemed the most authentic and pro-
bable portrait of the poet. It was executed soon
after his decease, and, according to credible tradition,
was copied from a cast after nature.
In the present edition the text of Malone has
been followed, as published under the superintend-
ence of Mr. Boswell in the year 1821, in 21 volumes.
The great superiority of this text over every other
hitherto published is now generally acknowleg^d.
By a careful collation of the early folio and quarto
editions, and by a- rigid adherence to the determina-
tion of admitting no reading unsupported by one or
more of these early copies, unless where an absolute
want of intelligibility from typographical carelessness
compelled him to do so, Mr. Malone has succeeded
in presenting us with as perfect a transcript of the
words of Shakspeare as can reasonably be expected
from any materials, of which we are at present in
possession.
LIFB OF SBAESFEABE.
li
SQAKSPEARE'S WILL.
[EXTRACTED TBOX REQI3TBT OF THE ARCHBISHOP OP CANTERBVBX.]
Vicesimo quinto die MartOy Anno Regni Domini nostri Jacobi
nunc JRegie Anglioe^ Ac,, decimo quarto, et Scoiioe quadrage*
timo nono. Anno Domini 1616.
In the name ef God, Amen. I William Shakspeare, of Strat-
ford-upon-atod, in the county of Warwick, gent, in perfect
health and memory (God be praised), do make and ordain
this my last will and testament in manner and form following:
that is to say—
First, I commend my soul into the hands of God my Crea>
tor, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the only merits
of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be made partaker of life ever-
lasting; and my body to the earth whereof it is made.
Item, I give and bequeath unto my daughter Judith one
hundred and fifty pounds of lawful English money, to be paid
unto her in manner and form following: that is to say, one
hundred pounds in discharge of her marriage portion, within
one year after my decease, with consideration after the rate
of two shillings in the pound for so long time as the same shall
be unpaid unto her after my decease; and the fifty pounds re-
sidue thereof, upon her surrendering of, or giving of such
sufficient security as the overseers of this my will shall like
of, to surrender or grant all her estate and right that shall
descend or come unto her after my decease, or that she now
hath of, in, or to, one copyhold tenement, with the appurte-
nances, lying and being in Stratford-upon-Avon, aforesaid, in
lii
UFK OP SUAKSPEARE.
the said county of Warwick, being parcel or holden of the
manor of Rowington, unto my daughter Susanna Hall, and hep
heirs for ever.
Itemy I give and bequeath unto my said daughter Judith one
hundred and fifty pounds more, if she, or any issue of her
body, be living at the end of three years next ensuing the day
of the date of this my will, during which time my executors
to pay her consideration from my decease according to the
rate aforesaid; and, if she die within the said term, without
issue of her body, then my will is, and I do give and bequeath
one hundred pounds thereof to my niece Elizabeth Hall, and
the fifty pounds to be set forlh by my executors during the
life of my sister Joan Harte; and the use and profit thereof
coming, shall be paid to my said sister Joan, and alter her de-
cease the said fifty pounds shall remain amongst the children
of my said sister, equally to be divided amongst them; but if
my said daughter Judith be living at the end of the said three
years, or any issue of her body, then my will is, and so I de-
vise and bequeath the said hundred and fiity pounds to be set
out by my executors and overseers for the best benefit of her
and her issue, and the stock not to be paid unto her so long
as she shall be married and covert baron; but my will is, that
she shall have the consideration yearly paid unto her during
her life, and after her decease the said stock and consideration
to be paid to her children, if she have any, and if not, to her
executors or assigns, she living the said term after my de-
cease; provided that if such husband as she shall at the end
of the said three years bo married unto, or at [time] after, do
sufficiently assure unto her, and the issue of her body, lands
answerable to the portion by this my will given unto her, and
to be adjudged so by my executors and overseers, then my
will is, that the said hundred and fifty pounds shall be paid to
such husband as shall make such assurance, to his own use.
Item, I give and bequeath unto my said sister Joan twenty
pounds, and all my wearing apparel, to be paid and delivered
LIFE OF SBAESPBARB.
liii
within one year after my decease; and I do will and devise
unto her the house with the appurtenances, in Stratford,
wherein she dwelleth, for her natural life, under the yearly
rent of twelve pence.
Item, I give and bequeath nnio her three sons, William
ITarte, Harte, and Michael Harte, five pounds a piece,
to be paid within one year after my decease.
Item, 1 give and bequeath nnio the said Elizabeth Hall ail
my plate that I now have, except my broad silver and gilt
boxes, at the date of this my will.
Item, I give and bequeath unto the poor of Stratford afore-
said ten pounds ; to Mr. Thomas Combe my sword; to Thomas
Bussel, Esq., fire pounds; and to Francis Collins, of the
borough of Warwick, in the county of Warwick, gent., thir-
teen pounds six shillings and eight-pence, to be paid within
bne year after my decease.
Item, I give and bequeath to Hamlet Sadler twenty-six shil-
lings eight-pence, to buy him a ring; to Wiiliara Reynolds,
gent, twenty-six shillings eight-pence, to buy him a ring; to
my godson William Walker twenty shillings in gold; to An-
thony Nash, gent., twenty-six shillings eight-pence; and to
Mr. John Nash twenty-six shillings eight-pence; and to my
fellows John Heminge, Richard Burbage, and Henry Condell,
twenty-six shillings eight-pence a piece, to buy them rings.
Item, I give, will, bequeath, and devise unto my daughter
Susanna Hall, for the better enabling of her to perform this
my will, and towards the performance thereof, alt that capital
messuage or tenement, with the appurtenances, in Stratford
aforesaid, called the New Place, wherein I now dwell, and
two messuages or tenements, with the appurtenances, situate,
lying, and being in Henley-street, within the borough of
Stratford aforesaid; and all my bams, stables, orchards,
gardens, lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever,
situate, lying, and being, or to be had, reserved, preserved,
or taken within the towns, hamlets, villages, fields, and
#
liv
LIFE OF SHAESFEARE.
grounds of Stratford-upon-Aron, Old Stratford, Bishopton,
and Wolcome, or in any of them, in the said county of
Warwick; and also all that messuage or tenement, with the
appurtenances, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth, situate,
lying, and being in the Black-Friars in London, near the
Wardrobe; and all other my lands, tenements, and heredita-
ments whatsoever; to have and to hold all and singular the
said premises, with their appurtenances, unto the said Susanna
Hall, for and during the term of her natural li.'e; and, after
her decease, to the first son of her body lawfully issuing, and
to the heirs males of the bo<^ly of the said first son lawfully
issuing; and for default of such issue, to the second son of
her body lawfully issuing, and to the heirs males of the body
of the said second son lawfully issuing; and for default of
such heirs, to the third son of the body of the said Susanna
lawfully issuing, and of the heirs males of the body of the said
third son lawfully issuing; and for default of such issue, the
same to be and remain to the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh
sons of her body lawfully issuing, one after another, and to the
heirs males of the bodies of the said fourth, fifth, sixth, and
seventh sons lawfully issuing, in such manner as it is before
limited to be, and remain to the first, second, and third song
of iter body, and to their heirs males; and for default of such
issue, the said premises to be and remain to my said niece
Hall, and the heirs males of her body lawfully issuing; and
for default of such issue, to my daughter Judith, and Ihe heirs
males other body lawfully issuing; and for default of such
issue, to the right heirs of me the said William Shakspeare
for ever.
Item, I give unto my wife my second-best bed, with the
furniture.
Item, I give and bequeath to my said daughter Judith my
broad silver gilt bowl. All the rest of my goods, chattels
leases, plate, jewels, and household-stuff whatsoever, after
my debts and legacies paid, and my fuueral expenses dis-
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.
If
charged, i give, devise, and bequeath to my son-in-lntr, John
Hall, gent., and my daughter Susanna, his wife, whom i
ordain and make executors of this my last will and testament.
And I do entreat and appoint the said Thomas Russell, esq.,
and Francis Collins, gent., to be overseers hereof, and do
revoke all former wills, and publish this to be my last will and
testament. In witness whereof I have hereunto put my hand,
the day and year first above written,
By me, Wiluah Sdakspeabi.
Witness to the publishing hereof,
Fra. Coluss,
Julius Shaw,
JOHX ROEINSOXf
Hamlet Sadler,
Robert Whattcoat.
Prohatum coram Magistro William Byrde, Legum Doe-
tore^ CotnmiissariOf Ac, vieesimo secundo die mensis Junii,
A, D. 1616. juramento Johannie HaJl unius ex, cuL Ac,
de henCi Ac, jurat, reservata potestale^ Ac, Susanna
Hall alt. ex, Ac. earn cum venerity Ac, peiUur, Ac,
0
DR. JOHNSOiT'S PREFACE
TO
SIIAKSPEARE.
♦
That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and
that the honors due only to excellence are paid to antiquity,
is a comilaint likely to be always continued by those, who,
being able fo add nothing to truth, hope for eminence from the
heresies of paradox; or those, who, being forced by disap-
pointment on consolatory expedients, are willing to hope from
posterity what the present age refuses, and flatter themselves
that (he regard which is yet denied by envy, will be at last
bestowed by time.
Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts the notice
of mankind, has undoubtedly votaries that reverence it, not
from reason, but from prejudice. Some seem to admire in-
discriminately whatever has been long preserved, without
considering that time has sometimes co-operated with chance;
all perhaps are more willing to honor past than present ex-
cellence; and the mind contemplates genius through the
shades of age, as the eye surveys the sun through artificial
opacitj'. The great contenfckm of criticism is to find the faults
of the moderns and the beauties of the ancients. While an
author is yet living, we estimate his powers by his worst
performnnce; and when he is dead, we rate them by his best.
niAK. 1. *
Iviii
PR. Johnson's prefacb.
To works, however, of which the excellence is not absolute
and definite, but gradual and comparative; to works not
raised on principles demonstrative and scientific, but appealing
wholly to observation ami experience, no other test can be
applied than lenji^th of duration and continuance of esteem.
What mankind have long possessed Ihey have often examined
and compared; and if they persist to value the possession, it
is because frequent comparisons have confirmed opinion in its
favor. As among the works of nature no man can properly
call a river deep, or a mountain high, without the knowledge
of many mountains and many rivers; so in the production of
genius, nothing can be styled excellent till it has been com-
pared with other works of the same kind. Demonstration
immediately displays Its power, and has nothing to hope or
fear from the flux of years; but works tentative and experi-
mental must be estimated by their proportion to the general
and collective ability of man, as it is discovered in a long sue-
cession of endeavors. Of the first building that was raised. It
might be with certainty determined that it was round or
square; but whether it was spacious or lofty must have been
referred to time. The Pythagorean scale of numbers was at
once discovered to be perfect; but the poems of Homer we
yet know not to transcend the common limits of human in-
telligence, hut by remarking, that nation after nation, and
century after century, has been able to do little more than
transpose his incidents, new name his characters, and para-
phrase his sentiments.
The reverence due to writings that have long subsisted
arises therefore not from any credulous confidence in the
superior wisdom of past ages, or gloomy persuasion of the
degeneracy of mankind, but is the consequence of acknowledged
and indubitable positions, that what has been longe.st known
has been most considered, and what is most considered is best
nnd^rstood.
The poet, of whose works 1 have undertaken the revision,
bb. Johnson's prefacb.
/nny now begin to assume the dignity of an ancient and claim
the privilege of an established fame and prescriptive vener-
ation. He has long outlived his century, the term commonly
fixed as the test of literary merit. Whatever advantages he
might once derive from personal allusions, local customs, or
temporary opinions, have for many years been lost; and every
topic of merriment, or motive of sorrow, whieh the modes
of artificial life afforded him, now only ob«oure oie scenes
which they once illuminated. The effects of favor and com-
petition are at an end; the tradition of his friendships and
his enmities has perished; his works support no opinion with
arguments, nor supply any faction with invectives; they can
neither indtilge vanity, nor gratify malignity; but are read
without any other reason than the desire of pleasure, and are
therefore praised only as pleasure is obtained; yet, thus
unassisted by interest or passion, they have passed through
variations of taste and changes of manners, and, as they de-
Tolved from one generatim to another, have received new
honors at every transmission.
But because human judgment, though it be gradually gain-
ing upon certainty, never becomes iDfallible; and approbation,
though long continued, may yet be only the approbation (d
prejudice or fashion; it is proper to inquire, by what pecu-
liarities of excellence Shakspeare has gained and kept the
favor of his countrymen.
Nothing can please many, and please long, but just reprc-
sentations of general n.iture. Particular manners can be
known to few, and therefore few only can judge how nearly
they are copied. The irregular combinations of fanciful
invention may delight awhMe, by that novelty of which th>
common satiety of life sends us all in quest; the pleasures of
sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can oolj
repo9<» on the stability of truth.
Shakspeare is above all writers, at least above all moder»
writers, the poet of nature; the poet that holds up to h9
Iz
dr. Johnson's prefacb.
renders a fnithful mirror of manners and of life. His ehar-
acters are not modified by the customs of particular piaces,
unpractised by the rest of the world; by the peculiarities of
studies or professions, which can operate but on small num-
bers; or by the accidents of transient fashions or temporary
opin'ODs: they are the genuine progeny of common humanity,
such as the world will always supply, and observation will
always find. His persons act and speak by the influence of
those general passions and principles by which all minds are
agitated, and the whole system of life is continued in motion.
In the writings of other poets a character is too often an in-
dividual; in those of Shakspeare it is commonly a species.
It is from this wide extension of design that so much in-
struotion is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shak-
speare with practical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was
said of Euripides, that every verse was a precept; and it may
be said of Shakspeare, that from his works may be oolieeted a
system of civil and economical prudence. Yet his real power
is not shown in the splendor of particular passages, but by
the progress of his fable, and the tenor of his dialogue; and
he that tries to recommend him by select qnotntions, will
succeed like the pedant in Hierocies, who, when he offered
his house to sale, carried a brick in his packet as a specimen.
It will not ea'^ily be imagined how much Shakspeare excels
in accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing
him with other authors. It was observed of the ancient
schools of declamation, that the more diligently they were
frequented, the more was the student disqaalifled for the
world, because he found nothing there which he shoifld ever
meet in any other place. The same remark may be apjilied to
every stage but that of Shakspeare. The theatre, when it is
under any other direction, is peopled by such characters as
were never seen, conversing in a language which was never
heard, upon topics which will never arise in the commerce of
mankind. But the dialogue of this author is often so evidently
dr. Johnson's preface.
Ixi
determined by the incident which produces it, and is pursued
with so much ease and simplicity, that it seems scarcely to
claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned by diligent
selection out of common conversation and common occur*
rences.
On every other stage the universal agent is love, by whose
power all good and evil is distributed, and every action
quickened or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady, and a rival
into the fable ; to entangle them in contradictory obligations,
perplex them with oppositions of Interest, and harass them
with violence of desires inconsistent with each other; to
make them meet in rapture, and part in agony; to fill their
mouths with hyperbolical joy and outrageous sorrow; to dis*
tress them as nothing human ever was distressed; to deliver
them as nothing human ever was delivered, is the business of
a modern dramatist. For this, probability is violated, life is
misrepresented, and language is depraved. But love is only
one of many passions; and as it has no great influence on the
sum of life, it has l;ttle operation in the dramas of a poet,
who caught his ideas from the living world, and exhibited
only what he saw before him. He knew, that any other
passion, as it was regular or exor4>itant, was a cause of hap>
piness or calamity. y
Characters thus ample and general were not easily discri-
minated and preserved, yet perhaps no poet ever kept his
personages more distinct from each other. I will not say with
Pope, that every speech may be assigned to the proper
speaker, because many speeches there are which have nothing
characteristical; but, perhaps, though some may be equally
adapted to every person, it will be difScult to And any that
can be properly transferred from the present possessor to
another claimant. The choice is right, when there is reason'
for choice.
Other dramatists can only gain attention by hyperbolical or
aggravated characters, by fabulous and unexampled excellence
Ixii DB. Johnson's preface.
or depravity, as the writers of barbarous romances invigorated
the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he that should form
his expectation of human affairs from the play or from the
tale, would be equally deceived. Shakspeare has no heroes;
his scenes are occupied only by men who act and speak as the
reader thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on
the same occasion: even where tlie agency is supernatural,
the dialogue is level with life. Other writers disguise the
most natural passions and most frequent incidents; so that
he who contemplates them in the book will not know them in
the world: Shakspeare approximates the remote, and fa-
miliarlzes the wonderful: the event which he represents will
not happen; but, if it were possible, its effects would pro-
bably be such as he has assigned; and it may be said, that he
has not only shown human nature as it acts in real exigencies,
but as it would be found in trials to which it cannot be ex-
posed.
This therefore is the praise of Shakspeare, that his drama is
the mirror of life; that he who has mazed his imagination, in
following the phantoms which other writers raise up before
him, may here be cured of his delirious ecstasies, by reading
human sentiments In human language; by scenes from which
a hermit may estimate the trans.actions of the world, and a
confessor predict the progress of the passions.
His adherence to general nature has exposed him to the
censure of critics, who form their judgments on narrower
principles. Dennis and Rymer think his Romans not suf-
ficiently Roman; and Voltaire censures his kings as not com-
pletely royal. Dennis is offended, that Menenius, a senator
of Rome, should play the buffoon; and Voltaire perhaps
thinks decency violated when the Danish usurper is repre-
sented as a drunkard. But Shakspeare always makes nature
predominate over accident; and if he preserves the essential
character, is not very careful of distinctions superinduced
and adventitious. His story requires Romans or kings, but
DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE, Ixili
he thinks only on men. He knew that Rome, like every other
city, had meo of all dispositions; and wanting a buffoon, he
went into the senate^house for that which the 6enate*house
would certainly have afforded hint. He was inclined to show
a usurper and a murderer not only odious, but despicable; be
therel'ore added drunkenness to his other qualitie.s, knowing
that kings love wine like other men, and that wine exerts its
natural power on kings« These are the petty cavils of petty
mind>i: a poet overlooks the casual distinction of country and
'eondition, as s painter, satisfied with the figure, neglects the
drapery.
The censure which he has incurred by mixing comic and
tragic scenes, as it extends to all his works, deserves more
consideration. Let the fact be first stated, and then examined.
Shakspeare^s plays are not in the rigorous and critical sense
either tragedies or comedies; but compositions of a distinct
kind; exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which
partakes of good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with end-
less variety of pioportion and innumerable modes of combi.
nation ; and expressing the course of the world, in which the
loss of one is the gain of another; in which,at the same time
the reveller is hasting to his wine, and the mourner burying
his friend; in which the malignity of one is sometimes de-
feated by the frolic of another; and many mischiefs and many
benefits are done and hindered without design.
Out of this chaos of mingled purposes and casualties, the
ancient poets, according to the laws which custom had pre-
scribed, selected some , the crimes of men, and some their
absurdities; some the momentous vicissitudes of life, and
some the lighter occurrences; some the terrors of distress,
and some the gaieties of prosperity. Thus rose the two modes
of imitation, known by the names of tragedy and comedy,
compositions intended to promote different ends by contrary
means, and considered as so little allied, that I do not recoh
Icct among the Greeks or Romans a single writer who at*
tempted both.
Ixiy DB. Johnson's prefack.
8hakspeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and
sorrovr not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost
all his plays are divided between serious and ludiorous cha-
racters, and, in the successive evolutions of the design, some*
times produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity
and laughter.
That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will
be readily allowed; but there is always an appeal open from
criticism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the
end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled-
drama may convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy
cannot be denied, because it Includes both in its alternations
of exhibition, and approaches nearer than either to the ap-
pearanoe of life, by showing how great machinations and
slender designs may promote or obviate one another, and the
high and the low co-operate in the general system by una-
voidable concatenation.
It is objected, that by this change of scenes the passions
are interrupted in their progression, and that the principal
event, being not advanced by a due gradation of preparatory
incidents, wants at last the power to move, which constitutes
the perfection of dramatic poetry. This reasoning is so spe-
cious, that it is received as true even by those who in daily
experience feel it to be false. The interchaoges of mingled
scenes seldom fail to produce the intended vicissitudes of
passion. Fiction cannot move so much, but that the atten-
tioD may be easily transferred; and though it must be allowed
that pleasing melancholy be sometimes interrupted by unwel-
come levity, yet let it be coosldered likewise, that melancholy
is often not pleasing, and that the disturbance of one man may be
the relief of another; that different authors have diflferent ha-
bitudes; and that, on the whole, all pleasure consists in variety.
The players, who in their edition divided our author's
works Into comedies, histories, and tragedies, seem not to
have distinguished the three kinds by any very exact or
definite ideas.
dr. Johnson's frbfaob.
An action which ended happily to the principal persons,
however serious or distressful through its intermediate in-
cidents, in their opinion constituted a comedy. This idea of
a comedy continued long amongst us; and plays were written,
which, by changing the cataslroplte, were tragedies to-day,
and comedies to-morrow.
Tragedy was not in those times a poem of more general
dignity or elevation than comedy; it required only a cala-
mitous conclusion, with which the common criticism of that
age was satisfied, whatever lighter pleasure it atforded in its
progress.
History was a series of actions, with no other than chrono-
logical succession, independent on each other, and without
any tendency to introduce and regulate the conclusion. It is
not always very nicely distinguished from tragedy. There is
not much nearer approach to unity of action in the tragedy of
'Antony and Cleopatra,' than in the history of 'Richard the
Second.* But a history might be continued through many
plays; as it had no plan, it had no limits.
Through all these denominations of the drama, Shakspeare's
mode of composition is the same; an interchange of serious-
ness and merriment, by which the mind is softened at one
time, and exhilarated at another. But whatever be his pur-
pose, whether to gladden or depress, or to conduct the story
without vehemence or emotion, through tracts of easy and
familiar dialogue, he never fails to attain his purpose; as he
commands us, we laugh or mourn, or sit silent with quiet
expectation, in tranquillity without indilference.
When Shakspeare's plan is understood, most of the criti-
eisms of Rymer and Voltaire vanish away. The play of
'Hamlet' is opened without impropriety by two sentinels;
lago bellows at Brabantio's window, without injury to the
scheme of the play, though in terms which a modern audience
would not easily endure: the character of Polonius is season-
able and useful; and the grave-diggers themselves may be
heard with applause.
Ixvi
DK. JOHNSON'S PREFACE.
Shaksipeare engaged in dramatic poetry with the world open
before him: the rules of the ancients were yet known to few;
the public judgment was unformed; he had no example of
such fame as might force him on imitation, nor critics of such
authority as might restrain his extravagance: he therefore in-
dulgcd his natural disposition; and his disposition, as Rymer
has remarked, led him to comedy In tragedy, he often
M'rites with great appearance of toil and study, what is written
at last with Ultle felicity; but in his comic scenes, he seems
to produce without labor, what no labor can improve. In
tragedy he is always struggling after some occasion to be
comic; but in comedy he seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as
in a mode of thinking congenial to his nature. In his tragic
scenes there is always something wanting, but his comedy
often surpasses expectation or desire. His comedy pleases
by the thoughts and the language, and his tragedy for the
greater part by incident and action. His tragedy seems to be
skill, his comedy to be instinct.
The force of his comic scenes has suffered little diminution
from the changes made by a century and a half in manners or
in words. As his personages act on principles arising from
genuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their
pleasures and Texations are communicable to all times and to
all places; they are natural, and therefore durable: the ad-
ventitious peculiarities of personal habits are only superficial
dies, bright and pleasing for a little while, yet seen fading to
a dim tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but the
discriminations ol true passions are the colors of nature; they
pervade tlie whole mass, and can only perish with the body
that exhibits them. The accidental compositions of hetero-
geneous modes are dissolved by the chance that combined
them; hut the uniform simplicity of primitive qualities
neither admits increase nor suffers decay. The sand heaped
by one flood is scattered by another, hut the rock always
continues in its place. The stream of time, which is con-
SR. Johnson's prefaoi:.
Ixvii
tinually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes
without injury by the adamant of Shak>peare.
If there be, what I beiiere there is, in every nation, a style
which never becomes obsolete, a certain mode of phraseology
so consonant and congenial to the analogy and principles of
its respective language, as to remain settled and unaltered;
this style is probably to be sought in the common intercouise
of life; among those who speak only to be understood, without
ambition of elegance. The polite are always catching modish
innovations, and the learned depart from established forms of
speech, in hope of finding or making better: those who wish
for distinction forsake the vulgar, when the vulgar is right;
but there is a conversation above grossness and below refine*
meat, where propriety resides, and where thin poet seems to
have gathered his comic dialogue. He is therefore more
agreeable to the ears of the present age than any other author
equaily remote; and among his other exceUences deserves to
be studied as one of ihe original masters of our language.
These observations are to be considered not as unexception*
abiy constant, but as conlaining general and predominant
truth. Shakspeare's familiar dialogue is afiirmed to be smooth
and clear, yet not wlioily without ruggedness or diflUculty; as
a country may be eminently fruitful, though it has spots unfit
for cultivation: his characters are praised as natural, though
their sentiments are sometimes forced, and their actions
improbable; as the earth on the whole is spherical, though
its surface is varied with protuberances and cavities.
Shakspeare with his excellences has likewise faults, and
faults sufficient to obscure and overwhelm any other merit.
1 shall show them in the proportion in which they appear to
me, without envious malignity or superstitious veueratiou.
No question can be more innocently discussed than a dead
poec*s pretentions to renown; and little regard is due to that
bigotry which sets candor higher than truth.
Uis first defect is that to which may be imputed most of
•
Ixviii
DK. Johnson's prefacb.
the evil in books or in men: he sacrifices virtue to conve*
nience, and is so much more careful to please than to instruct,
that he seems to write without any moral purpose. From his
writings indeed a system of social duty may be selected, for
he that thinks re.asonabiy must think morally; but his pre-
cepts and axioms drop casually from him; he makes no just
distribution of good or evil, nor is always careful to show in
the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he carries his
persons indifferently through right and wrong, and at the close
dismisses them without farther care, and leaves their ex-
amples to operate by chance. This fault the barbarity of his
age cannot extenuate; for it is always a writer's duty to make
the world better, and justice is a virtue independent on time
or place.
The plots are often so loosely formed, that a very slight
consideration may improve them; and so carelessly pursued,
that he seems not always fully to comprehend his own design.
He omits opportunities of instructing or delighting, which
the train of his st>ry seems to force on him; and apparently
rejects those exhibitions which would be more allecting, for
the sake of those which are more easy.
It may be observed, that in many of his plays the latter
partis evidently neglect d. When he found himself near the
end of his work, and in view of his reward, he shortened the
labor to snatch the profit. He therefore remits his efforts
where he should most vigorously exert them, and his cata-
strophe is improbably produced or imperfectly represented.
He had no regard or distinction of time or place, but gives
to one age or nation, without scruple, the customs, instilu-
tions, and opinions of another, at the expense, not only of
likelihood, but of possibility. These faults Pope lias en*
deavored, with more zeal than judgment, to transfer to his
imagined interpolators. We need not wonder to find Hector
quoting Aristotle, when we see the loves of Theseus and
Hippulyta combined with the Gothic mythology of fairies.
SB. Johnson's prefacb. ixiz
Shakspeare, indeed, was not the only violator of chronology;
for in the same age, Sidney, who wanted not the advantages
of learning, has, in his 'Arcadia,* confounded the pastoral
with the feudal times; the days of innocence, quiet, and se<
curity, with those of turbulence, violence, and adventure.
In his comic scenes he is seldom very successful, when he
engages his characters in reciprocations of smartness and ^
contests of sarcasm; their jests are commonly gross, and their
pleasantry licentious; neither his gentlemen nor his ladies
have much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished from
his ch'Wns by any appearance of refined manners. Whether
he represented the real conversation of his time is not easy
to determine; the reign of Elizabeth is commonly supposed
to have been a time of stateliness, formality, and reserve, yet
perhaps the relaxations of that severity were not very elegant.
There must, however, have been always some modes of gaiety
preferable to others, and a writer ought to choose the best.
In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be worse,
as his labor is mure. The eiiusions of passion, which exi-
gence forces out, are for the mo-t part striking and energetic;
but whenever he solicits his Inveniion, or strains his faculties,
the offspring of his throes is tumor, meanness, tediousness,
and obscurity.
In narration he affects a disproportionnie pomp of diction,
and a wearisome train of circumlocution; and tells the inci*
dent imperfectly In many words, which might have been
more plainly delivere i in few. Narration in dramatic poetry
is naturally tedious, as it is unanimated and inactive, and
obstructs the progress of the action ; it should therefore
always be rapid, and enlivened by frequent interruption.
ShaUspeare found it an encumbrance, and instead of lightening
it by brevity, endeavored to recommend it by dignity and
splendor.
Ills declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and
weukf for his power was the power of nature: when he en*
•
de. Johnson's peefacb.
deavored, like other tragic writers, to catch opportnnitles of
amplification, and instead of inquiring what the occasion de-
manded, to show how much his stores of knowledjge could
supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment of
his reader.
It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with an
unwieldly sentiment, which he cannot well express, and will
not reject: he struggles with it awhile, and if it continues
stubborn, comprises it in words such as occur, and leaves it
to be dis^entangied and evolved by those who have more
leisure to bestow on it.
Not that always where the language is intricate the thought
is subtile, or the image always great where the line is bulky:
the equality of words to things is very often neglected, and
trivial sentiments and vulgar ideas disappoint the attention,
to which they are recommended by sonorous epithets and
swelling figures.
But the admirers of this great poet have never less reason
to indulge their hopes of supreme excellence, than when he
seems fnlly resolved to sink them in dejection, and mollify
them with tender emotions by the fall of greatness, the danger
of innocence, or the crosses of love. What he does best, he
soon ceases to do. He is not long soft and pathetic without
some idle conceit or contemptible equivocation. He no
sooner begins to move, than he counteracts himself; and
terror and pity, as they are rising in the mind, are checked
and blasted by sudden frigidity.
A quibble is to Shakspeare, what luminous vapors are to
the traveller: he follows it at all adventures ; it is sure t-o
lead him out of the way, and sure to engulf him in the mire.
It has some malignant power over his mind, and its fascina*
Hons are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or profundity
ol his disquisitions, whether he be enlarging knowledge or ex-
alting affection, whether be be amusing attention with in-
eidents, or enchantiog it in suspense, let but a quibble spring
or. Johnson's preface^
op before him, and he leaves his work unflnished. A quibbie
is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from
his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibbie, poor and
barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was content to
purchase it, by the sacriflce of reason, propriety, and truth.
A quibbie was. to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost
the world, and was content to lose it.
it wiii be thought strange, that, in enumerating the defects
of this writer, I have not yet mentioned his neglect of the
unities; his violation of those laws which have ^been insli*
ttited and established by the joint authority of poets and of
ciilics.
For his other deviations from the art of writing, I resign
him to critical justice, without making any other demand in his
favor, than that which must be indulged to all human excel*
ience;that his virl^es berated with his faiiings: but, from
the censure which this irregularity may bring on him, I shall,
with due reverence to that iearning which I must oppose,
adventure to try how I can defend him.
His histories, being neither tragedies nor comedies, are not
subject to any of their laws: nothing more is necessary to ail
the praise which they expect, than that the changes of action
be so prepared as to be understood, that the incidents be
v.irious and affecting, and the characters consistent, natural,
and distinct. No other unity is intended, and therefore none
is to be sought.
In his other works he has well enough preserved the unity
of action, lie has not, indeed, an intrigue, regularly per*
plexed and regularly unravelled; he does not endeavir to
hide his design only to discover it, for this is seldom the
order of real events, and Shakspeare is the poet of nature ;
but his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires, a be*
ginning, a middle, and an end; one event is concatenated
with another, and the conclusion follows by easy consequence.
There are perhaps some incidents that might be spared, as in
Ixxii
DR. Johnson's fbefacb.
other poets there is much talk that only fills up time on the
stage; but*the ge'neral system makes gradual advaoces, and
the end of the play is the end of expectation.
To the unities of time and place he has shown no regard;
and perhaps a nearer view of the principles on which they
stand will diminish their value, and withdraw from them the
veneration which, from the time of Corneille, they have very
generally received, by discovering that they have given more
trouble to the poet than pleasure to the auditor.
The necessity of observing the unities of time and place
arises from the supposed necessity of making the drama
credible. The critics hold it impossible, that an action of
months or years can be possibly believed to pass in three
h' urs; or that the spectator can suppose himself to sit in
the theatre, while ambassadors go and return between distant
kings, while armies are levied and town% besieged, while an
exile wanders and returns, or till he whom they saw courting
his mistress, shall lament the untimely fall of his son. The
mind revolts from evident falsehood, and fiction loses its force
when it departs from the resemblance of reality.
From the narrow limitation of time necessarily arises the
contraction of place. The spectator, who knows that be saw
the first act at Alexandria, cannot suppose that he sees the
next at Rome, at a distance to which not the dragons of Medea
could, in so short a time, have transported him; he knows
with certainty that he has not changed his place ; and he
knows that place cannot change itself; that what was a house
cannot become a plain; that what was Thebes can never be
Persepolis.
Such is the triumphant language with which a critic exults
over the misery of an irregular poet, and exults commonly
without resistance or reply. It is time therefore to tell him,
by the autliority of Shakspeare, that he assumes, as an un-
questionable principle, a position, which, while his breath Is
forming it into words, his understanding pronounces to be
dr. Johnson's frefage.
Ixziii
folse. It is false, that any representation is mistaken for
reality; that any dramatic fable in its materiality was ever
credible, or, for a single moment, was ever credited.
The olijection arising from the impossibility of passing the
first hour at Alexandria, and the next at Rome, supposes,
that when the play opens, the spectator really imagines him-
self at Alexandria, and believes that his walk to the theatre ^
has been a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of
Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines this may
imagine more. He that can take the stage at one time for the
palace of the Ptolemies, may take it in half an hour for the
promontory of Actlum. Delusion, if delusion be admitted,
has no certain iimiiation; if the spectator can be once per-
suaded, that his old acquaintance are Alexander and Csesar,
that a room illuminated with candles is the plain of Pharsalla,
or the bank of Granicus, he is in a state of elevation above
the reach of reason or of truth, and from the heights of em-
pyrean poetry may despise the circumscriptions of terrestrial
nature. There is no reason why a mind thus wandering in
ecstasy should count the clock, or why an hour should not be
a century in that calenture of the brains that can make the
stage a field. *
The truth is, that the spectators are always in their senses,
and know, from the first act to the last, that the stage is only
a stage, and that the players are only players. They come to
hear a certain number of lines recited with just gesture and
elegant modulation. The lines relate to some action, and an
action must be in some place'; but the different aclions that
comph^te a story may be In places very remote from each
other; and where is the absurdity of allowing that space to
represent first Athens, and then Sicily, which was always
known to be neither Sicily nor Athens, but a modern theatre ?
By supposition, as place is introduced, time may be ex-
tended: the time required by the fable elapses for the most
part between ttie acts: for, of so much of the action as is re-
SUAK. I- /
Ixziv
DR. Johnson's prepacb.
presented, the real and poetical duration is the same. If, in
the first act, preparations for war against Mithridates are
represented to be made in Rome, the event of the war may,
without absurdity, be represented, in the catastrophe, as
happening in Pontus: we know that there is neither war, nor
preparation for war; we know that we are neither in Rome
nor Pontus; that neither Mithridates nor LucuIIus are before
us. The drstna exhibits successive imitations of successive
actions, and why may not the second imitation represent an
action that happened years after the first, if it be so connected
with it, that nothing but time can be supposed to intervene t
Time is, of all modes of existence, most obsequious to the
imagination; a lapse of years is as easily conceived as a pas-
sage of hours. In contemplation we easily contract the time
of real actions, and therefore willingly permit it to be con-
tractedwhen we only see their imitation.
It will be asked, how the drama moves, if It Is not credited.
It Is credited, With all the credit due to a drama. It is
credited, whenever it moves, as a Just picture of a real ori-
ginal; as representing to the auditor what he would himself
feel, if he were to do or suffer what is there feigned to be
suffered or to be done. The refiection that strikes the heart,
is not, that the evils before us are real evils, but that they
are evils to which we ourselves may be exposed. If there be
any fallacy, it is not that we fancy the players, but that we
fancy ourselves unhappy for a moment; but we rather lament
the possibility than suppose the presence of misery, as a
mother weeps over her babe when she remembers that death
may take it from her. The delight of tragedy proceeds from
our consciousness of fiction: if we thought murders and
treasons real, they would please no more.
Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are
mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to
mind. When the imagination is recreated by a painted land-
scape, the trees are not supposed capable to give us shade.
dr. Johnson's prepack.
IxxT
or the fountains coolness; but we consider, how we should
be pleased with such fountains playing beside us, and such
woods waving over us. We are agitated in reading the his-
tory of* Henry the Fiflh,'yet no man takes his book for the
field of Agincourt. A dramatic exhibition is a book recited
with concomitants that increase or diminish its effect. Fa-
miliar comedy is often more powerful on the theatre than in
the page; imperial tragedy is always less. The humor of
Petruchio maybe heightened by grimace; but what voice or
what gesture cau hope to add dignity or force to the soiiloquy
of Cato?
A play read affects the mind li'.<e a play acted. It is there-
fore evident, that the action is not supposed to be real; and
it follows, that between the acts a longer or shot ter time may
be allowed to pass, and that no moi*e account of space or da-
ratioo is to be taken by the auditor of a drama than by the
reader of a narrative, before whom may pass in an hour the
life of a hero or the revolutions of an em^jire.
Whether Shakspeare knew the unities, and rejected them
by design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, 1
think, impossible to decide, and useless to inquire. We may
reasonably suppose, that, wnen he rose to notice, he did not
want the counsels and admonitions of scholars and critics,
and that he at last deliberately persisted in a practice, which
he might have begun by chance. As nothing is essential to
the fable but unity of action, and as the unities of time and
place arise evidently from false assumptions, and, by circum-
scribing the extent of the drama, lessen its variety; I cannot
think it much to be lamented, that they were not known by
him, or not observed: nor, if such another poet could arise,
should 1 very vehemently reproach him, that his first act
passed at Venice, and his next in Cyprus. Such violations of
rules merely positive become the comprehensive genius of
Sliakspeare, and such censures are suitable to the miuute aud
slender criticism of Voltaire.—
#
Ixxvi
dr. Johnson's prefacb.
Non vsque adeo permiscuit imts
Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Mecelll
Serventur leges, msUnt a Ceesare toUl.
Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatic rules, I cannot
but recollect how much wit and learning may be produced
against me: before such authorities I am afraid to stand; not
that I think the present question one of those that are to he
decided by mere authority, but because it is to be suspected
that these precepte have not been so easily received, but for
better reasons than I have yet been able to find. The result
of my inquiries, in which it would be ludicrous to boast of
impartiality, is, that the unities of time and place are notes*
sential to a just dran;ia; that though they may sometimes
conduce to pleasure, they are always to be sacrificed to the
nobler beauties of variety and instruction; and that a play,
written with nice observation of critical rules, is to bs con-
templated as an elaborate curiosity, as the product of super-
fluons and ostentatious art, by which is shown, rather what is'
possible, than what is necessary.
He tliat, without diminution of any other excellence, shall
preserve all the unities unbi oken, deserves the like applause
with the architect, who shall display all the orders of archi-
tecture in a citadel, without any deduction from its strength;
but the principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy;
and the greatest graces of a play are to copy nature, and in*
struct life.
Perhaps, what I hare here not dos^matically but deliberately
written, may recal the principles of the drama to a new ex-
amination. I am almost frighted at my own temerity; and
wh^n I estimate the fame and the strength of those that
maintain the coutravy opinion,- am ready to sink down in
reverential silence; as ^neas withdrew from the defence of
Troy, when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno
heading the besiegers.
Those whom my arguments cannot persuade to giye their
dr. Johnson's preface.
Ixxvii
approbatiou to the judgment of Shakspeare, will easily, if
they consider the condition of his life, make some allowance
for his ignorance.
Every man's performances, to be rightly estimated, must be
compared with the state of the age in which he lived, and
with his own particular opportunities; and though to a reader
a book be not worse or better for the circumstances of the
author, yet as there is always a silent reTerence of human
works to human abilities, and as the inquiry, how far man
may extend his designs, or how highly he may rate his native
force, is of far greater dignity than in what rank we shall
place any particular performance, curiosity is always busy to
discover the instruments, as well as to survey the workman-
ship; to know how much is to be ascribed to original powers,
and how much to casual and adventitious help. The palaces
of Peru or Mexico were certainly mean and incommodious
habitations, if compared to the houses of European monarchs;
yet who could forbear to view them with astonishment, who
remembered that they were built without the use of iron t
The English nation, in the time of Shakspeare, was yet
struggling to emerge from barbarity. The philology of Italy
had been transplanted hither in the reign of Henry the Eighth;
and the learned languages had been successfully cultivated
by Lilly, Linacre, and More; by Pole, Cheke, and Gar-
diner; and afterwards by Smith, Clerk, Haddon, and Ascham.
Greek was now taught to boys in the principal schools; and
those who united elegance with learning, read, with great
diligence, the Italian and Spanish poets. But literature was
yet confined to professed scholars, or to men and women of
high rank. The public was gross and dark; and to be able
to read and write, was an accomplishment still valued for its
rarity.
Nations, like individuals, have their infancy. A people
newly awakened to literary curiosity, being yet unacquainted
with the true state of things, knows not how to judge of that
*
fxxviii
DB. Johnson's pretack.
which is proposed as Its resemblance. Whateyer Is remote
from common appearances is always welcome to vulgar as to
childish credulity; and of a country unenlightened by learn-
ing, the whole people is the vulgar. The study of those who
then aspired to plebeian learning was laid out on adventures,
giants, dragons, and enchantments. ' The Death of Arthur'
was the favorite volume.
The mind which has feasted on the luxurious wonders of
fiction has no taste of the insipidity of truth. A play, which
imitated only the common occurrences of the world, would,
on the admirers of 'Palmerin' and'Guy of Warwick,'have
made little impression; he that wrote for such an audience
was under the necessity of looking round for strange events
and fabulous transactions; and that incredibility, by which
maturer knowledge is offended, was the chief recommendatiou
of writings, to unskilful curiosity.
Our author's plots are generally borrowed from novels ; and
it is reasonable to suppose, that he chose the most popular,
such as were read by many, and related by more; for his
audience could not have followed him through the intricacies
of the drama, had they not held the thread of the story in
their hands.
The stories, which we now find only in remoter authors,
were in his time accessible and familiar. The fable of 'As
Tou Like It,' which is supposed to be copied from Chaucer's
'Gameiyn,' was a little pamphlet of those times; and old
Mr. Cibber remembered the tale of' Hamlet'in plain English
prose, which the critics hare now to seek in Saxo Gram-
maticus.
His English histories he took from English chronicles and
English ballads; and as the ancient writers were made known
to his countrymen by versions, they supplied him with new
subjects; he dilated some of Plutarch's Lives into plays,
when they had been translated by North.
His plots, whether historical or fabulous, are always crowded
SR. Johnson's preface.
Ixsix
with incidents, by which the attention of a rude people was
more easiiy caught than by sentiment or argumentation; and
8uch is the power of the raarvellous, even over those who
despise it, that every man finds his mind more strongly seised
by the tragedies of Shakspeare than of any other writer:
others please us by particular speeches ; but he always makes
us anxious for the event, and has perhaps excelled ail but
Homer in securing the first purpose of a writer, by exciting
restless and unquenchable curiosity, ond compelling him that
reads his work to read it through.
The shows and bustle with which his plays abound have
the same original. As knowledge advances, pleasure passes
from the eye to the ear ; but returns, as it declines, from the
ear to the eye. Those to wh im our author*s labors were ex*
hibited had more skill in pomps or processions than in poetical
language, and perhaps wanted some visible and discriminated
events, as comments on the dialogue. He knew how he
should most please; and whether his praeliee is more agree-
able to nature, or whether his example has prejudiced the
nation, we still find that on our stage something must be done
as well as said, and inactive declamation is very coldly heard,
however musical or elegant, passionate or sublime.
Voltaire expresses his wonder that our author's extrava-
gaoces are endured by a nation which has seen the tragedy of
* Cato.' Let him be answered, that Addison speaks the Ian-
guage of poets, and Shakspeare of men. We find in 'Cato'
innumerable beauties which enamour us of its author, but we
see nothing that acquaints us with human sentiments or
human actions: we place it with the fairest and the noblest
progeny which judgment propagates by conjunction with
■earning; but 'Othello' is the vigorous and vivacious off-
Spring of observation impregnated by genius. * Cato * affords
a splendid exhibition of artificial and fictitious manners, and
aelivers just and noble sentiments, in diction easy, elevated,
and harmonious; but its hopes and fears communicate no
dr. Johnson's prepack.
vibration to the heart; the composition refers ns only to fne
writer: we pronoance the name of Cato, but we thiuk on
Addison.
The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden ac-
curately formed and diligently planted, varied with shades,
and seented with flowers; the composition of Shakspeare is
a forest, in which oaks extend their branches, and pines tower
in the air, interspersed sometimes with weeds and brambles,
and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and to roses; filling
the eye with awful pomp, and gratifying the mind with end-
less diversity. Other poets display cabinets of precious
rarities, minutely finished, wrought into shape, and polished
into brightness t Shakspeare opens a mine which contains
gold and diamonds in inexhaustible plenty, though clouded
by incrustations, debased by impurities, and mingled with a
mass of meaner minerals.
It has been much disputed, whether Shakspeare owed his
excellence to his own native force, or whether he had the
common helps of scholastic education, the precepts of critical
scienccpaad the examples of ancient authors.
There has always prevailed a tradition, that Shakspeare
wanted learning, that he had no regular education, nor much
skill in the dead languages. Jonson, his friend, affirms, that
* he had small Latin, and less Greek ;' who, besides that he
had no imaginable temptation to falsehood, wrote at a time
when the character and acquisitions of Shakspeare were known
to multitudes. His evidence ought therefore to decide the
controversy, unless some testimony of equal force could be
opposed.
Some have Imagined that they have discovered deep learning
in many imitations of old writers ; but the examples which I
have known urged were drawn from books translated in his
time; or were such easy coincidences of thought, as will
happen to all who consider the same subjects; or such re-
marks on life or axioms of morality as float in conversation.
DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE
Ixxxi
and are transmitted through the world in proverbial sen-
tenees.
I have found it remarked, that, in this important sentence,
• Go before, I '11 follow,' we read a translation of, I pros, »«-
quar. I have been told, that \7heD Caliban, after a pleasing
dream, says,'I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates
Anaereon, who had, like every other man, the same wish on
the same occasion.
There are a few passages which may pass for imitations,
but so few, that the exception only confirms the rule: he ob.
tained them from accidental quotations, or by oral communi-
cation; and as he used what he had, would have used more
if he had obtained it.
The 'Comedy of Errors'is confessedly taken from the
*Mensechmi* of Plautus; from the only play of Plautus
which was then in English. What can be more probable,
than that he who copied that, would have copied more; but
th it those which were not translated were inaccessible?
Whether he knew the modern languages is uncertain. That
his plays have some French scenes proves but little; he
might easily procure them to be written, and probably, even
though he had known the language in the common degree, he
could not have written it without assistance. In the story of
' Romeo and Juliet,* he is observed to have followed the
Eogllsh translation, where it deviates from the Italian; but
this on the other hand proves nothing against his knowledge of
the original. He was to copy, not what he knew himself,
but what was known to his audience.
It is most likely that he had learned Latin sufficiently to
make him acquainted with construction, but that he never
advanced to an easy perusal of the Roman authors. Con-
cerning his skill in modern languages, I can find no sufficient
ground of determination ; but as no imitations of French or
Italian authors have been discovered, though the Italian
poetry was then in high esteem, I am inclined to believe that
Ixxxii
DB. Johnson's pbefacb.
he rend little more than English, and chose for his fables only
such tales as he found translated.
That much knowledge is scattered over his works Is very
justly observed by Pope, but it is often such knowledge as
books did not supply. He that will understand Shakspeare,
must not be content to study him in the closet: he must look
for his meaning sometimes among the sports of the field, and
sometimes among the manufactures of the shop.
There is however proof enough that he was a very diligent
reader, nor was our language then so indigent of books, but
that he might very liberally indulge his curiosity without ex-
cursion into foreign literature. Many of the Roman authors
were translated, and some of (he Greek; the Reformation
had filled the kingdom with theological learning; most of the
topics of human disquisition had found English writers ; and
poetry had been cultivated, not only with diligence, but sue-
cess. This was a stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind so
capable of appropriating and improving it.
But the greater part of his excellence was the product of
his own genius. He found the English stage in a state of the
utmost rudeness; no essays either in tragedy or comedy had
appeared, (rem which it could be discovered to what degree
of delight either one or other might be carried. Neither
character not dialogue were yet understood. Shakspeare may
be truly said to hare introduced them both amongst us, and
in some of his happier scenes to have carried them both to
the utmost height.
By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is not
easily known; for the chronology of his works is yet un-
settled. Rowe is of opinion, that ' perhaps we are not to look
for his beginning, like those of other writers, in his least
perfect works; art had so little, and nature so large a share
in what he did, that, for aught I know,' says he, ' the per-
formances of his youth, as they were the most vigorous were
the best.' But the power of nature is only the power of
SB. Johnson's fbeface.
Ixxxiii
Using to any certain purpose the materials which diligence
procures, or opportunity supplies* Nature gives no man
knowledge, and when images are collected by study and ex-
perienee, can only assist in combining or applying them.
Shakspeare,^ however favored by nature, could impart only
what he had learned; and as he could increase his ideas, like
other mortals, by gradual acquisition, he, like them, grew
Wiser as he grew older, could display life better as he knew
it more, and instruct with more efficacy as he was himself
more amply instructed*
There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of dis-
tinciion which books and precepts cannot confer; from this
almost all original and native excellence proceeds. Shak-
speare must have looked on mankind with perspicacity, in the
highest degree curious and attentive* Other writers borrow
their characters from preceding writers, and diversify them
only by the accidental appendages of present manners; the
dress is a little varied, but the body is the same. Our author
had both matter and form to provide; for except the characters
of Chaucer, to whom I think he is not much indebted, there
were no writers in English, and perhaps not many in other
modern languages, which showed life in its native colors.
The contest about the original benevolence or malignity of
man had not yet commenced. Speculation had not yet at-
tempted to analyse the mind, to trace the passions to their
sources, to unfold the seminal principles of vice and virtue,
or sound the depths of the heart for the motives of action.
All those inquiries, which from that time that human nature
became the fashionable study, have been made sometimes
with nice discernment, but often with idle subtiity, were yet
unattempted* The tale, with which the infancy of learning
was satisfied, exhibited only the superficial appearances of
action, related the events, but omitted the causes, and were
formed for such as delighted In wonders rather than in truth.
Mankind was not then to be studied in the closet: he that
#
Ixxxiv
de. Johnson's prepack.
would know the world, was under the necessity of gleaning
his own remarks, by mingling as he could in its business and
amusements.
Boyle congratulated himself on his high birth, because it
favored his curiosity, by facilitating his access. Shakspeare
had no such advantage: he came to London a needy adven-
turer, and lived for a time by very mean employments. Many
works of genius and learning have been performed in states of
life that appear very little favorable to thought or to inquiry;
so many, that he who considers them, is inclined to think
that he sees enterprise and perseverance predominating over
all external agency, and bidding help and hindrance vanish
before them. The genius of Shakspeare was not to be de-
pressed by the weight of poverty, nor limited by the narrow
conversation to which men in want are inevitably condemned:
the encumbrances of his fortune were shaken from his mind,
* as dew-drops from a lion*s mane.*
Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and so
little assistance to surmount them, he has been able to obtain
an exact knowledge of many modes of life, and many casts of
native dispositions; to vary them with great multiplicity,
to mark them by nice distinctions, and to show them in full
view by proper combinations. In this part of his performances
he had none to imitate, but has himself been imitated by all
succeeding writers; and it may be doubted, whether from all
his successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or mora
rules of practical prudence - can be collected, than he alone
has given to his country.
Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men; he
was an exact surveyor of the inanimate world; his descrip.
tions have always some peculiarities, gathered by contem-
plating things as they really exist. It may be observed, that
the oldest poets of many nations preserve their reput.ation
and that the following generations of wit, after a short ce-
lebrity, sink into oblivion. The first, whoever they be, must
DB. Johnson's frefaoh.
Ixxxv
take their sentiments and descriptions immediately from
knowledge; the resemblance is therefore just, their descrip-
tions are verified by every eye, and their sentiments acknow-
leged by every breast. Those whom their fame invites to the
same studies, copy partly them, and partly nature, till the
books of one age gain such authority, as to stand in the place
of nature to another, and imitation, always deviating a little, ^
becomes at last capricious and casual. Shakspeare, whether
life or nature be his subject, shows plainly that he has seen
wiih his own eyes; he gives the image which he receives,
not weakened or distorted by the intervention of any other
mind: the ignorant feel his representations to be just, and
the learned see that they are complete.
Perhaps it would not be easy to find any author, except
Homer, who invented so much as Shakspeare, who so much
advanced the studies which he cultivated, or effused so much
novelty on his age or country. The form, the character, the
language,and the shows of the English drama are his. 'He
seems,* says Dennis,' to have been the very original of our
English tragical harmony, that is, the harmony of blank verse,
diversified often by dissyll.ible and trisyllable terminations.
For the diversity distinguishes it from heroic harmony, and
by bringing it nearer to common use makes it more proper to
gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue. Such
verse we make when we are writing prose; we make such
verse in common conversation.*
I know not whether this phrase is rigorously just. The
dissyllable termination, which the critic rightly appropriates
to the drama, is to be found, though, 1 think, not in *Gor-
boduc,* which is confessedly before our author; yet in * Hie-
ronymo,* of w hich the date is not certain, but which there is
reason to believe at least as old as his earliest plays. This
however is certain, that he is the first who taught either
tragedy or comedy to please, there being no theatrical piece
of any older writer, of which the name is known, except to
•
dr. Johnson's preface.
antiquaries and collectors of books, which are sought because
they are scarce, aod would not have been scarce had they been
much esteemed.
To him we must ascribe the praise, unless Spenser may
divide it with him, of having first discovered to how much
smoothness and harmony the English language could be
softened. He has speeches, perhaps sometimes scenes, which
have all the delicacy of Rowe, without his effeminacy. He
endeavors indeed commonly to strike by the force and vigor
of his dialogue, but he never executes his purpose better
than when he tries to soothe by softness.
Yet it must be at last confessed, that as we owe ererything
to him, he owes something to us; that, if much of his praise
is paid by perception and judgment, much is likewise given
by custom and veneration. We fix our eyes on his graces,
and turn them from his deformities; and endure in him what
we should in another loathe or despise. If we endured
without praising, respect for the father of our drama might
excuse us; but I have seen, in the book of some modern
critic, a collection of anomalies, which show that he has cor«
rupted language by every mode of depravation, but which his
admirer has accumulated as a monument of honor.
He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence; but
perhaps not one play, which, if it were now exhibited as the
work of a contemporary writer, would be heard to the con-
elusion. 1 am indeed far from thinking that his works were
wrought to his own ideas of perfection: when they were such
as would satisfy the audience, they satisfied the writer. It
is seldom that authors, though more studious of fame than
Shakspeare, rise much above the standard of their own age:
to add a little to what is best will always be sufficient for
present praise; and those who find themselves exalted into
fame, are willing to credit their encomiasts, and to spare the
labor of contending with themselves.
It does not appear that Shakspeare thought his works
DR. jounsom's preface.
IxxAvii
Worthy of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute on future
times, or had any farther prospect than of present popularity
and present proBt. When his plays had been acted, his hope
was at an end; he solicited no addition of honor from the
reader. He therefore made no scruple to repeat the same
jests in many dialogues, or to entangle different plots by the
same knot of perplexity, which may be at least forgiven him
by those who reco.lect, that of Congrere's four comedies, two
are concluded by a marriage in a mask; by a deception, which
perhaps never happened, and which, whether likely or not,
he did not invent.
So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though
he retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little *de-
dined into the vale of years, before he could be disgusted
with fatigue or disabled by infirmity, he made no collection
of his works, nor desired to rescue those that had been
already published from the depravations that obscured them,
or secure to the rest a better destiny, by giving them to the
world in their genuine state.
Of the plays which bear the name of Shakspeare in the late
editions, (he greater part were not published till about seven
years after his death, and the few which appeared in his life
are apparently thrust into the world without the care of the
author, and therefore probably without his knowledge.
"vOf all the publishers, clandestine or professed, their negli-
gence and unskilfulness has by the late revisers been suf-
ficiently shown. The faults of all are indeed numerous and
gross, and have not only corrupted many passages perhaps
beyond recovery, bitt have brought others into suspicion,
which are only obscured by obsolete phraseology, or by the
writer's unskllfulness and affectation. To alter is more ea.sy
than to explain, and temerity is a more common quality than
diligence. Those who saw that they must employ conjecture
to a certain degree, were willing to indulge it a little farther.
Had the author publislied his own works, we should have sni
•
IxxxTiii
DE. JOHNSON'8 preface.
quietly down to disentangle his intricacies, and clear his
obscurities; but now we tear what we cannot loose, and eject
what we happen not to understand.
The faults are more than could have happened without the
concurrence of many causes. The style of Shakspeare was In
itself unsrammatieal, perplexed, and obscure; his works were
transcribed for the players by those who may be supposed to
have seldom understood them: they were transmitted by
copiers equally unskilful, who still multiplied errors; they
were perhaps sometimes mutilated by the actors, for the sake
of shortening the speeches, and were at last printed without
correction of the press.
In this state they remained, not as Dr. Warburton supposes,
because they were unregarded, but because the editor^s art
was not yet applied to modern languages, and onr ancestors
were accustomed to so much negligence of English printers,
that they could very patiently endure it. At last an edition
was undertaken byRowe; not because a poet was to be pub*
llshed by a poet, for Rowe seems to haye thought very little
on correction or explanation, but that our author's works
might appear like those of his fraternity, with the appendages
of a life and recommendatory preface. Rowe has been cla-
morously blamed for not performing what he did not undertake,
and it is time that justice be done him, by confessing, that
though he seems to have had no thought of corruption beyond
the printer's errors, yet he has made many emendations, if
they were not made before, which his successors have re-
ceived without acknowledgement, and which, if they had
produced them, would hare filled pages and pages with cen-
sures of the stupidity by which the faults were committed,
with displays of the absurdities which they iuTolved, with
ostentatious expositions of the new reading, and self-con-
gratulations on the happiness of discovering it^
As of the other editors I have preserved the prefaces, I
bare likewise borrowed the author's life from Rowe, though
dr. Johnson's preface. ixxxis
not written with much elegance or spirit: it relates howeyer
wh.it is now to be known, and therefore deserves to pass
through all succeeding publications.
The nation had been for many years content enough with
Mr. Rowe's performance, when Mr. Pope made them ac-
qiiainted with the true state of Shahspeare's text, showed
that it was extremely corrupt, and gave reason to hope that
there were means of reforming it. He collated the old copies,
which none had thought to examine before, and restored
many lines to their integrity; but, by a yery compendious
criticism, he rejected whatever he disliked, and thought
more of amputation than of cure.
I know not why he is commended by Dr. Warburton for
distinguishing the genuine from the spurious plays. In this
choice he exerted no judgment of his own; the plays which
he received, were given by Hemings and Condel, the first
editors; and those which he rejected, though, according to
the licentiousness of the press in those times, they were
printed during Shakspeare's life, with his name, had been
omitted by Ills friends, and were never added to his works
before the edition of 1664, from which they were copied by
the later printers.
This was a work which Pope seems to haye thought un-
worthy of his abilities, being not able to suppress his con-
tempt of * the dull duty of an editor.* He understood but
half his undertaking. The duty of a collator is indeed dull,
yet, like other tedious tasks, is yery necessary; but an em en-
datory critic would ill discharge his duty, without qualities
very different from dulness. In perusing a corrupted piece,
he must have before him ail possibilities of meaning, with all
possibilities of expression. Such must be his comprehension
of thought, and such his copiousness of language. Out of
many headings possible, he must be able to select that which
best suits with the state, opinions, and modes of language
Brevaillng in every age, and with his author's particular oast
gUAK. (. g
•
xc DR. Johnson's preface.
of thought and turn of expression. Such must be his know-
lege, and such his taste. Conjectural criticism demands more
than humanity possesses, and he that exercises it with most
praise has very frequent need of indulgence. Let us now be
told no more of the dall duty of an editor.
Confidence is the common consequence of success. They
whose excellence of any kind has been loudly celebrated, are
ready t") conclude that their powers are universal. Pope*8
edition fell below his own expectations; and he was so much
offended, when he was found to have left anything for others
to do, that he passed the latter part of bis life in a state of
hostility with verbal criticism.
I have retained all his notes, that no fragment of so great a
writer may be lost: his preface, valuable alike for elegance of
composition and justness of remark, and containing a general
criticism on his author, so extensire that little can be added,
and so exact that little can be disputed, every editor has an
interest to suppress, but that every reader would demand its
insertion.
Pope was succeeded by Theobald, a man of narrow compre-
hension and small acquisitions, with no native and intrinsic
splendor of genius, with little of the artificial light of learning
but zealous for minute accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing
it. He collated the ancient copies, and rectified many errors.
A man so anxiously scrupulous might have been expected to
do more, but what little he did was commonly right.
In his reports of copies and editions he is not to be trusted
without examination. He speaks sometimes iudefiuitely of
copies, when he has only one. In his enumeration of editions,
he mentions the first two folios as of high, and the third folio
as of middle authority; but the truth is, that the first is
equivalent io all others, and that the rest only deviate from it
by the printer's negligence. Whoever has any of the folios
has all, excepting those diversities which mere reiteration of
editions will produce. I collated them ail at the beginning,
but afterwards used only the first.
dr. Johnson's preface. zci
Of his notes I have generally retained those which he re-
tained himself in his second edition, except when they were
confuted by subsequent annotators, or were too minute to
merit preservation. I have sometimes adopted his restoration
of a comma, without inserting the panegyric in which he ce-
lebrated himself for his achievement. The exuberant ex-
crescence of his diction I have often lopped, his triumphant
exultations over Pope and Rowe 1 have sometimes suppressed,
^od his contemptible ostentation I have frequ ntly concealed ;
but I have in some places shown him, as he would have shown
himself, for the reader's diversion, that the inSated emptiness
of some notes may justify or excuse the contraction of the rest.
Theobald, thus weak and ignorant, thus mean and faithless,
thus petulant and ostentatious, by the good luck of having
Pope for his enemy, has escaped, and escaped alone, with
reputation, from this undertaking: so wiliingly does the world
support those who solicit favor, against those who command
reverence; and so easily is he praised, whom no man can envy.
Our author then fell into the hands of Sir Thomas Hanmer^
the Oxford editor, a man, in my opinion, eminently qualified
by nature for such studies. He had, what is the first requisite
to emendatory criticism, that intuition by which the poet's
intention is immediately discovered, and that dexterity of
intellect which despatches its work by the easiest means.
He had undoubtedly read much; his acquaintance with cus-
toms, opinions, and traditions seems to have been large; and
he is often learned without show. He seldom passes what he
does not understand, without an attempt to find or to make a
meaning, and sometimes hastily makes what a little more
attention would have found. He is solicitous to reduce to
grammar what he could not be sure that his author intended
to be grammatical. Shakspeare regarded more the series of
ideas, than of words; and his language, not being designed
for the reader's desk, was ail that he desired it to be, if it
conveyed his meaning to the audience.
zcii SR. Johnson's prefacb.
Hanmer'g care of the metre has been too violently censured.
He found the measure reformed in so many passages, by the
silent labors of some editors, with the silent acquiescence of
the rest, that he thought himself allowed to extend a little
farther the license, which had already been carried so far
without reprehension; and of his corrections in general, it
must be confessed, that they are often just, and made com-
monly with the least possible violation of the text.
But, by inserting his emendations, whether invented or
borrowed, into the page, without any notice of varying copies,
he has appropriated the labor of his predecessors, and made
his own edition of little authority. His confidence, indeed,
both in himself and others, was too great; he supposes all to
be right that was done by Pope and Theobald; he seems not to
suspect a critic of fallibility, and it was but reasonable that he
should claim what he so liberally granted.
As he never writes without careful inquiry and diligent
consideration, I have received all his notes, and believe that
every reader will wish for more.
Of the last editor it is more difficult to speak. Respect is
due to high place, tenderness to living reputation, and venera-
tion to genius and learning; but he cannot be justly emended
at that liberty of which he has himself so frequently given an
example; nor very solicitous what is thought of notes, which
he ought never to have considered as part of his serious em-
ployments, and which, I suppose, since the ardor of compost-
tion is remitted, he no longer numbers among his happy
eflfusioDS.
The original and predominant error of his commentary, is
acquiescence in his first thoughts; that precipitation which
is produced by consciousness of quick discernment; and that
confidence which presumes to do, by surveying the surface,
what labor only can perform, by penetrating the bottom. His
notes exhibit sometimes perverse interpretations, and some-
times improbable conjectures; be at one time gives the author
DK. Johnson's prbfacb.
zciii
more profundity of meaning than the sentence admits, and at
another discovers absurdities where the sense is plain to every
other reader. But his emendations are likewise often happy
and just, and his interpretaiiou of obscure passages learned
and sagacious.
Of his notes, I have commonly rejected those, against which
the general voice of the public has exclaimed, or which their
own incongruity immediately condemns, and which, I suppose,
the author himself would desire to be forgotten. Of the rest,
to part I have given the highest approbation, by inserting the
offered reading in the text; parti have left to the judgment
of the reader, as doubtful, though specious; and part I have
censured without reserve, but I am sure without bitterness
of malice, and, I hope, without wantonness of insult.
It is no pleasure to me, in revising my volumes, to observe
how much paper is wasted in confutation. Whoever considers
the revolutions of learning, and the various questions of
greater or less importance, on which wit and reason have ex-
ereised their powers, must lament the unsuucessfulness of
inquiry, and the slow advances of truth, when he reflects, that
great part of the labor of every writer is only tlie destruction
of those that went before him. The first care of the builder
^pf'a new system, is to demolish the fabrics which are standing.
The chief desire of him that comments an author, is to show
how much other commentators have corrupted and obscured
him. The opinions prevalent in one age, as truths above the
reach of controversy, are confuted and rejected in another,
and rise again to reception in remoter times. Thus the human
mind is kept in motion without progress: thus sometimes
truth and error, and sometimes contrarieties of error, take
each other^s place by reciprocal invasion. The tide of seeming
knowledge, which is poured over one generation, retires and
leaves another naked and barren: the sudden meteors of in-
telligence, which for awhile appear to shoot their beams into
the regions of obscurity, on a sudden withdraw their lustre,
and leave mortals again to grope their way.
DB. Johnson's pbeface.
These elevations and depressions of renown, and the con-
tradictions to which ail improvers of knowledge must for ever
be exposed, since they are not escaped by the highest and
brightest of mankind, may surely be endured with patience by
critics and annotators, who can rank themselves but as the
satellites of their authors. * How canst thou beg for life,'
says Homer's hero to his captive, * when thou k no west that
thou art now to suffer only what must another day be suffered
by Achilles f
Dr. Warburton had a name sufficient to confer celebrity on
those who could exalt themselves into antagonists, and his
notes have raised a clamor too loud to be distinct. His chief
assailants are the authors of 'The Canons of Criticism,* and
of 'The Revisal of Shakspeare's Text:* of whom one ridi-
cules his errors with airy petulance, suitable enough to the
levity of the controversy; the other attacks them with gloomy
malignity, as if he were dragging to justice an assassin or
incendiary. The one stings like a fly, sucks a little blood,
takes a gay flutter, and returns for more; the other bites like
a viper, and would be glad to leave inflammations and gar.-
grene behind him. When I think on one, with his confede-
rates, I remember the danger of Ooriolanus, who was afraid
that' girls with spits, and boys with stones, should slay him
in puny battle;' when the other crosses my imagination, I
remember the prodigy in Macbeth :
A falcoD, totrering in his pride of p1aee»
Vas bj a moosing owl hawk'd at and kill'd*
Let me however do them justice. One is a wit, and one a
scholar. They have both shown acuteness sufficient in the
discovery of faults, and have both advanced some probable
interpretations of obscure passages; but when they aspire to
conjecture and emendation, it appears how falsely we all
estimate our own abilities, and the little which they have
been able to perform might have taught them more candor to
the endeavors of others.
dr. Johnson's prefacr.
xcv
Before Dr. Warburton*3 edition, 'Critical ObserTatlons on
Shakspeare' had been published by Mr. Upton, a man skilled
in languages, and aequainted with books; but who seems to
have had no great vigor of genius or nicety of taste. Many
of his explanations are curious and useful; but helikewi.se,
though he professed to oppose the licentious confldence of
editors, and adhere to the old copies, is unable to restrain the
rage of emendation, though his ardor is ill seconded by his
slvill. Every cold empiric, when his heart is expanded by a
successful experiment, swells into a theorist, and the labo-
rious collator at some unlucky moment frolics in conjecture.
Critical, historical, and explanatory Notes, have been like-
wise published on Shakspeare by Dr. Grey, whose diligent
perusal of the old English writers has enabled him to make
some u.seful observations. What he undertook he has well
enough performed; but as he neither attempts judicial nor
emendatory criticism, he employs rather his memory than his
sagacity. U were to be wished that all would endeavor to
imitate his modesty, who have not been able to surpass his
knowledge.
I can say with great sincerity of all my predecessors, what
I hope will hereafter be said of me, that not one has left Shak-
speare without improvement, nor is there one to whom I have
not been indebted fur assistance and information. Whatever
I have taken from them, it was my intention to refer to its
original author; and it is certain, that what I have not given
to another, I believed when I wrote it to be my own. In
some perliaps I have been anticipated; but if 1 am ever
found to encroach on the remarks of any other commentator,
lam willing that the honor, be it more or less, should be
transferred to the first claimant; for his right, and his alone,
stands above dispute: the second can prove his pretensions
only to himself, nor can himself always distinguish invention,
with sufficient certainty, from recollection.
They have all been treated by me with candor, which they
DE. Johnson's fbefacb.
hare not been careful of observing to one another. It Is not
easy to discover from what cause the acrimony of a scholiast
can naturally proceed. The subjects to be discussed by him
are of very small importance; they involve neither property
nor liberty, nor favor the interest of sect or party. The va-
rions readings of copies, and different interpretations of a
passage, seem to be questions that might exercise the wit,
without engaging the passions. But whether it be, that
' smali things make mean men proud,' and vanity c-atches
small occasions; or that ail contrariety of opinion, even in
those that can defend it no longer, makes proud men angry;
there is often found in commentaries a spontaneous strain of
invective and contempt more eager and venomous than is
vented by the most furious controvertist in politics against
those whom lie is hired to defame.
Perhaps the lightness of the matter may conduce to the
vehemence of the agency; when the truth to be investigated
is so near to inexistence, as to escape attention, its bulk is to
be enlarged by rage and exclamation: that to which all would
be indifferent in its original state, may attract notice when
the fate of a name is appended to it. A commentator has
indeed great temptations to supply by turbulence what he
wants of dignity, to beat his little gold to a spacious surface,
to work that to foam which no art or diligence can exalt to
spirit..
The notes which I have borrowed or written, are either
illustrative, by which difficulties are explained; or judicial,
by which faults and beauties are remarked; or emendatory,
by which depravations are corrected.
The explanations transcribed from others, if I do not sub*
join any other interpretation, I suppose commonly to be right;
at least, I intend by acquiescence to confess that 1 have
nothing better to propose.
After the labors of all the editors, I found many passages
which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number
dr. Johnson's preface.
xcvii
of readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their passage.
It is impossible for an expositor not to write too little for
some, and too much for others. He can only judge what is
necessary by his own experience; and how long soeyer he
may deliberate, will at last explain many lines which the
learned will think impossible to be mistaken, and omit many
for which the ignorant will want his help. These are cen-
sures merely relative, and must be quietly endured. I have
endeavored to be neither superfluously copious, nor scrupii-
lously reserved; and hope that I have m-ade my author's
meaning accessible to many, who before were frighted from
perusing him; and contributed something to the public, by
diffusing innocent and rational pleasure.
The complete explanation of an author not systematic and
consequential, but desultory and vagrant, abounding in casual
allusions and light hints, is not to be expected from any single
scholiast. All personal reflections, when names are sup-
pressed, must be in a few years irrecoverably obliterated;
and customs, too minute to attract the notice of law, such as
monies of dress, formalities of conversation, rules of visits,
disposition of furniture, and practices of ceremony, which
nalurnlly find places in familiar dialogue, are so fugitive and
unsubstantial, that they are not easily retained or recovered.
What Ccin be known will be collected by chance, from the
recesses of obscure and obsolete papers, perused commonly
with some other view. Of this knowledge every man has
some, and none has much; but when an author has engaged
the public attention, those who can add any thing to his
illustration, communicate their discoveries, and time pro*
duces what had eluded diligence.
To time I have been obliged to resign many passages,
which, though I did not understand them, will perhaps here-
after be explained, having, X hope, illustrated some, which
others have neglected or mistalcen, sometimes by short re-
marks, or marginal direotioos, such as every editor has added
zcviil
DB. Johnson's preface.
at his will; and often by comments more laborious than tbo
matter will seem to deserve: but that which is most difficult
is not always most important, and to an editor nothing is a
trifle by which his author is obscured.
The poetical beauties or defects I have not been very diU-
gent to observe. Some plays have more, and some fewer
judicial observations, not in proportion to their difference of
merit, but because I gave this part of my design to chance
and to caprice. The reader, I believe, is seldom pleased to
find bis opinion anticipated; it is natural to delight more in
what we find or make, than in what we receive. Judgment,
like other faculties, is improved by practice, and its advance-
ment is hindered by submission to dictatorial decisions, as
the memory grows torpid by the use of a table-book. Some
initiation is however necessary : of ail skill, part is Infused
by precept, and part is obtained by habit; I have therefore
shown so much as may enable the candidate of criticism to
discover the rest.
To the end of most plays I have added short strictures, con-
taininga general censure of faults,or praise of excellence;
in which I know not bow much I have concurred with the
current opinion; but I have not, by any effectation of sin-
gnlarily, deviated from it. Nothing is minntely and par-
ticnlarly examined; and therefore it is to be supposed, that
in the plays which are condemned there is much to be praised,
and in those wbicti are praised much to be condemned.
The part of criticism in which the whole succession of
editors has labored with the greatest diligence, which has
occasioned the most arrogant ostentation, and excited the
keenest acrimony, is the emendation of corrupted passages,
to which the public attention having been first drawn by the
violence of the contention between Pope and Theobald, has
been cmtinued by the persecution, which, with a kind of
conspiracy, has been since raised against all the publishers
of Shakspeare.
SR. Johnson's preface.
xcix
Tliat many passages have passed In a state of depravation
through all the editions is induViitably certain: of these the
restoration is only to be attempted by collation of copies, or
sagacity of conjecture. The collator's province is safe and
easy, the conjecturer's perilous and dlHicuU. Yet as the
greater part of the plays are extant only in one copy, the peril
mu^tnot be avoided, nor the diilicuUy refused.
or the readings which this emulation of amendment has
hitherto produced, some from the labors of every publisher I
have advanced into the text; those are to be considered as in
my opinion sufficiently supported; some I have rejected
without mention,as evidently erroneous; some 1 have left in
the notes without censure or approbation, as resting in equi-
poise between objection and defence; and some, which
seemed specious but not right, I have inserted with a sub-
sequent animadversion.
Having classed the observations of others, I was at last to
try what I could substitute for their mistakes, and how X
could supply their omissions. I collated such copies as I
could procure, and wished for more, but hare not found the
collectors of these rarities very communicative. Of the
editions which chance or kindness put into my hands I have
given an enumeration, that I may not be blamed for neglecting
what 1 had not the power to do.
By examining the old copies, I soon found that the later
publishers, with all their boasts of diligence, suffered many
passages to stand unauthorised, and contented themselves
with Eowe's regulation of the text, even where they knew it
to be arbitrary, and with a little consideration might hare'
found it to be wrong. Some of these alterations are only tha
ejection of a word for one that appeared to him more elegant
or more intelligible. These corruptions I have often silently
rectified; for the history of our language, and the true force
of our words, can only he preserved by keeping the text of
authors free from adulteration. Others, and those very fre-
c
DR. JOHNSON'S FREFAGB.
qnent, smoothed and cadence, or regulated the measure ; on
these I have not exercised the same rigor: if only a word
was trao'i'posed, or a particle inserted or omitted, I have
sometimes suffered the line to stand ; for the inconstancy of
the copies is such, as that some liberties may be easily per-
mitted. But this practice I have not suffered to proceed far,
having restored the primitive diction wheiever it could for
any reason be preferred.
The emendations, w hich comparison of copies supplied, I
have inserted in the text; sometimes, where the improve-
ment was slight, without notice, and sometimes with an
account of the reasons of the change.
Conjecture, though it be sometimes unavoidable, I have
not wantonly nor licentiously indulged. It has been my
settled principle, that the reading of the ancient books is
probably true, and therefore is not to be disturbed for (he
sake of elegance, perspicuity, or mere improvement of the
sense: for though much credit is not due to the fidelity, nor
any to the judgment of the first publishers, yet they who had
the copy before their eyes were more likely to read it right,
than we who read it only by imagination. But it is evident
that they liave often made strange mistakes by ignorance or
negligence, and that therefore something may be properly
attempted by criticism, keeping the middle way between
presumption and timidity.
Such criticism I have attempted to practise, and where any
passage appeared inextricably perplexed, have endeavored
to discover how it maybe recalled to sense with least vio-
icDce. But my first labor is, always to turn the old text on
every side, and try if there be any interstice, through which
light can find its way; nor would Huetius himself condemn
me, as refusing the trouble of research for the ambitiou of
alteration. In this modest industry I have not been unsuc-
cessful. I have rescued many lines from the violations of
temerily, and secured many scenes from the inroads of coi»
dr. Johnson's preface.
ci
rection. I have adopted the Roman sentiment, that it is more
honorable to save a citizen than to kill an enemy, and have
been more careful to protect than to attack.
I haye preserved the common distribution of the plays into
acts, though I believe it to be in almost ail the plays void of
authority. Some of those which are divided in the later
editions have no division in the first folio, and some that are
divided in the folio have no division in the preceding copies.
The settled mode of the theatre requires four intervals in the
play; but few, if any, of our author's compositions can be
properiy distributed in that manner. An act is so much of
the drama as passes without intervention of time, or change
of place. A pause makes a new act. In every real, and
therefore io every imitative action, the intervals may be more
or fewer, the restriction of hve acts being accidental and ar-
bitrary. This Shakspeare knew, and this he practised; his
plays were written, and at first printed in one unbroken con-
tinuity, and ought now to be exhibited with short pauses,
interposed as often as the scene is changed, or any consider-
abie time is required to pass. This method would at once
quell a thousand absurdities.
In restoring the author's works to their integrity, I have
considered the punctuation as wholly in my power; for what
could be their care of colons and commas, who corrupted
words and sentences? Whatever could be done by adjusting
points, is therefore silently performed, in some plays with
much diligence, in others with less; it is hard to keep a busy
eye steadily fixed on evanescent atoms, or a discursive mind
on evanescent truth.
The same liberty has been taken with a few particles, or
other words of slight effect. 1 have sometimes inserted or
omitted them without notice. I have done that sometimes,
which the other editors have done always, and which indeed
the state of the text may sufficiently justify.
The greater part of readers, instead of blaming us for passing
cii
BR. JOnNSON's PREFACE.
trifles, will wonder that on mere trifles so much labor is ex-
pended, with such importance of debate, and such solemnity
of diction. To these I answer with confidence, that they are
judging of an art which they do not understand; yet cannot
much reproach them with their ignorance, nor promise that
they would become in general, by learning criticism, more
useful, happier, or wiser.
As I practised conjecture more, I learned to trust it less,
and after I had printed a few plays, resolyed to insert none of
my own readings in the text. On this caution I now con-
gratulate myself, for every day increases my doubt of my
emendations.
Since I have confined my imagination to the margin, it
must not be considered as very reprehensible, if 1 have
suffered it to play some freaks in its own dominion. There is
no danger in conjecture, if it be proposed as conjecture; and
while the text remains uninjured, those changes may be
safely offered, which are not considered even by him that
offers them as necessary or safe.
If my readings are of little value, they have not been os-
tentatiously displayed or Importunately obtruded. I could
have written longer notes, for the art of wriiing notes is not
of difficult attainment. The work is performed, first by railing
at the stupidity, negligence, ignorance, and asinine tasteless*
ness of the former editors, and showing, from all that goes
before and all that follows, the inelegance and absurdity of
the old reading; then by proposing something, which to su-
perficial renders would seem specious, but which the editor
rejects with indignation; then by producing the true reading,
with along paraphrase; and concluding with loud acclama-
tions on the discovery, and a sober wish for the advancement
and prosperity and genuine criticism.
All this may be done, and perhaps done sometimes without
impropriety. But I have always suspected that the reading
is right, which requires many words to prove it wrong; and
dr. Johnson's freface.
ciii
the emendatioQ wrong, that cannot without so much labor
appear to be right. The justness of a happy restoration
strikes at once, and the moral precept may be well applied to
criticism, quod duhiiah neftceris.
To dread the shore which he sees spread with wrecks, is
natural to the sailor* I had before my eye so many critical
adventures ending in miscarriage, that caution was forced on
me. I encountered in every page wit struggling with its own
sophistry, .and learning confused by the multiplicity of its
views. I was forced to censure those whom 1 admired; and
could not but reflect, while 1 was dispossessing their emen-
datioBS, how soon the same fate might happen to my own,
and how many of the readings which I hare corrected may be
by some other editor defended and established.
Criltes I saw, that others' names efface,
And fix their own, wfth labor, in the place:
Their own, like others, soon Ibeir place rcsign'd,
Or disappear'd, and left the firdt behind. Pops.
That a conjectural criiic sliould often be mistaken, c.mnot
be wonderful, either to others or himself, if it be considere<l,
that in his art there is no system, no principal and axiomatical
truth that regulates subordinate positions. His chance of
error is renewed at every attempt; an oblique view of the
passage, a slight misapprehension of a phrase, a casual in-
attention to the parts connected, is sufficient to make him not .
only fail, but fail ridiculously ; and when he succeeds best,
he produces perhaps but one reading of man/ probable, and
he that suggests another will always be able to dispute his
claims.
It is an unhappy state, in which danger is hid under plea-
sure. The allurements of emendation are scarcely resistible.
Conjecture has all the joy and all the pride of invention; and
he that has once started a happy change, is too much delighted
to consider what objections may rise against it.
ciT
dr. Johnson's preface.
Yet conjectural criticism has been of great use in the
learned world; nor is it my intention to depreciate a study,
that has exercised so many mighty niinds» from the revival of
learning to our own age, from the bishop of Aleria to English
Benlley. The critics on ancient authors have, in the exercise
of their sagacity, many assistances, which the editor of Shak-
speare is condemned to want. They are employed on gram,
matical and settled languages, whose construction contributes
so much to perspicuity, that Homer has fewer passages un-
intelligible than Chaucer. The words have not only a known
regimen, but invariable quantities, which direct and confine
the choice. There are commonly more manuscripts than one;
and they do not often conspire in the same mistakes. Yet
Scaliger could confess to Salmasius how little satisfaction his
emendations gave him i^IUudunt nobis conjecturce nostrce, quo
rum nos pudetj posteaquam in meliores codices ineidimus. And
Lipsius could complain, that critics were making faults, by
trying to remove them:—Ut olim viUis, ita nunc remediis labo-
ratur. And indeed, where mere conjecture is to be used, the
emendations of Scaliger and Lipsius, notwithstanding their
wonderful sagacity and erudition, are often vague and dis.
putable, like mine or Theobald's.
Perhaps I may not be more censured for doing wrong, than
for doing little; for raising in the public expectations, which
at last I have not answered. The expectation of ignorance is
indefinite, and that of knowledge is often tyrannical. It is
hard to satisfy those who know not what to demand, or those
who demand by design what they think impossible to be done*
I have indeed disappointed no opinion more than my own:
yet I have endeavored to perform my task with no slight so-
licitude. Not a single passage in the whole work has ap-
peared to me corrupt, which I have not attempted to restore;
or obscure, which I have not endeavored to illustrate. In
many I have failed like others; and from many, after all my
efforts, I have retreated, and confessed the repulse. 1 have
dr. Johnson's preface.
cv
not parsed oyer, with afTected superiority, what la equally
difficult to the reader and to myself; but where I could not
instruct him, hare owned my ignorance. 1 might easily have
accumulated a mass of seeming learning on easy scenes; but
it ought not to be imputed to negligence, that where nothing
was necessary, nothing has been done; or that, where others
have said enough. I have said no more.
Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils.
Let him, that is yet unacquainted with the powers of Shalt-
speare, and who desires to feel the highest pleasures that the
drama can give, read every play, from the first scene to the
last, with utter negligence of all his commentators. When
his fancy is once on the wing, let it not stoop at correction
or explanation. When his attention is strongly engaged, let
it disdain alike to turn aside to the name of Theobald and of
Pope. Let him read on through brightness and obscurity,
through integrity and corruption ; let him preserve his com-
prehension of the dialogue and his interest in the fable; and
when the pleasures of novelty have ceased, let him attempt
exactness, and read the commentators*
Particular passages are cleared by notes, but the general
effect of the work is weakened. The mind is refrigerated by
interruption; the thoughts are diverted from the principal
subject; the reader is weary, he suspects not why; and
at last throws away the book which he has too diligently
studied.
Parts are not to be examined till the whole has been sur-
veyed. There is a kind of intellectual remoteness necessary
lor the comprehension of any great work in its full design and
in its true proportions; a close approach shows the smaller
niceties, but the beauty of the whole is discerned no longer.
It is not very grateful to consider how little the succession
of editors has added to this author's power of pleasing. He
was read, admired, studied, and imitated, while he was yet
BUSK. I. A
CTi
DR. Johnson's frefacb.
deformed with all the improprieties which ignorance or neg-
iect could accumulate on him; while the reading was yet
not rectified, nor his allusions understood; yet then did Dry-
den pronounce, 'that Shakspeare was Ihe man, who, of all
modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most
comprekensire soul. Ail the images of Kature were sliii
present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily;
when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel
it too. Those, who accuse him to have wanted learning, give
him the greater commendation; he was naturally learned;
he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he
looked inwards, and found her there. 1 cannot say he is
every where alike; were he so, I should do him injury to
compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times
flat and insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clenches,
his serious swelling into bombast. But he Is always great,
when some great occasion is presented to him: no man can
say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then
raise himself as high above the rest of poets,
Quantam leota solent In'er ribnrna cnprtsst.
It is to be lamented, that such a writer should want a com-
mentary; that his language should become obsolete, or his
sentiments obscure. But it is vain to carry wishes beyond
the condition of human things: that which must happen to
all, has happened to Shakspeare, by accident and time; and
more than has been suffered by any other writer since the use
of types, has been suffered by him through his own negligence
of fame, or perhaps by that supeiiority of mind, which de-
spised its own performances, when it compared them with its
powers; and judged those works unworthy to be preserved,
which the critics of loliowing ages were to contend for the
fame of restoring and explaining.
Among these candidates of inferior fame, I am now to stand
the judgment of the public; and wish that I could confidently
dr. Johnson's preface.
cvii
produce my commentary as equal to the encouragement which
I have had the honor of receiving. Every work of this kind
is by its nature deficient; and I should feel little solicitude
about the sentence, were it to be pronounced only by the
skilful and the learned.
Of what has been performed in this revisal, an account
is given by Mr. Sleevens, who might have spoken both of his
own diligence and sagacity in terms of greater self-approbai-
tion, without deviating from modesty or truth.
Johnson.
cix
EPITAPH ON WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKB,
BT
JOHN MILTON.
What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones;
Or that his hallow'd reiiques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid ?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,
Hast built thyself a live-long monument:
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art.
Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book.
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving.
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving^
And, so sepulcher'd, in such pomp dost lie.
That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to dieu
TEMPEST.
cxiii
HISTORICAL NOTICK
OF THE
TEMPEST.
No one has hitherto been fortunate enough to dis-
cover the romance, on which Sliakspeare founded this
play. Mr. Collins the poet is said indeed to have
informed Mr. T. Warton, that it was founded on an
old romance called ' Aurelio' and Isabella,' printed
in Italian, Spanish, French, and English in 1588: but
as no such work could be discovered by the acute and
learned writer to whom this information was com-
municated, it was reasonably inferred by him, that
Collins, in consequence of tne failure of memory
daring his last illness, had substituted the name of one
novel for another.
It seems probable, that the event, which imme-
diately gave rise to the composition of this drama, was
the voyage of Sir George Somers, who was ship-
wrecked on the Bermudas in 1609, and whose adven-
tares were given to the public by Silvester Jourdan,
one of his crew, with the following title:—'A Dis-
covery of the Bermudas, otherwise called the Isle of
Divels: by Sir Thomas Gates, Sir Geo. Sommers,
and Captayne Newport, and divers others.' In this
publication Jourdan informs us, that ' the islands of
the Bermudas, as every man knoweth, that hath heard
or read of them, were never inhabited by any Christian
or heathen people; but ever esteemed and reputed a
most prodigious and iiichanted place, affording nothing
CXIV
niSTORICAL NOTICK.
but gusts, stormes, and foul weather; which made
every navigator and mariner to avoid them as Scylla
and Charybdis, or as they would shuii the devil him-
selfe.' It has hence been concluded that this play was
written towards the close of 1611, and that it was
brought on the stage early in the succeeding year.
• Whatever might be Shakspeare's intention,' says
Dr. Johnson, * in forming or adopting the plot, he has
made it instrumental to the production of many cha-
racters, diversified with boundless iiiveution, and pre-
served with profound skill in nature, extensive know-
lege of opinions, and accurate observation of life. In
a single drama are here exhibited princes, courtiers,
and sailors, all spe.iking in their real characters.
There is the agency of airy spirits, and of an earthly
goblin; the operations of magic, the tumults of a
storm, the adventures of a desert island, the native
effusion of untaught affection, the punishment of guilt,
and the final happiness of the pair for whom our pas
sions and reason are equally interested.'
It is remarked by Dr. Drake, that ' the Tempest is,
next to Macbeth, the noblest product of our author's
genius. Never were the wild and the wonderful, the
pathetic and the sublime, more artfully and gracefully
combined with the sportive sallies of a playful imagi-
nation, than in this enchantingly attractive drama.
Nor is it less remarkable, that all these excellences of
the highest order are connected with a plot, which, in
its mechanism, and in the preservation of the unities,
is perfectly classical and correct.'
cxv
ARGUMENT.
Prospero, duke of Mitan, being fond of study and retirement^
entrusts the public business of the state to his younger
brother Antonio, who secretly engages with Alonso, king
of Naples, to hold Milan as a fief of the Neapolitan crown,'
in consideration of his assistance in dethroning his unsus-
pecting brother. Not daring to deprive Prospero of life, on
account of his great popularity, the conspirators force him
and his daughter Miranda, an infant three years old, into a
crazy boat; and with a small supply of provisions aban-
don them to the fury of the elements. Being cast on a
desert island, where no human creature is found but a
savage named Caliban, Prospero studies the necromantic
art with great success, and employs his leisure hours with
the education of Miranda. About twelve years after these
transactions, Alonso, having agreed to marry his daughter
to the king of Tunis, conducts her to that country, accom-
panied hy the usurping duke of Milan, and a numerous
train. Having left the lady with her husband at Tunis
they embark on their return to Naples; and the drama
commences with a great tempest raised hy Prospero, who,
by the agency of a spirit named Ariel, wrecks the king's
ship in such a manner, that none of the passengers are lost.
Ferdinand, the king's son, is separated from his father, who
supposes him drowned ; while Prospero conducts him to
his cell, where he and Miranda become mutually enamored.
In the mean time, Alonso, Antonio, and their immediate
followers, terrified by spectral illusions raised by the
injured Duke, run distracted, till at length, Prospero,
satisfied with making them sensible of their former guilt,
and with the resumption of his dignity, generously remits
farther punishment; extends his mercy to Caliban and his
drunken companions, who had conspired to murder him;
and, haying restored Ferdinand to his disconsolate parent,
abjures for ever the magic art, and proceeds to Naples to
solemnise the nuptials of the youthful pair.
0
CZTi
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Alokeo, king of Naples.
SEBAsriAN, his brother.
pROSPERO, the rightfu) duke of Milan.
Antonio, his brother, the usurping duke of Milan.
Ferdinand, son to the king of Naples.
Gonealo, an honest old counsellor of Naples.
Caliban, a savage and deformed slave.
Trinci'lo, a jester.
Stephano, a drunken butler.
Master of a ship. Boatswain, and Mariners,
Hiranad, daughter to Prospero.
Ariel, an airy spirit.
Scene, the sea, with a ship; afterwards an uninhabited
island.
TEMPEST
♦
ACT I.
SCENE I.
On a ship at sea. A storm with thunder and
lightning.
Enter a shipmaster and a boatswain.
Mast. Boatswain,—
Boat. Here, master: wliat cheer ?
Mast. Good: Speak to the mariners: fall to't
yarely,' or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.
{Exit.
Enter mariners.
Boat. Heigh, my hearts; cheerly, cheerly, my
hearts; yare, yare: Take in the top-sail; Tend to
the master's whistle.—Blow till thou burst thy
wind, if room enough!
Enter alonso, Sebastian, antonio, Ferdinand,
gonzalo, and others.
Alon. Good boatswain, have care. Where's the
master ? Play the men.*
" ' Keadily, nimbly, quickly.
* Act with spirit, behave like men. So 2 Sam. x. 12. ' Be
of good coorage, and let us play the men for our people.'
8iiak. 1* a
2
TBMPEST.
ACT I.
Boat. I prav now, keep below.
Ant. Where is the master, boatswain ?
Boat. Do yon not hear hiiu ? You mar our
labor: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm.
Gon. Nay, good, be patient.
Boat. When the sea is. Hence! What care
these roarers for the name of king ? To cabin:
silence : trouble us not.
Gon. Good; yet remember whom thou hast
aboard.
Boat. None that I more love than myself. You
are a counsellor; if you can command these ele-
ments to silence, and work the peace of the pre-
sent,i we will not hand a rope more; use your
authority. If you cannot, give thanks you have
lived so long, and make yourself ready in your
cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.
—Cheerly, good hearts.—Out of our way, I say.
[Exit.
Gon. I have great comfort from this fellow:
me thinks, he hath no drowning mark upon him;
his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast,
good fate, to his hanging! make the rope of his
destiny our cable, for our own doth little advan-
tage! If he be not born to be hanged, our case is
miserable. [Exeunt
Re-enter boatswain.
Boat. Down with the top-mast; yare; lower.
' Of the ptssent instant, in 1 Cor. xv. 6. ' Of whom
the greater part remain unto this present.'
6ckns i.
tempsst,
3
lower; bring her to try with main-course, [a cry
within.'] A plague upon this howling! they are
louder than the weather, or our office.—
Re-enter Sebastian, antonio, and gonzalo.
Yet again ? what do you here ? Shall we give o'er,
and drown ? Have you a mind to sink ?
Seb. A pox o' your throat! you bawling, bias-
phemous, incharitable dog!
Boat. Work you, then.
int. Hang, cur, hang! you whoreson, insolent
noise-maker, we are less afraid to he drowned than
thou art.
Gon. I'll warrant him from drowning; though
the ship were no stronger than a_nut-shell, and as
leaky as an unstanched wench.
Boat. Lay her a-hold, a-hold; t set her two
courses; off to sea again, lay her off.
Enter mariners wet.
Mar. All lost! to prayers, to prayers ! all lost!
[Exeunt,
Boat. What, must our mouths he cold
Gon. The kiiig and prince at prayers! let us
assist them.
For our case is as theirs.
Seh. I am out of patience.
' To lay a ship a-hoW, is to hring her to lie as near the
wind as she can, IQ oruer to iceep clear of the Und. and get
her out to sea.
4 TEMPEST. ACT I.
Aat. We are merely^ cheated of oar lives by
drunkards.—
This wide-chapp'd rascal;—'Would thou mightst
lie drowning.
The washing of ten tides!
Gon. He '11 be hang'd yet;
Though every drop of water swear against it.
And gape at widest to glut® him.
[a confused noise within!] Mercy on us! —We
split, we split!—Farewell, my wife and children!—
Farewell, brother! We split, we split, we split!—
Ant. Let's all sink with the king. {Exit.
Set. Let's take leave of him. {Exit.
Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of
sea for an acre of barren ground; long heath, brown
furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I
would fain die a dry death. {Exit,
scene ii.
The island: before the cell of Prospero.
Enter prospero and miranoa.
Mir. If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them :
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek.
Dashes the fire out. O, I have sutfer'd
With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel.
' Absolutely. * Swallow,
SCENE n. TEMPEST. 6
Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her,
Dash'd al'i to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heai t! Poor souls! they perish'd.
Had 1 been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er'
It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and
The freighting souls within her.
Pro. Be collected;
No more amazement; tell your piteous heart.
There's no harm done.
Mir. O, woe the day!
Pro. No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
(Of thee, my dear one! thee, my daughter!) who
Art ignorant of what thou art, naught knowing
Of whence I am; nor that I am more better -
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,®
And thy no greater father.
Mir. More to know
Did never meddle * with my thoughts.
Pro. 'Tis time
I should inform thee further. Lend thy hand.
• Before. So in onr author's Cymbeline:—
or e'er I could
Give him that parting kiss.
* This ungrammatical expression is very frequent among
our oldest writers.
* A cell in a great degree of poverty. So in Antony and
Cleopatra,—' I am full sorry or, as we sometimes say, ' full
well.'
* Mix. The modem and familiar phrase, hy which that of
Miianda may he explained, is, ' never entered my thoughts.'
•
6 TEMPEST. ACT I.
And pluck my ma^c garment from me.—So;
[lays down his mantle.
Lie there my art.—Wipe thou tiiine eyes; have
comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which toucb'd
The very virtue * of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely order'd, that there is no soul—
No, not so miich perdition as a hair.
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink.—
Sit down;
For thou must now know further.
Mir. You have often
Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp'd
And left me to a bootless inquisition; *
Concluding,' Stay, not yet.'
Pro. The hour's now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell}
I do not think thou canst; for then thou wast not
Out ® three years old.
Mir. Certainly, sir, I can.
Pro. By what ? by any other house, or person ?
Of any thing the image tell me, that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
Mir. 'Tis far off;
^ The essence^ the most efficacious part.
* Useless inquiry. > Qime.
SCENE n.
TKUPXST.
7
And rather like a dream, than an assurance
That my remembrance wan-ants : Had I not
Four or live women once, that tended me ?
Pro. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how
is it.
That this lives in thy mind ? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm ' of time ?
If thou remember'st aught, ere thou earnest here.
How thou camest here thou mayst,
Mir. But that I do not.
Pro. Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve year3
since,
Thy father was the duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.
Mir. Sir, are not you my father ?
Pro. ITiy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said—thou wast my daughter; and thy father
Was duke of Milan; and his only heir
A princess ;—no worse issued.
Mir. O the heavens !
What foul jjlay had we, that we came from thence;
Or blessed was't, we did ?
Pro. Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heaved thence.
But blessedly holp hither.
Mir. O, my heart bleeds
To think o' the teen - that I have turn'd you to.
Which is from my remembrance! Please you,
further.
* Abyss. * Sorrow.
8
TBMFKST.
ACT I.
Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd An-
tonio,—
I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should
Be so perfidious!—he, whom, next thyself,
^ Of all the world I loved, and to him put
: The manage of my state: as, at that time.
Through all the signiories it was the first.
And Prospero the prime duke; being so reputed
In dignity, and, for the liberal arts.
Without a parallel; those being all my study.
The government I cast upon my brother.
And to my state grew stranger, being transported.
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—
Dost thou attend me ?
Mir. Sir, most heedfuUy.
Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits.
How to deny them; whom to advance, and whom
To trash * for over-topping; new created
The creatures that were mine; I say, or changed
them.
Or else new form'd them: ha\'ing both the key
Of oflScer and office, set all hearts i' th' state
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was
• The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk.
And suck'd my verdure out on't.—^Thou attend'st
not.
Mir. O good sir, I do.
Pro. I pray thee, mark me.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
t To prone, cut swAy.
SCKNE II.
TEMPEST.
9
To closeness, and the bettering of my mind
With that, which, but by being so retired,
O'er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked an evil nature: and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood, in its contrary as great
As my trust was, which had, indeed, no limit.
A confidence sans * bound. He being thus lorded.
Not only with what my revenue yielded.
But what my power might else exact,—like one.
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it.
Made such a sinner of his memory.
To credit his oi^ti lie,—he did believe
He was indeed the duke; out of the substitution,®
And executing the outward face of royalty.
With all prerogative:—Hence his ambition
Growing,—Dost hear ?
Mir. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Pro. To have no screen between this part be
play'd
And him he play'd it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan; Me, poor man!—my library
Was dukedom large enough; of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable: confederates
(So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples,
To give him annual tribute, do him homage;
Subject his coronet to his crown, and. bend
The dukedom, yet unbow'd, (alas, poor Milan!)
To most ignoble stooping.
* Without. * Prom being the substitute.
#
10 ^ TEMPEST. ACT I.
Mir. O the heavens!
Pro. Mark his condition, and the event; then
tell me.
If this might be a brother.
Mir. I should sin
To think but' nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
Pro, Now the condition.
This king of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearker.s my brother's suit:
Which was, that he in lieu o' the premises,®—
Of homage, and I know not how much tribute,—
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom; and confer fair Milan,
With all the honors, on my brother: Whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me, and thy crying self.
Mir. Alack, for pity!
I, not remembering how I cried out then.
Will cry it o'er again; it is a hint ^
That wrings mine eyes * to't.
Pro. Hear a little further,
And then I'll bring thee to the present business
Which now's upon us; without the which, this story
' Otherwise than.
* In consideration of the foregoing.
® Suggestion. « Squeezes the water out of them.
SCENE II,
TEMPEST
11
Were most irnoertinent.
Mir.
Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us ?
Pro.
Well demanded, wench;
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst
not:
(So dear the love my people bore me) nor set
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colors fairer painted their foul ends. ■
In few,i they hurried us aboard a bark;
Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd.
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us.
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again.
Did us but loving wrong.
Mir. Alack' what trouble
Was I then to you!
Pro. O ! a cherubim
Thou wast, that did preserve me! Thou didst
smile.
Infused with a fortitude from heaven.
When I have deck'd® the sea with drops full salt;
Under my burden groan'd; which raised in me
An undergoing stomach,^ to bear up
Against what should ensue.
Mir. How came we ashore ?
Pro. By Providence divine.
' In short. ' Covered. * A stubborn resolution.
«
12
TEMPEST.
ACT t
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that
A nohle Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, (who being then appointed
Master of this design) did give us; with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries.
Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentle-
ness.
Knowing I loved my books, he fumish'd me.
From my own library, with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
Mir. 'Would I might
But ever see that man!
Pro. Now I arise
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arrived;/ and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princes can, that have more time
For vainer homrs, and tutors not so careful.
Mir. Heavens thank you for't! I\nd now, I
pray you, sir,
(For still 'tis beating in my mind) your reason
For raising this sea-storm ?
Pro, Know thus far forth.—
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now, my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore : and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star; whose influence.
If now I court not. but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop.—Here cease more questions;
lliou art inclined to sleep; 'tis a good dulness.
Rmmltaii
TSUPEJT
iiir.i^ui/1 L-jir-.d
-i^T. Z Sc«r^ H
8CKKB n.
TBMFEST.
13
And give it way;—know thou canst not choose.
[Miranda sleeps.
Come away, servant, come: I am ready now;
Approach, my Ariel; come.
Enter ariel.
Art. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I
come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly.
To swim, to dive into the lire, to ride
On the ciirl'd clouds; to thy strong bidding, task
Ariel, and all his quality.'
Pro. Hast thou, spirit,
Perform'd to point the tempest that 1 bade thee ?
Ari. To every article.
I boarded the king's ship ; now on the beak.
Now in the waist,® the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: Sometimes I'd divide.
And burn in many places ; on the top-mast.
The yards, and bowsprit, would 1 flame distinctly,
I'hen meet, and join : Jove's lightnings, the pre-
cursors
C the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-out-running were not: The fire, and
cracks
Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune
Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble.
Yea, his dread trident shake.
' All his confederates ; all who are cf tLe same profession.
' llie part between the quarter-deck and the forecastle.
#
14
TKMPEST.
ACT I.
Pro.
My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil •
Would not infect his reason ?
But felt a fever of the mad,« and play'd
Some tricks of desperation: All, but mariners,
Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel.
Then all a-fire with me : the king's son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring, (then like reeds, not hair)
Was the first man that leap'd; cried, ' Hell is empty.
And all the devils are here.'
Pro. Why, that's my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore ?
Ari. Close by, my master.
Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe ?
Ari. Not a hair perish'd :
On their sustaining garments not a blemish.
But fresher than before : and, as thou badest me.
In troops I have dispersed them 'bout the isle;
The king's son have I landed by himself;
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs.
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting.
His arms in this sad knot.^
Pro. Of the king's ship.
The mariners, say, how thou hast disposed.
And all the rest o' the fleet ?
' Bustle, tumult.
* Not a sou! but felt such a fever as madmen feel, vcbeo
the frantic fit is on them.
* Folded.
Ari.
Not a soul
8CBNB II. TEMVHST. 15
Safely in harbor
Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex'd Bermoothes,* there she's hid ;
The mariners all under hatches stow'd ;
Whom, with a charm join'd to their sufFer'd labor,
I have left asleep: and for the rest o' the fleet.
Which I dispersed, they all have met again;
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,®
Bound sadly home for Naples;
Supposing that they saw the king's ship wieck'd,
And his great person perish.
Pro. Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform'd; but there's more work:
What is the time o' the day ?
Ari. Past the mid season.
Pro. At least two glasses : the time 'twixt six
and now.
Must by us both be spent most preciously.
Ari. Is there more toil ? Since thou dost give
me pains.
Let me remember thee what thou hast promised.
Which is not yet perform'd me.
Pro. How now ? moody ?
What is't thou canst demand ?
Ari. My liberty.
' Pro. Before the time be out ? no more.
Ari. I pray thee
Remember, J have done thee worthy service:
' Bermudas. * Ware.
16 - TEMPEST. ACT U"
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakincs, served
Without or grudge, or gamblings; thou didst
promise
To hate me a full year.
Pro. Dost thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee ?
Ari. No.
Fro. Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread
the ooze
Of the salt deep;
To run upon the sharp wind of the north;
To do me business in the veins o' the earth.
When it is baked with frost.
Ari. I do not, sir.
Pro. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou
forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who, with age and envy,
Was grown into a hoop ? hast thou forgot her ?
Ari. No, sir.
Pro. Thou hast: where was she bom ?
speak; tell me.
Ari. Sir, in Argier.i
Pro. O, was she so ? I must.
Once in a month, recount what thou hast been.
Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch, Sycorax
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know'st, was banish'd; for one thing she did.
They would not take her life; Is not this true ?
*■ Algiers,
SCENE n. TEMPEST. 17
Ari. Ay, sir.
Pro. ITiis blue-eyed hag was hither brought with
child.
And here was left by the sailors : thou, my slave.
As thou report'st thyself, wast then her servant;
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands.
Refusing her grand hests,' she did confine thee.
By help of her more potent ministers.
And in her most unmitigable rage.
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died.
And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy
groans.
As fast as mill-wheels strike. ITien was this island,
(Save for the son that she did litter here,
A freckled whelp, hag-born) not honor'd with
A human shape.
Ari. Yes; Caliban her son.
Pro. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban,
Whom how I keep in service. Thou best know'st
What torment I did find thee in: thy groans
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever-angry bears; it was a torment
To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax
Could not again undo: it was mine art,
W^hen I arrived, and heard thee, that made gape
The pine, and let thee out.
8HAK.
1 Commands.
A
B
18
TEMPEST.
ACT I.
An. I thank thee, master.
Pro. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak.
And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till
Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.
Ari. Pardon, master:
I will be correspondent to command.
And do my sprighting' gently.
Pro. Do so; and after two days
I will discharge thee.
Ari. That's my noble master!
What shall 1 do ? say what ? what shall 1 do ?
Pro. Go make thyself like a nymph o' the sea;
be subject
To no sight but thine and mine; invisible
To every eye-ball else. Go, take this shape.
And hither come in't; go, hence, with diligence.
[Exit Ariel.
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept weU;
Awake!
Mir. The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
Pro. Shake it off: Come on;
We '11 visit Caliban, my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.
Mir. 'Tis a villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.
Pro. But, as 'tis.
We cannot miss* him: he does make cur fire.
Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices
< My office of a spirit.
* Do without.
scene ii. tempest. 19
That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! speak!
Co/. \witMn\ There's wood enough within.
Pro. Come forth, I say; there's other business
for thee;
Come, thou tortoise! when ?
Re-enter ariel, like a water-nymph.
Pine apparition ! My quaint Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.
Ari. My lord, it shall be done. \Esit.
Pro. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil
himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth ! '
Enter caliban.
Cal. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd
With raven's feather from unwholesome fen.
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye.
And blister you all o'er!
Pro. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have
cramps.
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work.
All exercise on thee : thou shalt be pinch'd
As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made them.
Cal. I must eat my dinner.
I Hedge-bogs, wbich were reckoned among the animals
nsed hy witches as their familiar spirits.
#
20
TEMPEST.
ACT Z.
This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother.
Which thou takest from me. \^en thou camest
first.
Thou strokedst me, and madsst much of me;
wouldst give me
Water with berries in't; and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less.
That bum by day and night: and then I loved
thee.
And sbow'd thee all the qualities o* the isle.
The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place, and
fertile;
Cursed be I that did so!—All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have.
Which first was mine own king: and here you
sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest of the island.
Pro. Thou most lying slave.
Whom stripes may move, not kindness: I have
used thee.
Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodged
thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
Ihe honor of my child.
Cal. O ho, O ho!—'would it had been done.
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.
Pro. Abhorred slave;
Which any print of goodness will not take,
SCKNK n.
TEMPEST.
21
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee.
Took psdns to make thee speak, taught thee each
hour
One thing or other; when thou didst not, savage.
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy vile
race.
Though thou didst leam, had that in't which good
natures ,,
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confined into this rock.
Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
Cal. You taught me language; and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse: The red plague rid ^ you.
For learning me your language!
Pro. Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou wert best.
To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice ?
If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly
What I command, I 'U rack thee with old cramps;
Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar;
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
Cal. No, 'pray thee!—
I must obey: his art is of such power, [aside.
It would control my dam's god, Setebos,*
And make a vassal of him.
Pro. So, slave; hence !
[&il Caliban.
• Destroy. ' Setebos was supreme god of the Patagonians.
22
TEMPEST.
ACT I.
Re-enter ariel invisible, playing and singing;
FERDINAND following him.
Ariel's song.
Come unto these yellow sands.
And then take hands :
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,
(The wild waves whist')
Foot it teatly here and there ;
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.
Hark, hark!
Bur. BMogh, wowgh, [disptrsedly.
The watch-dogs bark:
Bur. Bowgh, wowgh. [disperstdly.
Hark, hark! 1 hear
The strain of strutting chanticlere
Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo.
Fer. "Where shotild this music be ? i' the air, or
the earth ?
It sotinds no more :—and sure, it waits upon
Some god of the island. Sitting on a bank.
Weeping again the king my father's wreck.
This music crept by me upon the waters;
Allaying both their fury, and my passion.
With its sweet air: thence I have foUow'd it.
Or it hath drawn me rather:—But 'tis gone.
No, it begins again.
ARIEL sings.
Full fathom five thy father lies ;
Of his bones are coral made ;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
toothing of him that doth fade.
* The wild waves being silent.
fcCENE II. EMFRST. 23
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-n;mphs hourly riug his knell:
[Bub. ding-dong.
Hark ! now I hear them,—ding-dong, bell.
Fer. The ditty does remember my drown'd
father:—
I'liis is no mortal business, nor no sound
TV.at the earth owes: *—I hear it now above me.
Fro. Tlie fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
Aud say, what thou seest yond'.
Mir. What is't ? a spirit ?
1a yfd, how it looks about! Believe me, sir.
It carries a brave form :—But 'tis a spirit.
Fro. No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath
such senses
we have, such; This gallant, which thou seest,
Vv'as in the wreck; and, but he's something stedn'd
'With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou mightst
call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows,
A nd strays about to find them.
Mir. I might call him
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
Pro. It goes on, I see, [aside.
As my soul prompts it:—Spirit, fine spirit! I '11
free thee
Within two days for this.
Fer. Most sure, the goddess
' Owns.
24
TEMPEST.
ACT I.
On 'whom these airs attend!—Vouchsafe, my
prayer
May know, if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give.
How I may bear me here: My prime request.
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be made, or no ?
Mir. No wonder, sir;
But, certainly a maid.
Fer. My language! heavens!—
I am the best of them that speak this speech.
Were I but where 'tis spoken.
Pro. How! the best}
What wert thou, if the king of Naples heard thee ?
Fer. A single thing, as 1 am now. that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;
And, that he does, I weep: myself am Naples;
Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, beheld
The king my father wreck'd.
Mir. Alack, for mercy!
Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the duke of
Milan,
And his brave son, being twain.
Pro. The duke of Milan,
And his more braver daughter, could control' thee.
If now 'twere fit to do't;—At the first sight [aside.
They have changed eyes:—Delicate Ariel,
IH set thee free for this!—^A word, good sir;
' Confute.
8CXNB II.
TEMPEST.
25
I fear, you have done yourself some wrong; a
word.
Mir. Why spealts my father so ungently ? 'ITiis
Is the third man that e'er I saw; the first
I'hat e'er I sigh'd for: pity move my father
To be inclined my way!
I^er, O, if a virgin.
And your affection not gone forth, I '11 make you
The queen of Naples.
Pro. Soft, sir; one word more.—
ITiey are both in either's powers; but this swift
business
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning [aside.
Make the prize light.—One word more; I chaige
thee,
ITiat thou attend me; thou dost here usurp
The name thou owest ^ not; and hast put thyself
Upon this island, as a spy, to win it
From me, the lord on't.
Per. No, as I am a man.
Mir. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a
temple;
If the iU spirit have so fair a house.
Good things will strive to dwell with't.
Pro. Follow me.—[to Fer.
Speak not you for him; he's a traitor.—Come.
I '11 manacle thy neck and feet together;
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks
* Fossessest.
26 TEMPEST. ACT I.
Wherein the acom cradled. Follow.
Fer, No;
I will resist such entertainment, till
Mine enemy has more power. [Ac draws.
Mir. O dear father.
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He's gentle, and not fearful.^
Pro. What, I say.
My foot my tutor!—^Put thy sword up, traitor;
WTio makest a show, hut darest not strike, thy
conscience
Is so possess'd with guilt: come from thy ward; *
For I can here disarm thee with this stick.
And make thy weapon drop.
Mir. 'Beseech you, father!
Pro. Hence! hang not on my garments.
Mir. Sir, have pity;
I '11 be his surety.
Pro. Silence: one word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. WTiat!
An advocate for an impostor ? hush !
Thou think'st there are no more such shanes as he,
A '
Having seen hut him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To the most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.
Mir. My affections
Are then most humble: 1 have no ambition
' Fomidable.
* Desist from any hope of awing me by that posture of
defence.
eCXNB II.
TEMPEST.
27
To see a goodlier man.
Pro. Come on; obey : \to Fer,
Thy ner^'es are in their infancy again.
And have no vigor in them.
Fer. So they are;
My spirits, as in a dream, are all hound up.
My father's loss, the weakness which I feel.
The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threiits,
To whom I am subdued, are hut light to me.
Might I hut through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all comers else o' the earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
Pro. ^ It works: —Come on.—
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!—Follow me.—
[to Fer. and Mir.
Hark, what thou else shalt do mp. [/o Ariel.
Mir. Be of comfort;
My father's of a better nature, sir.
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted.
Which now came from him.
Pro. Thou shalt he as free
As mountedn winds: hut then exactly do
All points of my command.
Ari. To the syllable.
Pro. Come, follow: speak not for him. [Exeunt.
#
28
tempert.
act 11,
ACT II.
scene i.
Another fart of the island.
Enter alonso, sebastian, antonio, gokzalo,
adrian, francisco, and Others,
Gon. 'Beseech you, sir, be merry: you have cause
(So have we all) of joy; for our escape
Is much beyond our loss: Our hint of woe *
Is common; every day, some sailor's wife.
The masters of some merchant,'^ and the merchant.
Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,
I mean our preservation, few in millions
Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh
Our sorrow with our comfort.
Alon. Pr'ythee, peace.
Seb. He receives comfort like cold porridge.
Ant. The visitor will not give him o'er so.
Seb. Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit;
by and by it will strike.
Gon. Sir,
Seb. One: TeU.
Gon. When every grief is entertain'd, that's
ofFer'd,
Comes to the entertainer—
Seb. A dollar.
* The cause that fills our minds with
* Owners of a mercbant-ship.
SCENE X.
TEMPEST.
29
Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed; you have
spoken truer than you purposed.
Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you
should.
Gon. Therefore, my lord,—
Ant. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!
Alon. 1 pry'thee, spare.
Gon. Well, I have done: but yet—
Seb. He will be talking.
Ant. Which of them, he, or Adrian, for a good
wager, first begins to crow ?
Seb. The old cock.
Ant. The cockrel.
Seb. Done : The wager ?
Ant. A laughter.
Seb. A match.
Adr. Though this island seem to be desert,—
Seb. Ha, ha, ha !
Ant. So, you've paid.
Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—
Seb. Yet,
Adr. Yet—
Ant. He could not miss it.
Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and
delicate temperance.'
Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench.
Seb. Ay, and a subtle, as he most learnedly de-
livered.
* Temperature.
30
TEMPEST.
ACT n.
Adr. ITie tdr breathes upon us here most sweetly.
Seb. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.
Ant. Or, as 'twere perfumed hy a fen.
Gon. Here is every thing advantageous to life.
Ant. True; save means to live.
Seb. Of that there's none, or little.
Gon. How lush > and lusty the grass looks! how
green!
Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny.
Seb. With an eye of green - in't.
Ant. He misses not much.
Seb. No; he doth hut mistake the truth totally.
Gon. But the rarity of it is (which is indeed
almost beyond credit)
Seb. As many vouched rarities are.
Gon. That our garments, being, as they were,
drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their
freshness, and glosses; being rather new dyed,
than stained with salt water.
Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, would
it not say, he lies ?
Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.
Gon. Methinks, our garments are now as fresh as
when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage
of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the king of
Tunis.
Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper
well in our return.
' Juicy, ■iiccalent. * Shade of green.
8CKNB t.
TEMPEST.
31
Adr. Tunis was never graced before with such a
paragon to their queen.
Gon. Not since widow Dido's time.
Ant. Widow? a pox o' that! How came
widow in ? Widow Dido!
Seh, What if he had said, widower iEneas too ?
good lord, how you take it!
Adr. Widow Dido, said you ? you make me study
of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.
Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Caithage.
Adr, Carthage?
Con. I assure you, Carthage.
Ant. His word is more than the miraculous
harp.t
Seb. He hath raised the wall, and houses too.
Ant. What impossible matter will he make easy
next?
Seb. I think, he will carry this island home in
his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.
Ant. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea,
bring forth more islands.
Gon. Ay ?
Ant. Why, in good time.
Gon. Sir, we were talking, that our garments
seem now as fresh, as when we were at Tunis at
the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen.
Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there.
Seb. 'Bate, 1 beseech you, widow Dido.
Ant. O, widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.
> AUudinr to the wonders of Amphion's music.
#
32
TEMPEST.
ACT II.
Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first
day I wore it ? I mean, in a sort.'
Ant. That sort was well fished for.
Gon. When I wore it at your daughter's marriage ?
Alan. You cram these words into mine ears
Tlie stomach of my sense. 'Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too
Who is so far from Italy removed,
I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee ?
Fran. Sir, he may live:
I saw him heat the surges under him.
And ride upon their hacks ; he trod the water.
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him: his bold
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good aims in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis how'd
As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt.
He came alive to land.
Alon. No, no, he's gone.
Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great
loss;
That would not bless our Europe with your
daughter.
against
head
> Degree or quality.
SCENE I.
TEMPEST.
33
But rather lose her to an African;
Where she, at least, is banish'd from your eye.
Who hath cause to wet the grief on't.
Alon. Pr'ythee, peace.
Seb. You were kneel'd to, and importuned other
wise
By all of us ; and the fair soul herself
Weigh'd, between loathness and obedience, at
Which end o' the beam she'd bow.* We have lost
your son,
1 fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
More widows in them of this business' making.
Than we bring men to comfort them: the^ult's
Your own.
Alon. So is the dearest of the loss.
Gon. My lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,
And time to speak it in : you rub the sore.
When you should bring the plaster.
Seh. Very well.
Ant. And most chirurgeonly.
Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir.
When you are cloudy.
Seb. Foul weather ?
Ant. Very foul.
Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—
Ant. He'd sow it with nettle-seed.
' Whether she should yield to duty or inclination.
SOAK. I. 0
#
34
TEMPEST.
ACT II.
Or docks, or mallows.
Gon. And were the king of it, what would I do ?
Seb. 'Scape being drunk, for want of wine.
Gon. r the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things: for no kind of traffic
Would I admit, no name of magistrate ;
Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty.
And use of service, none ; contract, succession.
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none :
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil:
No occupation; all men idle, all;
And women too; but innocent and pure :
No sovereignty:—
Seb. Yet he would be king on't.
Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets
the oeginning.
Gon. All things in common nature should pro-
duce
Without sweat or endeavor: treason, felony.
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine.'
Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth.
Of its own kind, aU foizon,® all abundance.
To feed my innocent people.
Seb. No marrying 'mong his subjects ?
Ant. None, man : all idle ; whores and knaves.
Gon. I would with such perfection govern, sir.
To e;:cel the golden age.
Seb, " Save his majesty!
^
' Kaok. * Plenty.
scene i. tempest. 35
Ant. Long live Gonzalo I
Gon, And, do you mark me, sir?—
Alon. Pr'ythee, no more ; thou dost talk nothing
to me.
Gon. I do well believe your highness ; and did it
to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of
such sensible and nimble lungs, that they always
use to laugh at nothing.
Ant. 'Twas you we laughed at.
Gon. Who, in this kind of merry fooling, am
nothing to you; so you may continue, and laugh at
nothing still.
Ant. What a blow was there given !
Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long.
Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you
would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would
continue in it five weeks without changing.
Enter ariel invisible, playing solemn music.
Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling.*
Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry.
Gon. No, I warrant you ; I will not adventure my
discretion so wealdy. Will you laugh me asleep,
for I am very heavy ?
Ant. Go sleep, and hear us.
[all sleep but Alon. Seb. and Ant.
Alon. What, all so soon asleep ! 1 wish mine ej'es
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts : I find
1 Bini-catching in the night time.
36
TEMPEST.
ACT n.
They are Inclined to do so.
Seb. Please you, sir.
Do not omit the heavy offer of it:
It seldom \-isits sorrow; when it doth.
It is a comforter.
Ant. We two, my lord.
Will guard your person, while you take your rest.
And watch your safety.
Alon. Thank you : wondrous heavy.—
{Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel.
Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses them!
Ant. It is the quality o' the climate.
Seb. Why
Doth it not then our eyelids sink ? I find not
Myself disposed to sleep.
Ant. Nor I; my spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent;
They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,
Worthy Sebastian ?—O, what might ?—No more:—
And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face.
What thou shouldst be : the occasion ^ speaks thee;
and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
Seb. What, art thou waking ?
Ant. Do you not hear me speak
Seb. 1 do ; and, sui-ely,
It is a sleepy language, and thou speak'st
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say ?
' Opportunity,
6CBNB I.
TEMPEST.
37
This is a Strange repose, to be asleep
With eyes wide open ; standing, speaking, moving.
And yet so fast asleep.
Ant. Noble Sebastian,
Thou let'st thy fortune sleep—die rather; wink'st
Whiles thou art waking.
Seb, Thou dost snore distinctly;
There's meaning in thy snores.
Ant. I am more serious than my custom: you
Must be so too, if heed me ; which to do.
Trebles ^ thee o'er.
Seb. Well; I am standing water.
Ant. I '11 teach you how to flow.
Seb. Do so : to ebb.
Hereditary sloth instructs me.
Ant. O,
If you but knew, how you the purpose cherish.
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it.
You more invest it! ® Ebbing men, indeed.
Most often do so near the bottom run.
By their own fear, or sloth.
Seb. Pr'ythee, say on :
The setting of thine eye, and cheek, proclaim
A matter from thee ; and a birth, indeed.
Which throes thee much to yield.
' If you bestow attention, it will in the end make yon
tlirice what you are.
^ How, in stripping the words of their common meaning,
and using them figuratively, you adapt them to your own
euuation!
38 TEMPEST. ACT II.
Ant. Thus, sir:
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this
(Who shall be of as little memory.
When he is earth'd) hath here almost persuaded
(For he's a spirit of persuasion, only
Professes to persuade) the king, his son's alive;
'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd.
As he that sleeps here, swims.
Seh. I have no hope
That he's undrown'd.
Ant. O, out of that no hope,
Wliat great hope have you! no hope, that way, is
Another way so high a hope, that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond.
But doubts discovery there. Will you grant, with
me.
That Ferdinand is drown'd ?
Seh. He's gone.
Ant. Then tell me.
Who's the next heir of Naples ?
Seh. Claribel.
Ant. She that is queen of Tunis ; she that dweLs
Ten leagues beyond man's life; ^ she that from
Naples
Can have no note,® unless the sun were post,
(The man i' the moon's too slow) till new-bom
chins
' At a greater distance than the life of man is long enough
to reach. ' Notice, information.
SCENE I.
TEMPEST.
39
Be rough and razorahle : she, from whom'
We all were sea-swallow'd, tlidugh some cast
again;
And, by that, destiny to perform an act,
Whereof what's past is prologue ; what to come.
In yours and my discharge."
Seb. What stuflF is this ?—How say you ?
'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of 'Tunis;
So is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions
There is some space.
Ant. A space, whose every cubit
Seems to cry out, ' How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples ?'—Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake !—Say, this were death
That now hath seized them; why, they were no
worse
Than now they are: there be, that can rule
Naples,
As well as he that sledps; lords, that can prate
As amply, and unnecessarily.
As this Gonzalo : 1 myself could make
A chough ' of as deep chat. O, that you bore
The mind that 1 do! what a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me ?
Seb. Methinks 1 do.
Ant. And how does your content
' In coming from whom.
• Depends on wliat you and 1 are to perforin.
• A bird of the jackdaw kind.
40
TEMPEST.
ACT II.
Tender your own good fortune ?
Seb. I remember.
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
Jnt. True:
And, look, how well my garments sit upon me ;
Much feater > than before : my brother's sen'anta
Were then my fellows, now they are my men.
Seb. But, for your conscience,—
Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that ? if it were a
kybe,
'Twould put me to my slipper; but I feel not
This deity in my bosom : twenty consciences.
That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they.
And melt, ere they molest! Here lies your brother.
No better than the earth he lies upon.
If he were that which now he's like, that's dead ;
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three indies
of it.
Can lay to bed for ever: whiles you, doing thus.
To the perpetual wink for aye * might put
This ancient morsel, this sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course. For aU the rest.
They '11 take suggestion,® as a cat laps milk,
Ihey '11 tell the clock to any business that
We say befits the hour.
Seb. Thy case, dear friend.
Shall be my precedent: as thou got'st Milan,
I Much more elegant. * For ever.
* Any hint.
scene i.
tempest.
41
I '11 come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one strc
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou pay'sl
And I, the king, shall love thee.
Ant. Draw together;
And when I rear my hand, do you the like.
To fall it on Gonzalo.
Scb. O, but one word.
[tAey converse apart.
Music. Re-enter akiee, invisible.
Ari. My master through his art foresees the
danger
That you. his friend, are in; and sends me forth,
(For else his project dies) to keep them living.
[sings in Gonzalo's ear.
While you here do snoring lie.
Open-eyed conspiracy
His time doth take :
If of life you keep a care.
Shake off slumber, and beware:
Awake! awake!
Ant. Then let us both be sudden.
Gon. Now, good angels, preserve the king!
[they wahe.
Alon. Why, how now, ho! awake! Why are you
dravra ?
Wherefore this ghastly looking ?
Gon. What's the matter ?
Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose.
Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing.
Like bulls, or rather lions : did it not wake you ?
It struck mine ear most terribly.
#
42
TSMPEST.
ACT II.
^/on. 1 heard nothing.
j4Ht. O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear;
To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar
Of a whole herd of lions.
>4/on. Heard you this, Gonzalo ?
Gon. Upon mine honor, sir, 1 heard a humming,
And that a strange one too, which did awake me :
I shaked you, sir, and cried : as.mine eyes open'd,
I saw their weapons drawn :—there was a noise.
That's verity. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard ;
Or that we quit this place : let's draw our weapons.
^lon. Lead off this ground; and let's make
further search
For my poor son.
Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts!
For he is, sure, i' the island.
^/on. Lead away.
/4n. Prospero, my lord, shall know what I have
done: [aside.
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [JExeutd.
SCENE II.
Another part of the island.
Enter caliban, with a harden of wood.
A noise of thunder heard.
Col, All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make
him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me.
scene ji. tempest. 43
And yet I needs must curse. But they '11 nor pinch.
Fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i' the mire.
Nor lead me, like a fire-brand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid them; but
For every trifle are they set upon me :
Sometime like apes, that moe ^ and chatter at me,
And after bite me; then like hedge-hogs, which
Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount
Their pricks at my foot-fall; sometime am I
All wound with adders, who, with cloven tongues.
Do hiss me into madness:—Lo! now! lo!
Enter trinculo.
Here comes a spirit of his; and to torment me.
For bringing wood in slowly : I '11 fall flat;
Perchance he wiU not mind me.
Trin. Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off
any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I
hear it sing i* the wind: yond' same black cloud,
yond' huge one, looks like a foul bumbard'' that
would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it
did before, I know not where to hide my head:
yond' same cloud cannot choose but fail by paiifuls.
—What have we here ? a man or a fish ? Dead or
alive ? A fish: he smells like a fish ; a very ancient
and flsh-like smell; a kind of, not of the newest.
Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England
now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted,
not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of
' Make mouths. ' A leathern flagon to hold beer.
44 tempest. act ii.
silver: there would this monster make a man; any
strange beast there makes a man; when they will not
give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay
out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man.'
and his fins like arms ! Warm, o' my troth ! I d<
now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer; this is
no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by
a thunderbolt, [thunder.'] Alas ! the storm is eome
again: my best way is to creep under his gaber-
dine; ^ there is no other shelter hereabout. Misery
acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will
here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.
Enter stephano, singing ; a bottle in his hand.
Ste. I shall so more to sea, to sea ;
Here shall 1 die a-shore^—
lliis is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's
funeral:
Well, here's my comfort. [drinks.
The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and 1,
The gunner, and his mate,
Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate :
For she had a tongue with a tang.
Would cry to a sailor, ' Go, hang:'
She loved not the savor of tar nor of pitch.
Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did itch :
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang.
This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort.
[drinks.
Cat. Do not torment me. O!
' The coarse frock of a peasant.
^incuIc.S^fStofiotCalidati,.
AetJL Seme JZ.
SCENE II,
TEMPEST.
45
Ste. What's the matter ? Have we devils here ?
Do you put tricks upon us with savages, and men of
Inde ? Ha! I have not 'scaped drowning, to be
afeard now of your four legs ; for it hath been said.
As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot
make him give ground; and it shall be said so
again, while Stephano breathes at nostrils.
Cal. The spirit torments me. O !
Ste. This is some monster of the isle, with four
legs • who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where
the devil should he learn our language ? I will give
him some relief, if it be but for that: if 1 can re-
cover him, and keep him tame, and get to Naples
with him, he's a present for any emperor that ever
trod on neat's-leather.
Cal. Do not torment me, pr'ythee;
I '11 bring my wood home faster.
Ste. He's in his fit now; and does not talk after
the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle : if he have
never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove
his fit: if I can recover him, and keep him tame, I
will not take too much for him: he shall pay for
him that hath him, and that soundly.
Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt
anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper
works upon thee.
Ste. Come on your ways; open your mouth;
here is that which wUl give language to you, cat;'
' Alluding to an old proverb, that ' good liquor will luako
a cat speak.'
#
46
TRMPEST.
ACT II.
open your mouth : this will shake your shaking,^ I
can tell you, and that soundly : you cannot tell
who's your friend ; open your chaps again.
Trin. I should know that voice : it should be—
But he is drowned, and these are devils. O ! de-
fend me!
Ste. Four legs, and two voices! a most delicate
monster! His forward voice now is to speak well of
his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul
speeches, and to detract. If all the wine in my
bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come,
■ Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth.
7V/». Stephajio,
Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me} Mercy!
me-cy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will
leave him; I have no long spoon.®
Trin. Stephano !—if thou beest Stephano, touch
me, and speak to me; for I am Trinculo: be not
afeard,—thy good friend Trinculo.
Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth : I '11 puU
thee by the lesser legs:' if any be Trinculo's legs,
these are they. Thou art very Trinculo, indeed.
How earnest thou to be the siege * of this moon-
calf ? ® Can he vent Trinculos ?
' Dispel your fears.
» Alluding to the proverb, ' a long spoon to eat with the
devil.*
' Trinculo's legs were somewhat shorter than those of
Caliban. < Stool.
® A raoon-C'rtlf is an inanimnte, shapeless mass, supposed by
Pliiiy to be engendered of woman only.
SCENE II.
TEMPEST.
47
Trin. I took him to be killed with a thunder-
stroke.—But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I
hope now, thou art not drowned. Is the storm
overblown ? I hid me under the dead moon-calf's
gaberdine, for fear of the storm. And art thou
living, Stephano ? O Stephano, two Neapolitans
'scaped!
Ste. Pr'ythee, do not turn me about; my stomach
is not constant.
Cal, Tliese be fine things, an if they be not
sprites.
That's a brave god, and bears celestial hquor :
I will kneel to him.
Ste. How didst thou 'scape } How camest thou
hither.' Swear by this bottle, how thou camest
hither. 1 escaped upon a butt of sack, which the
sailors heaved overboard, by this bottle! which 1
made of the bark of a tree, with mine own hands,
since 1 was cast a-shore.
Cal. 1 '11 swear, upon that bottle, to be thy true
subject; for the liquor is not earthly.
Ste. Here ; swear then how thou escapedst.
Trln. Swam a-shore, man, Uke a duck: 1 can
swim like a duck, 1 'U be sworn.
Ste. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst
swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose.
Trin. O Stephano, hast any more of this .'
Ste. The whole butt, man ; my cellar is in a rock
by the sea-side, where my wine is hid. How now,
moon-calf! how does thine ague ?
Cal. Hast thou not dropped from heaven
^8
TEMI'KST.
ACT II.
Ste. Out o' the moon, I do assvire thee; I was
the man in the moon, when time was.*
Cal. I have seen thee in her, and I do ad^re thee :
My mistress show'd me thee, and thy dog, and thy
bush.®
Ste. Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will
furnish it anon with new contents : swear.
Trin. By this good light, this is a very shallow
monster :—I afeard of him ?—a very weak monster.
The man i' the moon}—a most poor, credulous
monster. Well drawn, monster, in good sooth.
Cal. I'll show thee every fertile inch o' the
island;
And I will kiss thy foot: I pr'ythee, be my god.
Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken
monster: when his god's asleep, he '11 rob his bottle.
Cal. I '11 kiss thy foot: I '11 swear myself thy
subject.
Ste. Come on then; down, and swear.
TVin. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-
headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could
find in my heart to beat him,—
Ste. Come, kiss.
Trin. —but that the poor monster's in drink :
An abominable monster!
Cal. 1 '11 show thee the best springs; I '11 pluck
thee berries;
' Formerly.
* It was a popular legend, that in the moon's circle could
be seen a man, bearing a bundle of sticks, or busli, and lead-
ingadug.
SCENE II.
TEMPEST.
49
I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.
A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!
I '11 bear him no more sticks, but follow thee.
Thou wondrous man.
Trin. A most ridiculous monster, to make a won-
der of a poor drunkard.
Cal. I pr'ythee, let me bring thee where crab,
grow ;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts; *
Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmozet; ® I '11 bring thee
To clustering filberds; and sometimes I '11 get thee
Young sea-meUs^ from the rock. Wilt thou go
with me ?
Ste. 1 pr'ythee now, lead the way, without any
more talking. Trinculo, the king and all our com-
pany else being drowned, we will inherit here.
Here; hear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we '11 fill
him by and by again.
Cal. ' Farewell, master; farewell, farewell.'
[siMjrs drunkenly.
Trin. A howling monster; a drunken monster.
Cat. No more dams T 'II make for fish ;
N or fetch in firing
At requiring.
Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish ;
Ban Ban, Ca—Caliban,
Has a new master—(jet a new man.
' Karth-nuts. • A small monkey. * Sea-gulls.
SHAI. I. ®
50 tempest. act iii.
Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom,
hey-day, freedom!
Sle. O brave monster! lead the way. lExeunl.
ACT III.
scene i*
Before Prespero's cell.
Enter feedinand, bearing a log.
Fer. There be some sports are painful; and their
labor
Delight in them sets oflF: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me, as odious; but
The mistress, which I serve, quickens what's dead.
And makes my labors pleasures. O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed;
And he's composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up.
Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work; and says, such
baseness
Had ne'er Uke executor. 1 forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my la-
bors;
Most busy-less, when I do it.
TEXFBST
^eeHL Sotn^I.
8cbnb i.
tempest.
51
Enter miramsa ; and prospero at a distance.
Mir. Alas, pow! pray you.
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoin'd to pile!
Pray, set it down, and rest you : when this bums,
'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is heird at study; pray, now, rest yourself;
He's safe for these three hours.
Fer. O most dear mistress,
The sun will set, before I shall discharge
"What I must strive to do.
Mir. If you 'II sit down,
I '11 bear your logs the while : pray, give me that;
I '11 carry it to the pile.
Fer. No, precious creature ;
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back.
Than you should such dishonor undergo.
While I sit lazy by.
Mir. It would become me
As well as it does you : and 1 should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is to it.
And yours it is against.
Pro. Poor worm ! thou art infected ;
This visitation shows it.
Mir You look wearily.
Fer. No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with
me.
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,
(Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers)
What is your name ?
•
52 TEMPEST. ACT III.
Mir. Miranda O my father,
I have broke your hest' to say so !
Fer. , Admired Miranda!
Indeed, the top of admiration ; worth
What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues
Have I liked several women ; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,'
And put it to the foil: ® But you, O you.
So perfect, and so peerless are created
Of every creature's best.*
Mir. I do not know
One of my sex ; no woman's face remember.
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen
More that I may call men, than you, good friend.
And my dear father : how features are abroad,
I am skill-less of; but, by my modestj*.
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you ;
Nor can imagination form a shape.
Besides yourself, to like of; but I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.
' Command. * Possesseo.
' Made it doubtful whether tlie rirtue or the defect pre-
ponderated.
* Alludin; to the picture of Venus by Apelles.
SCENE I.
TEMPEST.
53
Fer. I am, in my condition,
A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king;
(I would, not so!) and would no more endure
'lliis wooden slavery, than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth.* Hear my soul
speak:—
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides.
To make me slave to it; and, for your sake.
Am I this patient log-man.
Mir. Do you love me ?
Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this
sound.
And crown what I profess with kind event.
If I speak true ; if hollowly, invert
What hest is boded me, to mischief! J,.
Beyond all limit of what else ® i' the world.
Do love, prize, honor you.
Mir. I am a fool.
To weep at what I am glad of.
Pro. Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections ! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between them!
Fer. Wherefore weep you ?
Mir. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give; and much less take.
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling,
And all the more it seeks to hide itself.
' Swell and inflame my moutli. * Of aught else.
54
TKMPEST.
ACT III.
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence !
I am your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I 'U die your maid : to be your fellow
Vou may deny me; but I 'U be your servant.
Whether you will or no.
Fer. My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.
Mir. My husband then ?
Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom : here's my hand,
Mir. And mine, with my heart in't: and now
farewell.
Till half an hour hence.
Fer. A thousand! thousand !
[Exeunt Fer. and Mir.
Pro. So glad of this as they, I cannot be.
Who are surprised with all; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I 'U to my book;
For yet, ere supper time, must I perform
Much business appertaining. [Exit,
SCENE 11.
Another part of the island.
Enter stefbano and tkixcclo ; CALtSAB following
with a bottle.
Ste. Tell not me ;—when the butt is out, we will
drink water ; not a drop before : therefore bear up,
and board 'em. Servant-monster, drink to me.
SCENE II.
TEMTEST.
53
TVin. Sen'aut-monster ? the foDy of this island
They say, there's but five upon this isle : we are
three of them ; if the .other two be brained like us,
the state totters.
Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee;
thy eyes are almost set in thy head.
TW«. Where should they be set else ? he were a
brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail.
Ste. My man-monster hath drowned his tongue
in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me: I
swam, ere 1 could recover the shore, five-and-thirty
leagues, olF and on, by this light. Thou shalt be
my lieutenant, monster, or my standard.
TYin. Your lieutenant, if you list; he's no
standard.'
Ste. We '11 not run, monsieur monster.
Trin. Nor go neither; hut you '11 lie like dogs,
and yet say nothing neither.
Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou
beest a good moon-calf.
Cat. How does thy honor ? Let me lick thy shoe :
I 'U not serve him : he is not valieuit.
Trin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster; I am in
case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed ®
fish thou, was there ever man a coward, that hath
drunk so much sack as I to-day ? Wilt thou tell a
monstrous lie, being hut half a fish, and half a
monster ?
' Meaning, be is so much intoxicated, as not to be able to
stand. s Debauched.
#
56
tempkst.
ACT III.
Cat, Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him,
my lord ?
Trin. Lord, quoth he !—th?it a monster should be
such a natural! ^
Cal. Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I pr'ythee.
Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head:
if you prove a mutineer, the next tree . The
poor monster's my subject, and he shall not suffer
indignity.
■Cal. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased
to hearken once again to the suit I made thee ?
Ste. Marry will I: kneel, and repeat it; I will
stand, and so shall Trinculo.
Enter ariel, invisible.
Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a
tyrant; a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated
me of this island.
Ari. Thou liest.
Cal. Thou best, thou jesting monkey, thou ;
I would, my valiant master would destroy thee :
I do not lie.
Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in his
tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your
teeth.
Trin. Why, I said nothing.
Ste. Mum then, and no more.—[fo Caliban.^
Proceed.
' Fool.
8CBMK II.
TEMPEST.
57
Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle;
From me he got it. If thy greatness vviU
Revenge it on him—^for, I know, thou darest;
But this thing dare not.
Ste. That's most certain.
Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it, and I '11 serve thee.
Ste. How now shall this be compassedCanst
thou bring me to the party ?
Cal. Yea, yea, my lord; I'll yield him thee
asleep.
Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head.
Ari. Thou liest, thou canst not.
Cal. What a pied ' ninny's this! Tliou scurvy
patch!—
1 do beseech thy greatness, ^ve him blows.
And take his bottle from him : when that's gone.
He shall drink naught but brine; for 1 '11 not show
him
Where the quick freshes ® are.
Ste. Trinculo, run into no further danger: in-
terrupt the monster one word further, and, by this
hand, 1 '11 turn my mercy out of doors, and make a
stock-fish of thee.
Trin. Why, what did 1 ? 1 did nothing; 1 '11 go
further off.
, Ste. Didst thou not say, he lied ?
Ari. Thou liest.
' Parti-colored, in allusion to the striped coat worn by
Trinculo, as a jester. ' Springs.
#
58
TEMPEST.
ACT III.
Ste. Do I so r take thou that. [s^n'Aes himJ As
you like this, give me the lie another time.
JH«. I did not give the lie. Out o' your wits,
and hearing too ? A pox o* your bottle! this can
sack, and drinking do. A murrain on your monster,
and the devil take your fingers !
Cal. Ha, ha, ha!
Ste. Now, forward with your tale. Pr'ythee
stand further off.
Cal. Beat him enough : after a little time,
I '11 beat him too.
Ste. Stand further. Come, proceed.
Cal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him
r the afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain
him.
Having first seized his hooks; or with a log
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake.
Or cut his wezand * with thy knife. Remember,
First to possess his books ; for without them
He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not
One spirit to command. They all do hate him
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books;
He has brave utensils, (for so he calls them)
Which, when he has a house, he '11 deck withal.
And that most deeply to consider, is
The beauty of his daughter ; he himself
Calls her a non-pareil: I never saw a woman
But only Sycorax my dam, and she;
' Throat.
SCENE II.
TEMPEST.
69
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax,
As great'st does least.
Ste. Is it so brave a lass ?
Cal. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I
warrant,
And bring thee forth brave brood.
Ste. Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter
and I will be king and queen; (save our graces!)
and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost
thou like the plot, Trinculo ?
Trin. Excellent.
Ste. Give me thy hand. I am sorry I beat thee :
but, while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy
head.
Cal. "Within this half hour will he be asleep ;
Wilt thou destroy him then ?
Ste. Ay,, on mine honor.
Ari. This will I tell my master.
Cal. Thou makest me merry: I am full of plea-
sure.
Let us be jocund. WiU you troU' the catch
You taught me but while-ere ? ®
Ste. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any
reason : Come on, Trinculo; let us sing. [sinps.
Flout 'em, and skout 'em; and skout 'em, and flout 'em ;
Thought is free.
Cal. That's not the tune.
[Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and jnpe.
' feing with spirit, dismiss it trippingly from the tongue.
* A short time since.
0
60
TEMPEST.
ACT III.
Ste. What is this same ?
Trin. This is the tune of our catch, played by the
picture of Nobody.
Ste, If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy
likeness : if thou beest a devil, take't as thou list.
Trin. O, forgive me my sins!
Ste. He that dies, pays all debts: I defy thee.
Mercy upon us!
Cal. Art thou afeard ?
Ste. No, monster, not I.
Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises.
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt
not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices.
That, if I then had waked after long sleep.
Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming.
The clouds, methought, would open, and show
riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me,
where I shall have my music for nothing.
Cal. When Prospero is destroyed.
Ste. That shall be by and by: I remember the
story.
Trin. The sound is going away: let's follow it,
and after, do our work.
Ste. Lead, monster; we 'U follow. I would, I
could see this taborer: he lays it on.
Trin. Wilt come? I'11 follow, Stephano. [^Exeunt.
BCENE m.
TEMPEST.
61
SCENE XII.
Another part of the island.
Enter alonso, sebastian, antonio, gonzalo.
adrian, francisco, and otheTS.
Gon. By 'r lakin,' I can go no further, sir;
My old bones ache: here's a maze trod, indeed.
Through forth-rights and meanders! * by your pa-
tience,
1 needs must rest me.
Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee.
Who am myself attach'd with weariness.
To the dulling of my spirits : sit down, and rest.
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer : he is drown'd.
Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks
Our fhistrate search on land. Well, let him go.
Ant. I am right glad that he's so out of hope.
[aside to Sebastian.
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolved to effect.
Seh. The next advantage
WiU we take thoroughly.
Ant. Let it be to-night;
For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they
Will not nor cannot use such vigilance.
As when they are fresh.
> Uy our lady. ' Through straight and crooked paths.
• •
62
TEMPEST.
ACT HI.
Seb.
I say, to night: no more.
Solemn and strange music; and Prospero above, in-
visible. Enter several strange shapes, bringing in a
banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of
salutation J and, inviting the king, SfC. to eat, they
depart.
Alon. What harmony is this ? my good friends,
hark!
Gon. Marvellous sweet music!
Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens! "IVhat were
these ?
Seb. A hving droUery.^ Now I will believe.
That there are unicorns; that, in Arabia
There is one tree, the phcenix' throne; one phoenix
At this hour reigning there.
Ant. I '11 believe both;
And what does else want credit, come to me.
And I '11 be sworn 'tis true. Travellers ne'er did lie,
Though fools at home condemn them.
Gon. If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe me ?
If I should say, I saw such islanders,
(For, certes,® these are people of the island)
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet.
Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of
Our human generation you shall find
Many, nay, almost any.
note,
' Fugeant.
' CeTtaiol;.
SCENE III. TEMPEST. 63
Pro. Honest lord.
Thou hast said well; for some of you there present.
Are worse than devils. [aside.
Alan. I cannot too much muse,^
Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, ex-
pressing
(Although they want the use of tongue) a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
Pro. Praise in departing. [aside,
Fran. They vanish'd strangely.
Seh. No matter, since
They have left their viands behind; for we have
stomachs.—
Will't please you taste of what is here ?
Alon. Not I.
Gon. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we
were boys.
Who would believe that there were mountaineers,
Dew-lapp'd like buUs, whose throats had hanging at
them
Wallets of flesh ? or that there were such men.
Whose heads stood in their breasts ? ^ which now
we find.
Each putter out of one for five will bring us
Good warrant of.
Alon. I will stand to, and feed,
' Although my last: no matter, since 1 feel
' Wonder.
' ' The Blemmyi have no heads, but mouth and eyes in
their breasts.'--Plin. Hist. Nat. book vi. chap. 8.
#
64
tempest.
act iii.
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke.
Stand too, and do as we.
Thunder and lightning. Enter ariel like a harpy;
claps his wings upon the tabl , and, with a quaint
device, the banquet vanishes.
Ari. You are three men of sin, whom destiny
(That hath to instrument this lower world
And what is in't)' the never-surfeited sea
Hath caused to belch up; and on this island.
Where man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
[seeing Alan. Seb. SfC. draw their swords.
And even with such like valor, men hang and
drown
Their proper selves. You fools! I and my fellows
Are ministers of fate; the elements.
Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with hemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle * that's in my plume; my fellow mi-
nisters
Are like invulnerable : if you could hurt.
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,
And will not be uplifted. But remember,
(For that's my business to you) that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero ;
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it.
' 'J'hal makes use of this world, and every thing in it^ as its
iusiiuments to bring about its ends. ^ Feather.
SCBKS in. TEMPEST. 65
Him and his innocent child; for which foul deed.
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the sea and shores, yea, all the creatures.
Against your peace. Thee, of thy son, Alonso,
They have hereft; and do pronounce by me.
Lingering perdition (worse than any death
Can he at once) shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you
from,
(Which here, in this most desolate isle» else falls
Upon your heads) is nothing, hut heart's sorrow.
And a clear' life ensuing.
He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the
shapes again, and dance with mops and mowes,^ and
carry out the table.
Pro. [aside.] Bravely the figure of this harj)}'
hast thou
Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing 'bated.
In what thou hadst to say : so, with good life,^
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their several kinds have done: my high charms
work.
And these, mine enemies, are all knit up
In their distractions: they now are in my power;
And in these fits I leave them, whilst 1 visit
' Pure, blameless. JMakinj mouths, or wry faces.
'* Hith exact representation of their several cJiaracters : so
we say, • acted to the life.'
8HA*. '• *
#
66
TEMPEST,
ACT IJI.
Young Ferdinand, wnom they suppose is drown'd;
And his and my loved darling.
[JEsii Prospero from above.
Gon. r the name of something holy, sir, why
stand you
In this strange stare ?
Alon. O, it is monstrous! monstrous!
Methonght, the billows spoke, and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder.
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper; it did bass * my trespass.
Tlierefore my son i* the ooze is bedded; and
I '11 seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded,
And with him there lie mudded.
Seh. But one fiend at a time,
I '11 fight their legions o'er.
Ant. I '11 be thy second.
^Exeunt Seh. and Ant.
Gon. All three of them are desperate; their great
guilt.
Like poison given to work a great time after.
Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly.
And hinder them from what this ecstasy ®
May now provoke them to.
Adr, FoUow, I pray you.
[Exeunt.
^ Told It me in a ronch bass sound*
* Alianation of minii.
£33XE I.
TEMPEST*
67
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Before Prospero's cell.
Enter prospero, feroinano, and miranda.
Pro. If I have too austerely punish'd you,
Vour compensation makes amends: for I
Have given you here a thread of mine own life,'
Or that for which I live ; whom once again
I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely ' stood the test: here, afore Heaven,
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand,
Do not smile at me, that I boast her off.
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise.
And make it halt behind her.
Per. I do believe it.
Against an oracle.
Pro. Then, as my gift, and thine own acqu'-i-ion
Worthily purchased, take my daughter: but
If thou dost break her virgin knot before
All sanctimonious ceremonies may
With full and holy rite be minister'd.
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow; but barren hate.
' A fibre or portion of myself* * To admiration*
' Sprinkling.
68
tempest.
act iv.
Sour-eyed disdain, and discord, shall bestrew
The union of your bed with -weeds so loathlj^
That you shall hate it both: therefore, take heed.
As Hymen's lamps shall light you.
Fer. As I hope
For quiet days, fair issue, and long life.
With such love as 'tis now; the murkiest den,
Tlie most opportune jdace, the strong'st suggestion'
Our worser Genius can, shall never melt
Mine honor into lust; to take away
The edge of that day's celebration.
When I shall think, or Phcebus' steeds are founder'd.
Or night kept chain'd below.
Pro. Fairly spoke:
Sit then, and talk with her: she is thine own.
What, Ariel; my industrious ser\'ant Ariel!
Enter aeiel.
Ari. What would my potent master ? here I am.
Pro. Thou and thy meaner fellows your la.sf
service
Did worthily perform; and I must use you
In such another trick : go, bring the rabble,®
O'er whom I give thee power, here, to this place:
Incite them to quick motion; for I must
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple
Some vanity of mine art; it is my promise.
And they expect it from me.
Ari. Presently ?
^ Teniptaliou. ' The crew of meaner spirits.
SCENB I*
tempest.
6d
Pro. Ay, with a twink.
Ari. Before you can say. Come and go.
And breathe twice, and cry. So, so;
Each one, tripping on his toe,i
Will be here with mop and mowe.®
Do you love me, master ? no.
Pro. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach.
Till thou dost hear me call.
Ari. Well I conceive. [Exit.
Pro. Look, thou be true; do not give dalliance
Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw
To the fire i' the blood: be more abstemious.
Or else, good night, your vow!
Per. I warrant you, sir;
Tlie white-cold virgin snow upon my heart
Abates the ardor of my liver.
Pro. Well.—
Now come, my Ariel; bring a corollary,*
Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly.—
No tongue; all eyes; be silent. [soft music.
A masque. Enter iris.
Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep.
And flat meads thatch'd with stover,* them to keep;
' So in Milton's L'Allegro, v. 33.
Come, and trip it. as you go,
On the light fantastic toe.
* IMi'king mouths or wry fares.
* More than are su»Ticient. * Coarse hay.
70
tempest.
act ip.
Thy banks with pioned and twiiled brims,'
Which spongy April at thy best* betrims.
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy
broom groves.
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves.
Being lass-lorn ; ® thy pole-clipt vineyard; ♦
And thy sea-marge, steril, and rocky-bard.
Where thou thyself dost air: the queen o' the sky.
Whose watery arch, and messenger, am I,
Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace.
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place.
To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain; ®
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
Enter ceres.
Cer. Hail, many-color'd messenger, that ne'er
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;
Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers;
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown
My bosky ® acres, and my unshrubb'd down.
Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen
Summon'd me hither, to this short-gprass'd green ?
Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate;
' It is conjectured that by ' pioned and twilled brims
Shakspeare meant banks fringed with pionies and thickly-
matted grass, resembling the stuff called twilled clotli, in
which the cords appear closely twisted together.
' Command. ^ Forsaken of his mistress.
* The pole embraced by the vines. * With vigor.
• Wocdy.
scene i.
tempest.
71
And some donaticn freely to estate^
On the bless'd lovers.
Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow.
If Venus, or her son, as thou dost know.
Do now attend the queen ? Since they did plot
The means, that dusky Dis ® my daughter got.
Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company
I have forsworn.
Iris. Of her society
Be not afraid: I met her deity
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos; and her son -
Dove-drawn with her; here thought they to have
done
Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,
"Whose vows are, that no 'oed-rite shall be paid
Till Hymen's torch be lighted; but in vain;
Mars's hot minion is return'd again:
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows.
Swears he will shoot no more, but play with spar-
rows.
And be a boy right out.
Cer. Highest queen of state.
Great Juno comes; I know her hy her gait.
Enter juno.
Juno. How does my bounteous sister ? Go with
me.
To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be.
And honor'd in their issue.
' Bsstow. * Plato.
m
72
TEMPEST.
ACT IT.
SONG.
Junu. Honor, riches, marriage-hlessing,
Long continuance, and increasing;
Hourly joys be still upon you !
Juno sings her blessings on you.
Cer. Earth's increase, and foison ' plenty ;
Barns and garners never empty ;
Vines, with clustering bunches growing;
Plants, with goodly burden bowing ;
Spring come to you, at the farthest.
In the very end of harvest'
Scarcity and want shall shun you ;
Ceres' blessing so is on you.
Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold
To think these spirits ? '
Pro. Spirits, which by mine art
I have from their confines call'd to enact
My present fancies.
Fer. Let me live here ever;
So rare a wonder'd ® father, and a wife.
Make tliis place Paradise.
[Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment.
Pro. Sweet now, silence;
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ;
There *s something else to do : hush, and be mute.
Or else our speU is marr'd.
Iris. You nymphs, call'd Ntiads, of the wandering
brooks,
"With your sedged crowns, and ever-harmless Jooks.
' Abundance.
* Able to produce such wonders
SCKNE !•
TEMPEST.
73
Leave your crisp i channels, and on this green land
Answer your summons; Juno does command:
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love; be not too late.
Enter certain nymphs.
You sun-bum'd sicklemen, of August weary.
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry;
Make holy-day; your rye-straw hats put on.
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.
Enter certain reapers, properly hahited: they join
with the nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the
end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks ;
after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused
noise, they heavily vanish.
Pro. [aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates.
Against my life; the minute of their plot
Is almost come.—[to the spirits.] Well done;—
avoid;—^no more.
Fer. This is strange: your father's in some
passion
That works him strongly.
Mir. Never till this day.
Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.
Pro. You do look, my son, in a moved sort.
As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir :
' Curling, winding.
74
tempest.
act iv,
Our revels now are ended; these our actors
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air ;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision.
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces.
The solemn temples, the great globe itself.
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,'
Leave not a rack® behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled.
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell.
And there repose: a turn or two I '11 walk.
To still my beating mind.
Fer. Mir. We wish your peace. {Exeunt.
Pro. Come with a thought:—I thank you:—■
Ariel, come.
Enter ariel.
Art. ITiy thoughts 1 cleave to. What's thy
pleasure ?
Pro. Spirit,
We must prepare to meet with Caliban.
Art. Ay, my commander: when 1 presented
Ceres,
1 thought to have told thee of it; but 1 fear'd.
' Vanished.
* The last fleeting vestige of the highest clouds.
SCENR I.
TEMPEST.
75
I^est I might anger thee.
Pro. Say again, where didst thou leave these
varlets ?
Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with
drinking;
So full of valor, that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces ; beat the ground
For kissing of their feet; yet always bending
Towards their project. Then I heat my tabor.
At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their
ears.
Advanced their eye-lids, lifted up their noses.
As they smelt music; so I charm'd their ears.
That, calf like, they my lowing foUow'd, through
Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss,' and
thorns.
Which enter'd their frail shins: at last I left them
r the filthy mantled pool beyond your cell,
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake
O'erstunk their feet.
Pro. This was well done, my bird :
Thy shape invisible retain thou still:
The trumpery in my house, go, bring it hither.
For stale ^ to catch these thieves.
Ari. I go, 1 go. [E. it.
Pro. A devil, a bom devil, on whose nature
Nurture® can never stick; on whom my pains,
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;
' A kind of low furze. ' Bait. ' Education.
76
TEMPKST.
ACT IV.
And as, with age, his body uglier grews.
So his mind cankers : I wiU plague them all.
Re-enter ariel louden with glistering apparel, SfC.
Even to roaring:—Come, hang them on this line.
PROSPERO and ariel remain invisible. Enter ca-
LIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, all wet.
Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole
may not
Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.
Ste. Monster, your fairy, which, j'ou say, is a
harmless fairy, has done little better than played the
Jack 1 with us.
Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at
which my nose is in great indignation.
Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster ? If I
should take a displeasure against you; look you,
Trin. Thou wert hut a lost monster.
Cal. Good my lord, give me thy favor still:
Be patient; for the prize I 'U bring thee to
Shall hood-wink this mischance: therefore, speak
softly;
All's hush'd as midnight yet.
Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,
Ste. There is not only disgrace and dishonor in
that, monster, but an infinite loss.
Trin. That's more to me than my wetting; yet
this is your harmless fairy, monster.
' Jack with a lantern.
SCENE I.
TEMPEST.
77
Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I he o'er
ears for my labor.
Cal. Pr'ythee, my king, he quiet. Seest thou
here ?
This is the mouth o' the cell: no noise, and enter:
Do that good mischief, which may make this island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye ' thy foot-lioker.
Ste. Give me thy hand: I do begin to have
bloody thoughts.
Trin. O king Stephano ! O peer! O worthy Ste-
phano! look, what a wardrobe here is for thee :
Co/. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.
7Vi». O, ho, monster; we know what belongs to
a frippery : -—O king Stephano!
Ste. Put off that gown, Trinculo : by this hand,
I '11 have that gown.
2V/a. Thy grace shall have it.
Cal. The dropsy drown this fool! wjiat do you
mean.
To dote thus on such luggage ? Let it alone.
And do the murder first; if he awake.
From toe to crown he 'U fill our skins with pinches ;
Make us strange stuff.
Ste. Be you quiet, monster.—Mistress line, is not
this my jerkin ? Now is the jerkin under the line :
now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair, and
prove a bald jerkin.'
* For ever. ® A shop for the s ile of old clothes.
• ' An allusiun to what often happens to people who pass
78
tempest.
act iv.
Trin. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an't
like your grace.
Ste. I thank thee for that jest; here's a garment
for't: wit shall not go unrewarded, while 1 am king
of this country. ' Steal hy line and level,' is an ex-
cellent pass of pate there's another garment for't.
Trin. Monster, come, put some lime® upon your
fingers, and away with the rest.
Cal. I will have none on't: we shall lose our
time.
And all he tum'd to barnacles,® or to apes
With foreheads villanous low.
Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers; helj) to hear
this away, where my hogshead of wine is, or I '11
turn you out of my kingdom: go to, carry this.
Trin. And this.
Ste. Ay, and this.
A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers .spirits, in
shape of hounds, and hunt them about; frospkho
and ariel setting them on.
Pro. Hey, Mountain, hey!
Ari. Silver! there it goes. Silver!
Pro. Fury, Fury! there. Tyrant, there! haik,
hark ! [Cal. Ste. and Trin. are driven out.
the line. The violent fevers, which they contract, in that hot
climate, make them lose their hair.' Kdwards' Mss.
' A happy turn of thought. - Bird-lime.
' A barnacle is a kind of shell-fisb, which sticks to the
bottoms of sbip^*, and which was anciently supposed^ when
broken otf, to become a Scottish goose.
SCEN£ I.
TEMPEST.
79
Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints
With dry convulsions ; shorten up their sinews
With aged cramps ; and more pinch-spotted make
them.
Than pard, or cat o' mountain.
Ari. Hark, they roar.
Pro. Let them he hunted soundly. At this hour
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies.
Shortly shall all my labors end, and thou
Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little.
Follow, and do me service. IPseunt.
ACT V.
SCENE t.
Before the cell of Prospero.
Enter prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel.
Pro. Now does my project gather to a head:
My charms crack not; my spirits obey ; and time
Goes upright with his carriage.' How's the day ?
Ari. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord.
You said our work should cease.
Pro. I did say so.
When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit.
How fares the king and his followers ?
Ari. Confined together
' Time brings forward all the expected events without
firaltering under his burden.
80
TEMPEST.
ACT r.
In the same fashion as you gave in charge ;
Just as you left them, sir; all prisoners.
In the lime-grove which weather-fends ^ your cell;
They cannot budge till your release. The king.
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted;
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brimfull of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly
Him you term'd, sir, ' The good old lord, Gonzalo
His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops
From eaves® of reeds: your charm so strongly
works them.
That if you now beheld them, your aflfections
"Would become tender.
Pro. Dost thou think so, spirit ?
Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human.
Pro. And mine shall.
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions ? and shall not myself.
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply.
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art ?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the
quick.
Yet, with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent.
The sole drift of m)^ purj)ose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel;
My charms 1 '11 break, their senses I 'U restore.
' Defeuds from bad weather.
* Thatches.
SCENE 1.
TEMPEST.
81
And they shall be themselves.
Ari. I '11 fetch them, sir. \Erit.
Pro. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes,
and groves;
And ye, that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him.
When he comes back; you demy-puppets, that
By moon-shine do the green-sour ringlets make.
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid
(Weak masters though ye be') I have bedimm'd
The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds.
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt: the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake; and by the spurs ^ pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves, at my command,
Have waked their sleepers; oped, and let them
forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure: and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, (which even now I do)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I '11 break my staff.
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth.
1 Though you possess these supernatural powers hut in a
low degree. * The longest roots.
SBAK. - I. r
82
tempest.
act r.
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I '11 drown my book. [solemn music.
Re-enter ariel : a/ter him, alonso, with a frantic
gesture, attended by gonzaeo ; Sebastian and an-
TONio in like manner, attended by Adrian and
francisco. They all enter the circle which racs-
pero had made, and there stand charmed; which
frospero observing, speaks.
A solemn air, and the best comforter
To an unsettled fancy, cure tby brains.
Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand.
For you are spell-stopp'd.
Holy Gonzalo, honorable man.
Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine.
Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace;
And as the morning steals upon the night.
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason. O my good Gonzalo,
My true preserver, and a loyal sir
To him thou foUow'st; I wiU pay thy graces
Home, both in word and deed. Most cruelly
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daugnter:
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act;—
Thou'rt pinch'd for't now, Sebastian. Flesh and
blood.
You brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,
Expell'd remorse and nature; ^ who, with Sebastian,
' Tenderness of heart, and natural affection,
SCENE I.
TEMPEST,
83
(Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong)
Would here have kiU'd your king; I do forgive
thee.
Unnatural though thou art! Their understanding
Begins to swell; and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shores.
That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them.
That yet looks on me, or would know me. Ariel,
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell;
[Exit Ariel-
I •will disease me,' and myself present.
As I was sometime Milan:—quickly, spirit;
Thou shalt ere long be free.
ABIBL rC'enters, singing, and helps to attire fbos*
FERO*
Jri. Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
Id a cowslip's bell 1 lie :
There I couch. When owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly,
After summer, merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
JPro. Why, that's my dainty Ariel; I shall miss
thee;
But yet thou shalt have freedom : so. so, so,—
To the king's ship, invisible as thou art;
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
Under the hatches; the master, and the boatswain, -
' Strip off my magio garments.
84
TEMPEST.
ACT V.
Being awake, enforce them to this place:
And presently, I pr'ythee.
^ri. I drink the air before me, and return
Or e'er i your pulse twice heat. [_Exii Ariel.
Gov. All torment, trouble, wonder, and amaze-
ment
Inhabits nere. Some heavenly power guide us
Out of this tearful ® country!
Pro. Behold, sir king.
The wronged duke of Milan, Prospero:
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;
And to thee, and thy company, I hid
A hearty welcome.
Alon. Whe'r * thou heest he, or no.
Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me.
As late I have been, I not; know: thy pulse
Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since 1 saw thee.
The affliction of my mind amends, with which,
J fear, a madness held me : this must crave
(An if this be at all) a most strange story.
Thy dukedom I resign; and do entreat
Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should
Prospero
Be living, and he here ?
Pro. First, noble friend.
Let me embrace thine age; whose honor cannot
Be measured or confined.
' Before. ' Friishlful. ' Whether.
SCENE I.
TEMPEST.
85
Gon.
Whether this be
Or be not, I '11 not swear.
Pro.
You do yet taste
Some sul)tilties o' the isle, that will not let you
Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends aU.
But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded.
I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you,
And justify you traitors: at this time
I '11 tell no tales.
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault; all of them ; and require
My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I know
Thou must restore.
Alon. If thou beest Prospero,
Give us particulars of thy preservation :
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
Were wreck'd upon this shore; where I have lost
(How sharp the point of this remembrance is !)
My dear son Ferdinand.
Pro. I am woe' for't, sir.
Alon. Irreparable is the loss; and Patience
Says, it is past her cure.
Pro. I rather think
You have not sought her help ; of whose soft gtace.
[aside to Seb. and Ant.
Seb.
Pro.
The devU speaks in him. [aside.
No.
' Sorry,
#
86
TEMPEST.
ACT T.
For the like loss, I have her sovereign aid.
And rest myself content.
Alon. You the like loss ?
Pro. As great to me, as late ;' and, portable •
To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
Than you may call to comfort you; for I
Have lost my daughter.
Alon. A daughter ?
O heavens! that they were living both in Naples,
The king and queen there! That they were, 1
wish
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed
Where my son hes. When did you lose your
daughter ?
Pro. In this last tempest, I perceive, these lords
At this encounter do so much admire,®
That they devour their reason ; and scarce think
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words
Are natural breath : but, howsoe'er you have
Been justled from your senses, know for certain.
That I am Prospero, and that very duke
Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most
strangely.
Upon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was
landed.
To be the lord on't. No more yet of this:
For 'tis a chronicle of day by day.
* My loss IS as great as yours, and has happened to me as
lately. * Bearable.
* Are so much surprised at this meeting.
TEJIPEST
AfiCwiS is JGiwtS* pU/fin0
^tt V Scmm I.
swACM.
SCENE I.
tempest.
87
Not a relation for a breakfast, nor
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir:
This cell's my court: here have I few attendants.
And subjects none abroad : pray you, look in.
My dukedom since you have given me again.
I will requite you with as good a thing;
At least, bring forth a wonder, to content ye.
As much as me my dukedom.
The entrance of the cell opens, and discovers feroI"
NAND and miraxda playing at chess.
Mir. Sweet lord, you play me false.
Fer. No, my dearest love,
1 would not for the world.
Mir. Yes, for a score of kingdoms, you should
wrangle.
And I would call it fair play,
Alon. If this prove
A vision of the island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.
Seb. A most high miracle !
Fer, Though the seas threaten, they are merciful:
I have cursed them without cause.
[Ferdinand kneels to Alonso,
Alon. Now all the blessings
Of a glad father compass thee about!
Arise, and say how thou camest here.
Mir. O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here !
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world.
88
TEMPEST.
ACT y.
That has such people in't!
Pro. 'Tis new to thee.
Alon. What is this maid, with whom thou wast
at play ?
Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours.
Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us.
And brought us thus together ?
Per. Sir, she's mortal;
But, by immortal Providence, she's mine.
I chose her, when I could not ask my father
For his advice ; nor thought I had one : she
Is daughter to this famous duke of MUan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown.
But never saw before ; of whom I have
Received a second hfe, and second father
This lady makes him to me.
Alon. I am hers :
But O, how oddly will it sound, that I
Must ask my child forgiveness!
Pro. There, sir, stop;
Let us not burden our remembrances
With a heaviness that's gone.
Gon. I have inly wej)t.
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you
gods.
And on this couple drop a blessed crown;
For it is you, that have chalk'd forth the way
Which brought us hither !
Alon. I say, amen, Gonzalo !
Gon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his
issue
scene i.
tempest.
89
Should become kings of Naples ? O, rejoice
Beyond a common joy ; and set it down
With gold on lasting pillars. In one voyage
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis ;
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife.
Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom,
In a poor isle ; and all of us, ourselves.
When no man was his own.'
Alon. Give me your hands;
[Tb Fer. and Mir.
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart.
That doth not wish you joy !
Gon. Be't so! Amen !
Re-enter ariel. vnth the master and boatswaut
amazedly following.
0 look, sir, look, sir ; here are more of us!
1 prophesied, if a gallows were on land.
This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy.
That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on
shore ?
Hast thou no mouth by land ? What is the news ?
Boat. The best news is, that we have safely
found
Our king and company: the next, our ship,—
, Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split,—
Is tight, and yare,^ and bravely rigg'd, as when
We first put out to sea.
' In his senses ' Ready.
0
90
TEMPEST.
ACT V.
j4ri. Sir, all this service \
Have I done since I went. [aside.
Pro. My tricksy * spirit! J
Alon. These are not natural events; they
strengthen.
From strange to stranger. Say, how came you
hither ?
Boat. If I did think, sir, 1 were well awake,
I'd strive to tell you. We were dead on sleep.
And (how, we know not) all clapp'd under hatches.
Where, hut even now, with strange and several
noises
of roaring, shrieking, howling, gingling chains.
And more diversity of sounds, all horrible.
We were awaked ; straightway, at liberty :
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld
Our royal, good, and gallant ship ; our master
Capering to eye her. On a trice, so please you.
Even in a dream, were we divided from them.
And were brought moping hither.
Art. Was 't well done ? J
Pro. Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt J- [astife.
be free. j
Alon. This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod:
And there is in this business more than nature
Was ever conduct ® of: some oracle
Must rectify our knowlege.
Pro. Sir, my liege.
• Clever, adroit.
* Conductor.
SCENE I.
TEMPEST.
91
Do not infest your mind with beating on '
The strangeness of this business : at pick'd leisure.
Which shall be shortly, single I '11 resolve you'
(Which to you shall seem probable) of every
These happen'd accidents: till when he cheerful.
And think of each thing well. Come hither, spirit;
Set Caliban and his companions free:
Untie the spell. [Exit Ariel.'] How fares my gracious
sir ?
There are yet missing of your company
Some few odd lads, that you remember not.
Re-enter ariel, driving in calibax, stkfhano, and
TKiNCULO, in their stolen apparel.
Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no
man take care for himself; for all is hut fortune.
Coragio ! ® hully-monster, Coragio!
Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in my
head, here's a goodly sight.
Cal. 0 Setebos, these be brave spirits. Indeed!
How fine my master is! I am afraid
He will chastise me.
Seb. Ha, ha!
What things are these, my lord Antonio ?
Will money buy them ?
Ant. Very like; one of them
' I will relate to you circumstantially.
* Exclamation of encouragement.
92
T^MFEST.
ACT T.
Is a plain iish,' and, no doubt, marketaole
Pro. • Mark but the badges of these men, my
lords.
Then say, if they be true.® This mis-shapen
knave,—
His mother was a witch; and one so strong,
That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs.
And deal in her command, without her power.®
These three have robb'd me ; and this demi-devil
(For he's a bastard one) had plotted with them
To take my life : two of these fellows you
Must know, and own; this thing of darkness I
Acknowlege mine.
Cal. I shall be pinch'd to death.
Alan. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?
Seb. He is drunk now : where had he wine ?
Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should
they
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them ? *
How earnest thou in this pickle ?
Trin. I have heen in such a pickle, since I saw
you last, that, I fear me, wiU never out of my bones:
I shall not fear fly-blowing.
Seb. Wh}', how now, Stephano ?
Ste. O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a
cramp.
' Is evidently a fish. * Honest.
* Sycorax could control the moon, and act as her vicegerent,
without heing commissioned hy her so to do.
* Arrayed them in glittering apparel.
SCENE I.
TEMPEST.
93
Pro. You'd be king of the isle, sirrah ?
Ste. I should have been a sore one then.
Aion. This is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on.
[pointing to Caliban.
Pro. He is as disproportion'd in his manners,
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.
Cal. Ay, that I will; and I '11 be wise hereafter.
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
as I, to take this drunkard for a god.
And worship this dull fool!
Pro. Go to; away!
Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you
found it.
Seh. Or stole it, rather.
[Exeunt Cal. Ste. and Trin.
Pro. Sir, I invite your highness, and your train.
To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which (part of it) I '11 waste
With such discourse, as, I not doubt, shall make
Go quick away: the story of my life,
And the particular accidents, gone by.
Since I came to this isle: and in the mom,
I '11 bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-beloved solemnised;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.
Alon. I long
To hear the story of your life, which must
- •
04 TEMPEST. ACT T.
Take the ear strangely.^
Pro. I '11 deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales.
And sail so expeditious, that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off. My Ariel! chick!
That is thy charge; then to the elements
Be free, and fare then -well! \aside,\ Please you,
draw near. [Exeunt.
' Which must ceeds be interesting.
95
EPILOGUE.
SPOKEN BY PROSPERO.
Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
And what strength I have's mine own;
Which is most faint: now. 'tis true,
I must he here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not,
Since I have my dukedom got.
And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island, by your spell;
But release me from my bands.
With the help of your good hands.'
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project faib.
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is desp.air.
Unless I be relieved by prayer;
Which j)ierces so, that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be.
Let your indulgence set me free.
' By your applause. Noise was supposed to dissolve a
spell.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA.
8HAK. 1^
#
99
HISIOIUCAL NOTICE
OF THE
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
Mr. Steevens conjectures that some of the incidents
of this play were taken by Shakspeare from the Ar
cadia, book i. chap. 6. where Pyrocles consents to
head the Helots; to which tale the adventures of
Valentine with the outlaws, in this drama, bear a
striking resemblance. Rut however this question may
be disposed of, there can be little doubt that the epi*
soda of Felismena, in the Diana of George of Monte-
mayo;, a romance translated from the Spanish, and
published in the year 1598, was the source whence tlie
principal part of the plot of the Two Gentlemen of
Verona has been derived. The story of Proteus and
Julia, in this play, closely corresponds with its pro-
totype; and in several passages the dramatist has
copied the very language of the pastoral.
The authenticity of this drama has been disputed by
Hanmer, Theobald, and Upton, who condemn it as a
very inferior production : but Dr. Johnson, in ascri-
bing it to the pen of Shakspeare, asks, ' if it he taken
from him, to whom shall it be given?' justly remarking,
that ' it will be found more credible that Shakspeare
might sometimes sink below bis highest flights, than
that any other should rise up to his lowest.' ' It is
observable,' says Pope, ' that the style of this comedy
is less figurative, and more natural and unatfected,
#
100
HISTORICAI. NOTICE.
than the greater part of this author's, though supposed
to be one of the first he wrote.'
Dr. Johnson remarks, that *in this play there is a
strange mixture of knowlege and ignorance, of care
and negligence. The versification is often excellent,
the allusions are learned and just; but the author
conveys his heroes by sea from one inland town to
another in the same country ; he places the emperor
at Milan, and sends his young men to attend him, but
never mentions him more : be makes Proteus, after an
interview with Silvia, say he has only seen her pic-
ture ; and, if we may credit the old copies, he has, by
mistaking places, left his scenery inextricable. The
reason of all this confusion seems to be, that he took
his story from a novel, which be sometimes followed
and sometimes forsook, sometimes remembered and
sometimes forgot.'—' When I read this play,' adds the
same writer, < I cannot but think that I find, both in
the serious and ludicrous scenes the language and sen-
timents of Shakspeare. It is not, indeed, one ol his
most powerful eflfusions ; it has neither many diversities
of character, nor striking delineations of life; but it
abounds in ywiiai beyond most of his plays ; and few
have more lines or passages which, singly considered,
are eminently beautiful.'
101
A RG UMENT.
A young gentleman of Verona, named Valentine, after taking
leave of his friend Proteus, visits the court of Milan, where
he becomes captivated by the charms of Silvia, the duke's
daughter, who secretly favors his addresses, in preference
to those of a rich suitor provided by her father. In the
mean time, Proteus, who had become enamored of Julia, a
Veronese lady, successfully prosecutes his suit, and obtains
from his mistress assurances of mutual regard. The satis-
faction of these lovers is soon interrupted by the young
gentleman's father, who, ignorant of his son's attachment, is
anxious to send him to Milan, where Valentine still resides.
After quitting Jglia with professions of unalterable con-
stancy, Proteus joins his friend, who receives him with the
utmost tenderness ; confides to him the secret of his love ;
and, having introduced him into the presence of Silvia,
informs him of bis intended elopement with her: but he
has soon reason to repent his misplaced confidence ; for
Proteus, who by this time had forgotten his former vows,
and was resolved to supplant V^alentine, treacherously
informs the duke of his daughter's purposed flight, which
procures tue banishment of Valentine and the imprisonment
of Silvia. During this period, Julia, unable to endure the
absence of her lover, travels to Milan in the disguise of a
youth, and contrives to hire herself as a page to Proteus,
whose perfidy she soon discovers. Silvia soon after efiects
i-er escape from confinement, but is overtaken in a forest by
Proteus, who endeavors to obtain her consent by threats of
violence, when she is unexpectedly rescued by Valentine,
whoso life had recently been spared by a band of out-
laws settled here, on condition of becoming their leader.
The remonstrances of Valentine awaken the remorse of
Proteus : he entreats forgiveness, which is readily granted
him ; and Julia, having discovered herself, is united to her
lover ; while the duke, after pardoning the outlaws and
recalling them from exile, willingly consents to the nuptials
of his daughter with Valentine.
102
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Ddke of Milan, &ther to Silvia.
Valentine, f gentlemen of Verona
Proteds, >
Antonio, father to Proteus.
Tiidrio, a foolish rival to Valentine.
Eglamoor, agent for Silvia in her escapeu
Speed, a clownish servant to Valentine.
Launce, servant to Proteus.
Panthino, servant to Antonio.
Host, where Julia lodges in Milan.
Outlaws.
Julia, a lady of Verona, beloved by Proteus.
Silvia, the duke's daughter, beloved by Valentine.
Lucetta, waiting-woman to Julia.
Servants, Musicians.
Scene, sometimes in Verona; sometimes in Milan; and on
the frontiers of Mantua.
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
♦
ACT I.
scenb i.
An open place in Verona.
Enter valentine and proteos.
Vat. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus;
Home-keeping youth haye ever homely wits;
Were't not, affection chains thy tender days
To the sweet glances of thy honor'd love,
I rather would entreat thy company.
To see the wonders of the world abroad.
Than, living duUy sluggardized at home.
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.^
But, since thou lovest, love still, and thrive therein.
Even as I would, when I to love begin.
Pro. Wilt thou be gone ? Sweet Valentine,
adieu!
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel;
Wish me partaker in thy happiness,
"WTien thou dost meet good hap; and, in thy danger.
' Idleness, which prevents the giving an; form or character
to the manners.
104 TWO GENTLEMEN ACT 1.
If ever danger do environ thee.
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers.
For I will be thy bead's-man, Valentine.
Val. And on a love-book pray for my success.
Pro. Upon some book 1 love, I '11 pray for thee.
Val. That's on some shallow story of deep love.
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.
Pro. That's a deep story of a deeper love ;
For he was more than over shoes in love.
Val. 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love ;
And yet you never swom the Hellespont.
Pro. Over the boots ? nay, give me not the boots.'
Val. No, I will not, for it boots thee not.
Pro. • What ?
Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought with
gtoans;
Coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading mo-
meat's mirth.
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:
If haply won, perhaps, a hapless gain;
If lost, why then a grievous labor won ;
However, but a folly bought with wit.
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
Pro. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.
Val. So, by your circumstance,® I fear, you '11
^ prove.
' Do not make a langhing-stock of me. A proverbial ex-
pression, deriving its origin from a humorous punishment at
harvest-home feasts.
* Circumstance is used equivocally ; it here means conduct;
in the preceding line, circumstantial deduction.
SCBN'E I.
OF VERONA.
105
Pro. 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Lov<!.
Val. Love is your master, for he masters you;
And he that is so yoked by a fool,
Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
Pro. Yet writers say; as in the sweetest bud,
nie eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
Val. 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 turn'd to foUy; blasting in the bud.
Losing his verdure even in the prime.
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee.
That art a votary to fond desire ?
Once more adieu: my father at the road'
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.
Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.
Val. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our
leave.
At Milan, let me hear from thee by letters.
Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend,
And I likewise will visit thee with mine.
Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!
Val. As much to you at home ! and so, farewell!
' [Exit Valentine.
Pro. He after honor hunts, I after love ;
' At the haven where ships anchor.
106
two gentlemen
act i.
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 naught;
Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with though^.
Enter speed.
Speed. Sir Proteus, save you. Saw you my master ?
Pro. But now he parted hence, to embark for
Milan.
Speed. Twenty to one then, he is shipp'd already;
And I have play'd the sheep, in losing him.
Pro. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray.
An if the shepherd be awhile away.
Speed. You conclude, that my master is a shepherd
then, and 1 a sheep ?
Pro. I do.
Speed. Why then my horns are his horns, whether
I wake or sleep.
Pro. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.
Speed. This proves me still a sheep.
Pro. True; and thy master a shepherd.
Speed. Nay, that J can deiiy by a circumstance.
Pro. It shall go hard, but I '11 prove it by au-
other.
Speed. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the
sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my
master seeks not me; therefore, I am no sheep.
Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd;
the shepherd for food follows not the sheep; thou
SCXNB I.
OF VEBONA.
107
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.
Pro. But dost thou hear ? gavest 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 labor.
Pro. Here's too small a pasture for such store
of muttons.
Speed. If the ground be overcharged, you were
best stick her.
Pro. Nay, in that you are astray; 'twere best
pound you.
Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me
for carrying your letter.
Pro. You mistake; I mean the pound, a pinfold.
Speed. From a pound to a pin ? fold it over and
over,
*Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your
lover.
Pro. But what said she ? did she nod ?
[Speed nods.
Speed. I.
Pro. Nod, I ? why, that's noddy.
Speed. You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and
you ask me, if she did nod; and I say, I.
Pro. And that set together, is—noddy.
Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set it to-
gether, take it for your pains.
108
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT 1.
Pro, No, no, you shall have it for bearing the
letter.
Speed. Well, I perceive, I must be fain to bear
with you.
Pro. Why, sir, bow do you bear with me ?
Speed. Marry, sir, the letter very orderly; having
nothing but the word, noddy, for my pains.
Pro. Besbrew me, but you have a quick wit.
Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.
Pro. Come, come, open the matter in brief.
"What said she ?
Speed. Open your purse, that the money, and the
matter, may be both at once debvered.
Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains. What
said she }
Speed. Truly, sir, I think you '11 hardly win her.
Pro. WhyCouldst 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 bard to me that brought your
mind, I fear, she '11 prove as bard to you in telbng
your mind. Give her no token but stones; for
she's as bard as steel.
Pro. What, said she nothing ?
Speed. No, not so much as—' Take this for thy
pains.' To testify your bounty, I thank you, you
have testem'd me; ^ in requital whereof, henceforth
' Given me a sixpence.
SCBNS II.
of verona.
109
carry your letters yourself: and so, sir, I '11 com-
mend you to my master.
Pro. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck;
Which cannot ]>erish, having thee aboard.
Being destined to a drier deatb on shore.
I must go send some better messenger;
I fear, my Julia would not deign my lines.
Receiving them from such a worthless post.
[Exeunt.
scene ii.
The same. Garden of Julia's house.
Enter julia and luceti-a.
Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,
Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love
Luc. Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheed-
fully,
Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen.
That every day with parle * encounter me.
In thy opinion, which is worthiest love ?
Luc. Please you, repeat their names, I '11 show
my mind
According to my shallow, simple skill.
Jul. What think'st thou of the fair sir Eglamour?
Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine;
But, were I you, he never should be mine.
Jul. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio ?
Luc. Well, of his wealth ; but of himself, so, so.
» Tallr.
#
110
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT I,
Jul. What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus ?
Luc. Lord, lord ! to see what folly reigns in us !
Jul. How now! what means this passion at his
name ?
Luc. Pardon, dear madam ; 'tis a passing shame.
That I, unworthy body as I am.
Should censure > thus on lovely gentlemen.
Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest ?
Luc. Then thus, of many good I think him
best.
Jul, Your reason ?
Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason;
I think him so, because I think him so.
Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on
him ?
Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away,
Jul. Why, he of all the rest hath never moved me.
I,uc. Yet he of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.
Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small.
Luc. Fire, that's closest kept, burns most of all.
Jul. They do not love, that do not show their love.
Luc. O, they love least, that let men know their
love.
Jul. I would, I knew his mind.
Luc. Peruse this paper, madam.
Jul. ' To Julia,'-^
Say, from whom ?
Luc. That the contents will show.
' Pass sentence.
SCENE II.
OF VERONA.
Ill
Jnl. Say, say: who gave it thee ?
Luc. 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.
Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker I ^
Dare you presume to harbor 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 return'd.
Or else return no more into my sight.
Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than
hate.
Jul. WiU you be gone ?
Luc. That you may ruminate. {Exit.
Jul. And yet, I would I had o'erlook'd 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!
' A matcb-malcer.
#
112
two gentleaien
ACT r.
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence.
When willingly I would have had her here !
How angerly 1 taught my brow to frown.
When inward joy enforced my heart to smile !
My penance is, to call Lucetta back, ,
And ask remission for my folly past.
What ho ! Lucetta !
Re-enter lucetta.
Luc. What would your ladyship ?
Jul. Is it dinner-time ?
Luc. I would it were;
That you might kill your stomach' on your meat,
And not upon your maid.
Jul. What is't that you
Took up so gingerly ? ®
Luc. Nothing.
Jul. Why didst thou stoop then ?
Luc. To take a paper up that I let fall.
Jul. And is that paper nothing ?
Luc. Nothing concerning me.
Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns.
Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,
Unless it have a false interpreter.
Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in
rhyme.
Luc. That 1 might sing it, madam, to a tune ;
Give me a note : your ladyship can set.
' Passion.
' So cautiously.
ECENE II. OF VERONA. 113
Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible :
Best sing it to the tune of ' Light o' love.''
Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune.
Jul. Heavy ? belike, it hath some burden then.
Luc. Ay; and melodious were it, would you
sing it.
Jul. And why not you ?
Luc. I cannot reach so high.
Jul. Let's sec your song. How now, minion ?
Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out;
And yet, methinks, I do not like this tune.
Jul. you do not ?
Luc. No, madam ; 'tis too sharp.
Jul. You, minion, are too saucy.
Luc. Nay, now you are too flat.
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant: *
There wanteth but a mean ' to fiU your song.
Jul. The mean is drown'd with your unruly base.
Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.*
Jul. 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.
Luc. She makes it strange; ® but she would be
best pleased
' An old tone, freouentlv alluded to by the ancient drama-
tists. * Variations.
' The tenor in music.
* I take pains to make yon a captive to Proteus' passion.
• Tumult. ® She affects this distance of behaviour.
SIIAK, I. K
114
TWO GENTLEMEK
ACT 1.
To be so anger'd with another letter. [Exit,
Jul. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same!
0 hateful hands, to tear such loving words !
Injurious wasps ! to feed on such sweet honey.
And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings!
1 '11 kiss each several paper for amends.
Ix)ok. here is writ—* kind Julia—unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I threw 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 heal'd;
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 '11 tear away;
And yet I will not, sith' so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names :
Thus will I fold them one upon another;
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
' Since.
scbnk 111.
of verona,
115
Re-enter lucetta.
Luc. Madam,
Dinner is ready, and your father stays.
Jul. Well, let us go.
Luc. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales
here ?
Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up.
Luc. Nay, I was taken up * for laying them
down :
Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.®
Jul. 1 see, you have a month's mind ® to them.
Lac. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you
see;
I see things too, although you judge 1 wink.
Jul. Come, come, will't please you go ? lExeunt.
scene iii.
I%e same. A room in Antonio's house.
Enter antonio and fanthino.
Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that.
Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister ?
Pan. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.
Ant. Why, what of him ?
Pan. He wonder'd, that your lordship
Would suffer him to spend his youth at home;
While other men, of slender reputation.
' Chidden. ' Lest they sliou Id ciitca cold.
* A lingering desire.
J16 TWO GENTLEMEN ACT I,
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.
Ant. Nor need'st thou much importune me to that
Whereon this month I have keen hammering.
I have consider'd well his loss of time; .
And how he cannot be a perfect man.
Not being tried, and tutor'd in the world:
Experience is by industry achieved.
And perfected by the swift course of time:
Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him ?
Pan. I think, your lordship is not ignorant.
How his companion, youthful Valentine,
Attends the emperor in his royal court.
Ant. I know it well.
Pan. '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.
■ Kepruacb, imputation.
scrkb hi. of verona. 1 17
Ant. 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 despatch him to the emperor's court.
Pan. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Al-
phonso.
With other gentlemen of good esteem.
Are journeying to salute the emperor.
And to commend their ser\'ice to his will.
Ant. Good company; with them shall Proteus go:
And. in good time,—now will we break with him.
Enter proteus.
Pro. Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;
Here is her path for love, her honor's pawn.
O, that our fathers would applaud our loves.
To seal our happiness with their consents!
O heavenly Julia!
Ant. How now? what letter are you reading
there ?
Pro. May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or
two
Of commendations sent from Valentine,
Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.
Ant. Lend me the letter: let me see what news.
Pro. There is no news, my lord; but that he
writes
How happily he lives, how well beloved.
#
118 TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT I.
And daily graced by the emperor.
Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.
Ant. And how stand you affected to his wish ?
Pro. As one relying on your lordship's will.
And not depending on his friendly wish.
Ant. My will is something sorted ' with his wish
Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;
For what I will, 1 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.
To-morrow he in readiness to go :
Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.
Pro. My lord, I cannot he so soon provided;
Please you, deliberate a day or two.
Ant. Look, what thou want'st, shall he sent after
thee:
No more of stay; to-morrow thou must go.—
Come on, Panthino; you shall he employ'd
To hasten on his expedition. [^Exeunt Ant. and Pan.
Pro. Thus have I shunn'd the fire, for fear of
burning;
And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd:
I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter,
I<est he should take exceptions to my love :
And with the vantage of mine own excuse
Hath he excepted most against my love.
' Joined. * Allowance.
scknb iii.
of verona.
119
O, how this spring of love resemhleth
ITie uncertain glory of an April dav;
Wliich now shows all the beauty of the sun.
And by and by a cloud takes all away!
Re-enter panthino.
Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you;
He is in haste, therefore, I pray you, go.
Pro. Why, this it is! my heart accords thereto;
And yet a thousand times it answers, no. [Rreunt
ACT II.
scene i.
Milan. A room in the Duke's palace.
Enter valentine and speed.
Speed. Sir, your glove.
Val. Not mine; my gloves are on.
Speed. Why then this may be yours, for this is
but one.
Val. Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it's mine:—
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!
Ah Silvia! Silvia!
Speed. Madam Silvia! madam Silvia!
Val. How now, sirrah ?
Speed. She is not within hearing, sir.
Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her ?
Speed. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.
Val. Well, you'll still.be too forward.
#
120
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT II.
Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too
slow.
Val. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know madam
Silvia ?
Speed. She that your worship loves ?
Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ?
Speed. Marry, by these special marks; First, you
have learned, like sir Proteus, to wreath your arms
like a male-content; to relish a love-song, like a
Robiu-red-breast; to walk alone, like one that had
the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had
lost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that
had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes
diet; ^ to watch, like one that fears robbing; to
speak puling, like a beggar at 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.
Val. Are all these things perceived in me ?
Speed. They are all perceived without ye.
Val. Without me ? they cannot.
Speed. Without you ? nay, that's certain; for,
without you were so simple, none else would: but
' To • take diet' was the phrase for being under regimen
for a disease.
* About the feast of All Saints, when winter begins, and
the life of a vagrant becomes less comfortable.
SCBKB I.
OF VBRONA.
121
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 conunent on your malady.
Val. But, tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia ?
Speed. She, that you gaze on so, as she sits at
supper ?
Val. Hast thou observed that ? even she I mean.
Speed. Why, sir, I know her not.
Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her,
and yet knowest her not ?
Speed. Is she not hard-favored, sir
Val. Not so fair, boy, as well-favored.
Speed. Sir, I know that well enough.
Val. What dost thou know ?
Speed. That she is not so fair, as (of you) well-
favored.
Val. I mean, that her beauty is exquisite, but her
favor infinite.
Speed. That's because the one is painted, and the
other out of all count.
Val. How painted ? and how out of count ?
Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair,
that no man counts of her beauty.
Val. How esteemest thou me ? I account of her
beauty.
Speed. You never saw her since she was deformed.
Val. How long hath she been deformed ?
Speed. Ever since you loved her.
Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her; and
still I see her beautiful.
Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her.
122
two gentlemek
act ii.
Val. Why?
Speed. Because love is blind. O. that you had
mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they
were wont to have, when you chid at sir Proteus for
going ungartered!
Val. 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.
Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love; for last
morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.
Speed. True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I
thank you, you swinged me for my love, which
makes me the bolder to chide you for yours.
Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her.
Speed. I would you were set; so, your affection
would cease.
Val. Last night she enjoined me to write some
lines to one she loves.
Speed. And have you ?
Val. I have.
Speed. Are they not lamely writ ?
Val. No, boy, but as well as I can do them;—
Peace, here she comes.
Enter silvia.
Speed. O excellent motion!' 0 exceeding puppet!
Now will he interpret to her.
' Puppet-show.
SCBKE I.
OF VERONA.
123
Val. ^>Iadam and mistress, a thousand good
morrows.
Speed. O, 'give ye good even! here's a million
of manners. \aside.
Sil. Sir Valentine and servant,^ to you two thou-
sand.
Speed. He should give her interest; and she gives
it him.
Val. As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter,
Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;
Which I was much unwilling to proceed in.
But for my duty to your ladyship.
Sil. I thank you, gentle servant; 'tis very clerkly •
done.
Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;
For, being ignorant to whom it goes,
I writ at random, very doubtfully.
Sil. Perchance you think too much of so much
pains ?
Val. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write.
Please you command, a thousand times as much:
And yet,—
Sil. A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;
And yet I will not name it:—and yet I care not;—
And yet take this again;—and yet I thank you;
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.
Speed. And yet you will; and yet another yet.
[aside.
' Lovers were called servants by their mistresses at the
time when Shakspeare wrote. ' Like a scholar.
#
124
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT II.
Val. What means your ladyship? do you not
like it ?
SU. Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;
But since unwillingly, take them again;
Nay, take them.
Vat. Madam, they are for you.
Sit. Ay, ay; you writ them, sir, at my request;
But I will none of them; they are for you;
I would have had them writ more movingly.
Val. Please you, I '11 write your ladyship another.
SiZ. And, when it's writ, for my sake read it
over:
And, if it please you, so; if not, why, so.
Val. If it please me, madam ! what then ?
Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your labor;
And so good-morrow, servant. [Exit Silvia.
Speed. 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 ?
Val. How now, sir? what are you reasoning'
with yourself?
Speed. Nay, I was rhyming; 'tis you that have the
reason.
' Discoursing.
SCEKE I.
OF VEKONA.
125
Vol. To do what ?
Speed. To be a spokesman from madam Silvia.
Val. To whom ?
Speed. To yourself; why, she wooes you by a
figure.
Val. What figure ?
Speed. By a letter, I shorild say.
Val. Why, she hath not writ to me ?
Speed. What need she, when she hath made you
write to yourself ? Why, do you not perceive the jest i
Val. No, believe me.
Speed. No believing you indeed, sir: but did you
perceive her earnest ?
Val. She gave me none, except an angry word.
Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter.
Val. That's the letter I writ to her friend.
Speed. And that letter hath she delivered, and
there an end.*
Val. I would it were no worse.
Speed. I '11 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,—
> There is the conclusion of the matter,
* With exactness.
126
two gentlemen
act ii.
Why muse you, sir ? 'tis dinner-time.
Val. I have dined.
Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir; though the cameleon
Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nou-
rished by my victuals, and would fmn have meat.
O, he not like your mistress; be moved, be moved.'
[_Exeunt.
scene ii.
Verona. A room in Julia's house.
Enter proteus and julia.
Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia.
Jul. I must, where is no remedy.
Pro. When possibly I can, I will return.
Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner:
Keep tins remembrance for thy Julia's sake.
[piving a ring.
Pro. Why then we '11 make exchange ; here, take
you this.
Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.
Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy;
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day.
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake.
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness !
My father stays my coming ; answer not;
The tide is now; nay, not thy tide of tears;
■ Have compassioa on me, thongb roar mistress has none
on you.
scgnb iii.
of verona.
127
That tide will stay me longer than I should:
Julia, farewell.—^What! gone without a word ?
\_Exit Julia.
Ay, so true love should do ; it cannot speak;
For truth hath better deeds, than words, to grace it.
Enter panthino.
Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stayed for.
Pro. Go ; I come, 1 come :—
Alas ! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.
[Exeunt.
scene hi.
The same. A street.
Enter launce, leading a dog.
Launce. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere 1 have done
weeping ; all the kind of the Launces have this very
fault. I have received my proportion, like the pro-
digious son, and am going with sir Proteus to the
Imperial's court. I think, Crab my dog he the
sourest-natured dog that lives : my mother weeping,
my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid
howling, our cat wringing her hands, and aU our
house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-
hearted cur shed one tear: he is a stone, a very
pebble-stone, and has no more pity in him than a
dog: a Jew would have wept to have seen our
parting: why, my grandam, having no eyes, look
you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I '11
show you the manner of it: This shoe is my father ;
#
128
two gentlemen
ACT II.
—^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, 1 kiss her ;—why there 'tis ; here's
my mother's breath up and down : now come I to
my sister; mark the moan she makes : now the dog
all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word;
but see how I lay the dust with my tears.
Enter panthino.
Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard ; thy master is
shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What's
the matter ? why weepest thou, man ? Away, ass ;
you '11 lose the tide if you tarry any longer.
Launce. It is no matter if the ty'd were lost; for
it is the unkindest ty'd that ever any man ty'd.
Pan. What's the unkindest tide ?
' Wild, distracted.
8cenk iv.
of VisRONA.
129
Launce. Why, he that's ty'd here ; Crab, my dog.
Pan. Tut, man, I mean thou'It lose the flood;
and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage; and, in
losing thy voyage, lose thy master; and, in losing
thy master, lose thy service ; and, in losing thy ser-
vice,—Why dost thou stop my mouth ?
Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.
Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ?
Launce. In thy tale.
Pan. In thy tail ?
Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the
master, and the service :—and the tide. Why, man, if
the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears;
it the wind were down, I could drive the boat with
my sighs.
Pan. Come, come, away, man ; I was sent to call
thee.
Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest.
Pan. Wilt thou go ?
Launce. Well, I will go. [Exeunt.
scene iv.
Milan. A room in the Duke's palace.
Enter valentine, silvia, thurio, and speed.
Sil. Servant,—
Val. Mistress ?
Speed. Master, sir Thurio frowns on you.
Val. Ay, boy, it's for love.
Speed. Not of you.
Val. Of my mistress then.
SitAB. i I
130
TWO GENTLKMEN
Acr II.
Speed. 'Twere good, you knocked him,
Sil. Servant, you are sad.
Val.
Indeed, madam, I seem so.
Thu.
Seem you that you are not ?
Val.
Haply, I do.
Thu.
So do counterfeits.
Val.
So do you.
Thu.
What seem I, that I am not ?
Val.
Wise.
Thu.
What instance of the contrary ?
Val.
Your folly.
Thu.
And how quote ' you my folly ?
Val.
I quote it in your jerkin.
Thu.
My jerkin is a doublet.
Val.
Well, then, I 'U double your folly.
Thu.
How ?
Sil.
What, angry, sir Thurio ? do you change
color ?
Val.
Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of ca-
meleon.
Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood,
than live in your air.-
Val. You have said, sir.
Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.
V(d I know it well, sir ; you always end ere you
begin. ,
Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and
quickly shot off.
' Observe. * Breathe the same air with you.
SCBNE lY.
OP VERONA.
131
Val. 'TU indeed, madam ; we thank the giver.
Sil. Who is that, servant
Val. Yourself, sweet lady ; for you gave the fire ;
sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's
looks, and spends what he borrows, kindly in your
company.
Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I
shall make your wit bankrupt.
Val. I know it well, sir : you have an 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.
Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more; here comes
my father.
Enter dukii.
Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.
Sir Valentine, your father's in good health :
What say you to a letter from your friends
Of much good news '
Val. My lord, I will be thankful
To any happy messenger from thence.
Duke. Know you Don Antonio, your countryman?
Val. 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 ?
Val. Ay, my good lord ; a son, that well deserves
The honor and regard of such a father.
Duke. You know him well ?
Val. I knew him, as myself > for from otir infancy
132
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT II.
We Imve 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-hke perfection;
Yet hath sir Proteus, for that's his name.
Made use and fair advantage of his days ;
His years but young, but his experience old;
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe ;
And, in a word, (for far behind his worth
Come all the praises that I now bestow)
He is complete in feature and in mind.
With all good grace to grace a gentleman.
Duke, Beshrew me, sir, but, if he make this
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.
Val. Should I have wish'd a tiling, 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:
1 '11 send him hither to you presently. [Exit Duke.
Val. This is the gentleman, I told your ladyship.
Had come along with me, but that his mistress
Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks.
Sil. Belike, that now she hath enfranchised them
Upon some other pawn for fealty.
BCEXK IT.
OF VERONA.
133
Val. Nay, sure, I think, she holds them prisoners
still.
Sil. Nay. then he should be blind; and, being
blind.
How could he see his way to seek out you ?
Val. "WTiy, lady, love hath twenty pair of eyes.
Thu. They say, that love hath not an eye at all.
Val. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself;
Upon a homely object love can wink.
Enter pboteus.
SU. Have done, have done; here comes the gen-
tleman.
Val. Welcome, dear Proteus!—Mistress, I he-
seech you.
Confirm his welcome with some special favor.
Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,
^ If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from.
Val. Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain liim
To be my feUow-servant to your ladyship.
Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant.
Pro. Not so, sweet lady; hut too mean a seirant
To have a look of such a worthy mistress.
Val. Leave off discourse of disability :
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.
Pro. My duty will I boast of, nothing else.
Sil. And duty never yet did want his meed: *
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.
* Its reward.
134
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT II.
Pro. I 'U die on him that says so, but yourself.
Sil. That you are welcome ?
Pro. No; that you are worthless.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. Madam, my lord your father would speak
with you.
Sil. I wait upon his pleasure. {^Exit Servant,
Come, sir Thurio,
Go with me:—Once more, new servant, welcome :
I '11 leave you to confer of home-affairs ;
When you have done, we look to hear from you.
Pro. We '11 both attend upon your ladyship.
{Exeunt Silvia, Thurio, and Speed.
Val. Now tell me, how do all from whence you
came ?
Pro. Your friends are well, and have them much
commended.
Val. And how do yours ?
Pro. I left them all in health.
Val. How does your lady ? and how thrives your
love ?
Pro. My tales of love were wont to weary you:
I know, you joy not in a love-discourse.
Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now:
I have done penance for contemning love;
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans.
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs;
For, in revenge of my contempt of love.
SCENE IV.
OV VKRONA.
135
Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes,
And made them watchers of mine own heart's sor-
row.
O, gentle Proteus, I^ove'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 discoursei except it be of love ;
Now can 1 break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep.
Upon the very naked name of love.
Pro. Enough ; I read your fortune in your eye :
Was this the idol that you worship so ?
Vol. Even she ; and is she not a heavenly saint ?
Pro. No ; but she is an earthly paragon.
Val. Call her divine.
Pro. I will not flatter her.
Val. O, flatter me ; for love delights in praises.
Pro. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills ;
And 1 must minister the like to you.
Val. Then speak the truth by her ; if not diidne,
Vet let her be a principality,®
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.
Pro. Except my mistress.
Val. Sweet, except not any;
Except thou wilt except against my love.
Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own ?
Val. And I wiU help thee to prefer her too ;
' No misery that can be compared to tlie punisLment in-
fllcted by love. ® The first or principal of women.
136
TWO GETJTLEMKN
ACT U.
She shall be dignified with this high honor,—
To bear my lady's train; lest the base earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss.
And, of so great a favor growing proud.
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower.
And make rough winter everlastingly.
Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this
Val. Pardon me, Proteus ; all I can, is nothing
To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing;
She is alone.
Pro, Then let her alone.
Vol. 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.
Pro. But she loves you ?
Val. 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.
SCKNE IT,
OF VERONA.
137
Pro. Go on before ; I shall inquire you forth;
I must unto the road,* to disembark
Some necessaries that I needs must use;
And then I '11 presently attend you.
Val. Will you make haste ?
Pro. I will. [Exit Val.
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 her mien, or Valentinus' praise.
Her true perfection, or my false transgression.
That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus f
She is fair; and so is Julia, that I love;
That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;
Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a lire,®
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,®
Tliat thus without advice begin to love her ?
lis but her picture * I have yet beheld.
And that hath dazzled my reason's light;
But when I look on her perfections.
' The haven where ships ride at anchor.
* Alluding to the figures made by witches, as representative,
of those whom they designed to torment or destroy.
* On farther knowlege. * Her outside form.
138
two gentlemen
ACT II.
There is no reason but I shall be blind.
If I can check my erring love, I will;
If not, to compass her I '11 use my skiU. [Exit.
scene v.
A street.
Enter speed and launce.
Speed. Ijaunce! by mine honesty, welcome to
Milan.
Launce. 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 wel-
come to a place, till some certain shot ^ be paid, and
the hostess say, welcome.
Speed. Come on, you mad-eap, I '11 to the ale-
house 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 ?
Launce. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they
parted very fairly in jest.
Speed. But shall she marry him ?
Launce. No.
Speed. How then ? Shall he marry her ?
Launce. No, neither.
Speed. What, are they broken ?
Launce. No, they are both as whole as a fish.
' Score, recltoning.
SCENE V.
OF VERONA.
139
Speed. Why then, how stands the matter with
t)»era ?
Launce. Marry, thus; when it stands well with
him, it stands well with her.
Speed. What an ass art .thou! I understand thee
not.
Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst
not! My staff understands me.
Speed. What thou say'st .i"
Launce. Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I '11
hut lean, and my staff understands me.
Speed. It stands under thee, indeed.
Launce. Why, stand under and understand is all
one.
Speed. But tell me true, will't be a match ?
Launce. Ask my dog : if he say, ay, it will; if he
say, no, it will; if he shake his tail, and say no-
thing, it will.
Speed. The conclusion is then, that it will.
Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from
me, but by a parable.
Speed. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce,
how say'st thou,^ that my master is become a notable
lover ?
Launce. I never knew him otherwise.
Speed. Than how ?
Launce. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him
to be.
' What say'st thou to this circumstance 1
' #
140
two uentlbmen
ACT ll.
Speed. Why, thou whorewm ass, thou mistakest
me.
Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee; 1 meant
thy master.
Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot
lover
Launce. Why, 1 teU thee, I care not though he
bum himself in love. If thou wilt go with me to
the alehouse, so; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew,
and not worth the name of a Christian
Speed. Why ?
Launce. 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. A room in the palace.
Enter proteus.
Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;
To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;
And even that power, which gave me first my oath.
Provokes me to this threefold peijury.
Ixtve bade me swear, and love bids me forswear:
O sweet-suggesting < love, if thou hast sinn'd.
' Ales were merry-nectings instituted in country places.
* Sweet-tempting.
SCENE ri.
OF VERONA.
141
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 to exchange the bad for better,—
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad.
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.
I cannot leave to love, and yet I do ;
But there I leave to love, where I should love.
.Tulia 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 -11 hold an enemy.
Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.
I cannot now prove constant to myself.
Without some treachery used to Valentine:—
This night, he meaneth with a corded ladder
To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window ;
Myself in counsel, his competitor: *
M jself, Trho am his riva], being admitted to bis counsel.
142
two gentlemen
aot ii.
Now presently I '11 give her father notice
Of their disguising, and pretended i flight;
Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine;
For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter:
But, Valentine being gone, I '11 quickly cross.
By some sly trick, blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.
Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift.
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! [£x/V.
scene vii.
Verona. A room in Julia's house.
Enter jclia and lucetta.
Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me!
And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee,—
Who art tlie table wherein all my thoughts
Are visibly character'd and engraved,—
To lesson me; and tell me some good mean.
How, with my honor, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.
Luc. Alas I the way is wearisome and long.
Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
Much less shall she, that hath love's wings to fly;
And when the flight is made to one so dear.
Of such divine perfection, as sir Proteus.
Luc. Better forbear, till Proteus make return.
Jul. O, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's
food ?
' Intended.
6CEKE VII.
OF VERONA.
143
Pity the dearth that I have pined in,
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow.
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Luc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire;
But qualify the fire's extreme rage.
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
Jul. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it
burns:
The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
ITiou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered.
He makes sweet music with the enamel'd 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 '11 be as patient as a gentle stream.
And make a pastime of each weary step.
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I '11 rest, as, after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Ely.siura.
Luc. But in what habit will you go along ?
Jul. Not like a woman ; for I would prevent
The loose encounters of lascivious men:
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-reputed page.
Luc. Why then your ladyship must cut your hair.
Jul. No, girl, I 11 knit it up in silken strings,
144
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT II.
"Willi twenty odd-conceited true-love knots ;
To be fantastic may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall show to be.
Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your
breeches ?
Jul, That fits as well, as—' Tell me, good my
lord.
What compass will you wear your farthingale ?''
Why, even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta.
Luc. You must needs have them with a cod-piece,
madam.
Jul. Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favor*d.
Luc. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a
pin.
Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on.
Jul. Lucetta, as thou lovest 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.
Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and go
not.
Jul. Nay, that I will not.
Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Proteus like your journey, when you come.
No matter who's displeased, when you are gone :
I fear me, he will scares be pleased withal.
Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:
' Hoop, which was formerly an appendage to female apparel.
eciurs VII.
OF VERONA.
145
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears.
And instances of the infinite of love.
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.
Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men.
Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect!
But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth :
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;
His tears, pure messengers sent from his heart:
His heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth.
Luc. Pray Heaven, he prove so, when you come
to him!
Jul. Now, as thou lovest 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, despatch me hence.
Come, answer not, but to it presently;
I am impatient of my tarriance. [Exeunt.
' Longed-for.
ma.
• I
146
TWO gentlemen
ACT m.
ACT III.
scene i.
Milan. An ante-room in the Duke's palace.
Enter duke, thurio, and proteus.
Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;
We have some secrets to confer about.—
[Exit Thurio.
Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me ?
Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would dis-
cover.
The law of friendship bids me to conceal:
But, when I call to mind your gracious favors
Done to me, undeser\'ing 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 jdot.
I know, you have determined to bestow her
On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;
And should she thus be stolen 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.
SCENE I.
OF VERONA.
147
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 V ulentine her company and my court:
But, fearing lest my jealous aim' might err.
And so, unworthily, disgrace the man,'
(A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd)
I gave him gentle looks; thereby to find
That which thyself hast now 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 convey'd away.
ro. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean
-ow 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 ;
MTiere, 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 honor, he shall never know
" Gu68b. ' Tempted. ' Guessed. Design-
148
two gentlemen
act iii.
That I had any light from thee of this.
Pro. Adieu, my lord; sir Valentine is coming.
lExU,
Enter valentine.
Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ?
Val. Please it your grace, there is a messenger
That stays to bear my letters to my friends.
And I am going to deliver them.
Duke. Be they of much import ?
Val. The tenor of them doth but signify
My health, and happy being at your court.
Duke. Nay, then no matter; stay with 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.
Val. I know it well, my lord; and, sure, the
match
Were rich and honorable; 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, fro-
ward.
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;
8CBNE I.
OF VERONA.
149
And, where ' I thought the remnant of mine age
Should have been cherish'd by her child-like 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.
Val. What would your grace have me to do in
this ?
Duie, There is a lady, sir, in Milan, here.
Whom I aifect; but she is nice, and coy.
And naught 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.
Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words s
Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind,'
More than quick words, do move a woman's mind.
Duie. But she did scorn a present that I sent her.
Val. A woman sometime scorns what best coa-
tents 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;
For why ? the fools are mad, if left alone.
* Whereas ® Way.
150
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT III.
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.
'Iliat 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 fiiends
Unto a youthful gentleman of worth ;
And kept severely from resort of men.
That no man hath access by day to her.
Val. Why then I would resort to her by night.
Duke. Ay, hat the doors be lock'd, and keys kept
safe.
That no man hath recourse to her by night.
Val. What lets,* hut one may enter at her
window ?
Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground;
And built so shehdng, that one cannot climb it
Without apparent hazard of his life.
Val. Why then, a ladder, quaintly made of cords.
To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks.
Would sen'e to scale another Hero's tower.
So bold Leander would adventure it.
Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood.
Advise me, where I may have such a ladder.
Val. When would you use it ? pray, sir, tell me
that.
Duke. This very night; for love is like a child, .
' Hinders.
SCENE I.
OF VKUONA.
151
That longs for every thing that hC can come by.
Val. By seven o'clock I 'II get you such a ladder.
Duke. But hark thee; I will go to her alone.
How shall I best convey the ladder thither ?
Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it
Under a cloak, that is of any length.
Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the
turn.
Val. Ay, my good lord.
Duke. Then let me see thy cloak;
I '11 get me one of such another length.
Val. 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.—
What letter is this same ? What's here—' To Sil-
via?'
And here an engine fit for my proceeding!
I '11 be so bold to break the seal for once. [reads.
• My thoughts do harbor 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 bless'd
them;
Because myself do want my servants' fortune :
I The ttiuughts contained in my letter.
152
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT III.
I curse myself, for' they are sent by me.
That they should harbor where their lord should be.
What's here ?
• Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee
'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.—
Why, Phaeton, (for thou art Merops' son,*)
Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car.
And with thy daring folly bum the world ?
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee ?
Go, base intruder! over-weening slave!
Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates;
And think, my patience, more than thy desert.
Is privilege for tliy departure hence:
Thank me for this, more than for all the favors.
Which, all too much, I have bestow'd on thee.
But if thou linger in my territories.
Longer than swiftest expedition
Will give thee time to leave our royal court.
By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love
1 ever bore my daughter, or thyself.
Be gone; I will not hear thy vain excuse:
But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence.
[^Exit Duke.
Vol. And why not death, rather than living tor-
ment ?
To die, is to be banish'd from myself;
> Since.
* Tbou art not descended from Apollo, as Phaeton was; but
art the son of an earthly parent. Merops was the husband of
Clymene, the mother of Phaeton.
scene i.
of verona.
153
And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her.
Is self from self; a deadly banishment!
What light is light, if Silvia be not seen ?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by ?
Unless it be, to think that she is by,
And feed upon the shadow of perfection.
Except I be by Silvia in the night.
There is no music in the nightingale ;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day.
There is no day for me to look upon :
She is my essence ; and I leave to be,'
If I be not by her fair influence
Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive.
I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom : *
Tarry I here, I but attend on death;
But, fly Thence, I fly away from life.
Enter pkoteus and laukce.
Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.
Launce. So-ho! so-ho!
Pro. What seest thou ?
Launce. Him we go to find: there's not a hair
on's head, but 'tis a Valentine.
Pro. Valentine ?
Val. No.
^ Pro. Who then ? his spirit ?
Vcd. Neither.
' Cease to e cist.
* By avoiding the execation of this sentence I sliaD not
escape death.
154
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT III.
Pro. What then ?
Val. Nothing.
Launce, Can nothing speak? master, shall I
strike ?
Pro. Who wouldst thou strike ?
Launce. Nothing.
Pro. Villain, forbear.
Launce. Why, sir, I'll strike notMng: I pray
you,—
Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear: Friend Valentine, a
word.
Val. My ears are stopp'd, and cannot hear good
news,
So much of bad already have possess'd them.
Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine.
For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad.
Val. Is Silvia dead ?
Pro. No, Valentine.
Val. No Valentine,, indeed, for sacred Silvia!—
Hath she forsworn me ?
Pro. No, Valentine.
Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me!—
'What is your news ?
Launce. Sir, there's a proclamation that you are
vanish'd.
Pro. That thou art banish'd, O, that is the news.
From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.
Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already.
And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
Doth Silvia know that I am banished ?
Pro. Ay, ay, and she hath offer'd to the doom.
ftCSNE I.
Ot VEKONA.
155
(Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force)
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears:
Those at her father s churlish feet she tender'd;
With them, upon her knees, her humble self;
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so hecam'-.
them.
As if but now they waxed pale for woe :
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up.
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears
Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
Besides, her intercession chafed him so.
When she for thy repeal was suppliant.
That to close prison he commanded her.
With many bitter threats of 'biding there.
Val. No more; unless the next word, that thou
speak'st.
Have some malignant power upon my life:
If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear.
As ending anthem of my endless dolor.
Pro. 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 deliver'd
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
The time now serves not to expostulate :
0
156
TWO QENTLEMES
ACT lU.
Come, I '11 convey thee through the city-gate;
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large
Of all that may concern thy love affairs :
As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself.
Regard thy danger, and along with me.
Val, I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy.
Bid him make haste, and meet me at the north gate.
Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.
Val. O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine!
\Exewnt Valentine and Proteus.
Launce. 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 milk-maid: 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. Here is the cate-log \jmlling
out a paper] of her conditions.^ Imprimis, ' She can
fetch and carry:' why, a horse can do no more:
nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore,
is she better than a jade. Item, ' She can milk ;'
look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.
■ For she has had children. Gossips are the idle, tattling
women who attend child-births. * Qualities.
ficene i.
of verona.
157
Enter speed.
Speed. How now, signior Launce ? what news
with your mastership ?
Launce. 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.
Launce. The blackest news that ever thou heard'st.
Speed. Why, man, how black ?
Launce. Why, as black as ink. *
Speed. Let me read them.
Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-head; thou canst not
read.
Speed. Thou liest, I can.
Launce. I will try thee. Tell me this; Who
begot thee ?
Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather.
Launce. 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.
Launce. There; and saint Nicholas * be thy
speed!
Speed. Imprimis,' She can milk.'
Launce. Ay, that she can.
Speed. Item,' She brews good ale.'
Launce. And thereof comes the proverb,—
Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.
* Saint Nicholas was said to preside over scbolant.
158
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT IK.
Speed. Item, ' She can sew.'
Lmnce. That's as much as to say. Can she so ?
Speed. Item, ' She can knit.'
Launce. 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.'
Launce. A special virtue; for then she need not
be washed and scoured.
Speed. Item, ' She can spin.'
Launce. Then may I set the world on wheels.''
when she can spin for her living.
Speed. Item, ' She hath many nameless virtues.'
Launct That's as much as to say, bastard virtues,
that indeed know not their fathers, and tlierefore
have no names.
Speed. ' Here follows her vices.'
Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues.
Spied. Item, ' She is not to be kissed fasting, in
respect of her breath.'
Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a
breakfsist. Read on.
Speed. Item, ' She hath a sweet mouth.'
Launce. That makes amends for her sour breath.
Speed. Item, ' She doth talk in her sleep.'
Launce. It's no matter for that, so she sleep not
in her talk.
Speed. Item, ' She is slow in words.'
Launce. O villain, that set this down among her
I Dowry. » Stocking. * Defy tlie world
80ENK 1. OF VJiftONA. 159
Tices ! To be slow in words, is a woman's only vir-
tue: I pray thee, out with't; and place it for her
chief virtue.
Speed. Item, ' She is proud.*
Launce. Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy,
and cannot he ta'eu from her.
Speed. Item, ' She hath no teeth.'
Launce. I care not for that neither, because I love
crusts.
Speed. Item, ' She is curst.'
Launce. Well; the best is, she hath no teeth to
bite.
Speed. Item, ' She wiU often praise her liquor.' •
Launce. 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.' -
Launce: Of her tongue she cannot; for that's
writ down she is slow of: of her purse she shall not;
for that I '11 keep shut: now of 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.'
Launce. Stop there ; I '11 have her: she was mine,
and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article.
Rehearse that once more.
Speed. Item, ' She hath more hair than wit,—'
Launce. More hair than wit,—it may be; I '11
' Show how well she likes her liquor by drinking often,
' Licentious in discourse.
160
TWO GKN'TLEHEir
ACT III.
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,—*
Launce. That's monstrous: O, that that were
out!
Speed.—' And more wealth than faults.'
Launce. Why, that word makes the faults gra>
cious.i Well, I '11 have her: and if it be a match,
as nothing is impossible,—
Speed. What then ?
Launce. Why, then will I tell thee,—that thy
master stays for thee at the north gate.
Speed. For me ?
Launce. For thee? ay; who art thou? he hath
stayed for a better man than thee.
Speed. And must I go to him ?
Launce. Thou must run to him; for thou hast
stayed so lung, that going will scarce serve the turn.
Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? 'pox of
your love-letters! [Exit.
Launce. Now will he be swinged for reading my
letter: an unmannerly slave, that will thrust him-
self into secrets!—I '11 after, to rejoice in the boy's
corrcctiun. [Exit.
Giacefhl.
SCEKB n.
OF VERONA.
161
SCENE TI.
The same. A room in the Duke s palace.
Enter dvke and tiiurio ; proteus behind.
Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not, but that she will love
you.
Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight.
Thu. Since his exile she hath despised me most.
Forsworn my company, and rail'd at me.
That I am desperate of obtaining her.
Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure
Trenched ' in ice; which with an hour's heat
Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form
A little time will melt her frozen thoughts.
And worthless Valentine shall be forgot.—
How now, sir Proteus ? Is your countryman.
According to our proclamation, gone ?
Pro. Gone, my good lord.
Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously.
Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill iliat grief.
Duke. So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.—
Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee,
(For thou hast shown some sign of good desert)
Makes me the better to confer with thee.
Pro. Longer than 1 prove loyal to your grace.
Let me not live to look upon your grace.
Duke. Thou know'st, how willingly 1 would elFecl
• Cut.
1.
162
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT III.
The match between sir Thurio and my daughter.
Pro. I do, my lord.
Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant
How she opposes her against my will.
Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.
Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. „
What might we do, to make the girl forget
rhe love of Valentine, and love sir Thurio ?
Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine
With falshood, cowardice, and poor descent;
Three things that women highly hold in hate.
Duke. Ay, but she '11 think, that it is spoke in
hate.
Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it:
Therefore it must, with circumstance,' he spoken
By one, whom she esteemeth as his friend.
Duke. Then you must undertake to slander him.
Pro. 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 advantagi
him.
Your slander never can endamage him ;
Therefore the office is indifferent.
Being entreated to it by your friend.
Pro. You have prevail'd, my lord: if I can do it.
By aught that I can speak in his dispraise.
' With the addition of such incidental particulars, as may
induce belief
RCSNK II.
OF VEUONA.
1G3
She shall not long continue love to him.
But say, this weed her Jove from Valentine,
It follows not that slie will love sir Thurio.
Thu. Therefore as you unwind her love from him.
Lest it should ravel, and be good to none.
You must provide to bottom it on me : ^
Which must be done, by praising me as much
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, wiU be glad of you;
Where you may temper her,- by your persuasion.
To hate young Valentine, and love my friend.
Pro. As much as I can do, I will effect:—
But you, sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;
You must lay lime,® to tangle her desires.
By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes
Should be full fraught with serviceable vows.
Duke. Ay
' As yoQ wind ofT her love from him, make me the bottom
on which you wind it. The housewife's term for a ball of
thread wound on a central body, is a bottom of thrend.
• Mould her, like wax, to whatever shape you please,
* Birdlime.
164
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT III.
Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.
Pro. Say, that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart:
Write, till your ink be dry ; and with your tears
Moist it again ; and frame some feeling line,
ITiat may discover such integrity:— *
For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews;
Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones.
Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.
After your dire-lamenting elegies.
Visit by night your lady's chamber-window
With some sweet concert: to their instruments
Tune a deploring dump; ® the night's dead silence
Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.
This, or else nothing, will inherit her.*
Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in
love.
Thu. And thy advice this night I '11 put in prac«
tice;
Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver.
Let us into the city presently
To sort* some gentlemen well skill'd in music;
I have a sonnet, that will serve the turn.
To give the onset to thy good advice.
Duke. About it, gentlemen.
< Such a union of feeling and expression.
' Mournful elegy. * Will obtain possession of her.
* Choose out.
»cxnb ii. of verona. 165
Pro. We '11 wait upon your grace, till after
supper;
And afterward determine our proceedings.
Duke. Even now about it; I will pardon you.'
\Exeunl.
ACT IV.
scene x.
A forest, near Mantua.
Enter certain outlaws.
1 Out. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.
2 Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with
'em.
Enter valentine ani sfebo.
3 Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have
about you;
If not, we 11 make you sit, and rifle you.
Speed. Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.
Vol. My friends,—
1 Out. That's not so, sir; we are your enemies.
2 Out. Peace; we '11 hear him.
3 Out. Ay, by my beard, will we; for he is a
proper® man.
Val. Then know, that I have little wealth to lose,
• I will excuse you trom waiting. * Well-looking.
#
166
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT ir.
A man I am, cross'd with adversity:
My riches are these poor habiliments.
Of which if you should here disfumish me.
You take the sum and substance that I have.
2 Out. Whither travel you ?
Vul. To Verona.
1 Out. Whence came you ?
Val. From Milan.
3 Out. Have you long sojourned there ?
Val. Some sixteen months; and longer might
have stay'd.
If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.
2 Out. What, were you banish'd thence ?
Val. I was.
2 Out. For what offence ?
Val. For that which now torments me to rehearse;
I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;
But yet I slew him manfully in fight.
Without false vantage, or base treachery.
1 Out. Why ne'er repent it, if it were done so.
But were you banish'd for so small a fault ?
Val. I was, and held me glad of such a doom.
1 Out. Have you the tongues ?'
Val. My youthful travel therein made me happy;
Or else I often had been miserable.
3 Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat
fiiar,®
' Languages.
' Robin Hood was captain of a band of robbers, and was
mucb inclined to rob churchmen.
SCENE I.
OF FEKONA.
167
This fellow were a king for our wild faction.
1 Out. We '11 have him : sirs, a word.
Speed. Master, be one of them;
It is an honorable kind of thievery.
Val. Peace, villain!
2 Out. Tell us this: Have you any thing tc
lake to ?
Vol. Nothing, but my fortune.
3 Out. Know then, that some of us are gentlemen.
Such as the fury of ungovem'd 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.
2 Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman.
Who, in my mood,® I stabb'd unto the heart.
1 Out. And I, for such like petty crimes as these.
But to the purpose,—^for we cite our faults.
That they may hold excused our lawless lives.
And, partly, seeing you are beautified
Witn goodly shape ; and by your own report
A linguist; and a man of such perfection.
As we do in our quality ® much want;—
2 Out. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man.
Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you:
Are you content to be our general ?
To make a virtue of necessity.
And live, as we do, in this wilderness ?
' Lawtul. ' Anger. ' Profession.
#
168
TWO GENTtEMKN
ACT IT.
3 Out. What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our
consort ?
Say, ay, and be the captain of us all:
We '11 do thee homage, and be ruled by thee,
liove thee as our commander, and our king.
1 Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest.
2 Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have
ofiFer'd.
Val. I take your offer, and will live with you;
Provided that you do no outrages
On silly women, or poor passengers.
J Out. No, we detest such vile, base practices.
Come, go with us, we '11 bring thee to our crews.
And show thee all the treasure we have got;
Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.
[_Exeunt.
SCENE It.
Milan. The court of the palace.
Enter pkoteus.
Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine,
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.
Under the color 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 falshood to my friend;
When to her beauty I commend my vows.
She bids me think, how I have been forsworn
scene ii.
of verona.
169
In brealcing faith with Julia whom I loved:
And, notwithstanding all her sudden quipsj
The least whereof would quell a lover's hope.
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,
Tlie more it grows, and fawneth on her still.
But here comes Thurio; now must we to her window
And give some evening music to her ear.
Enter thurio, and musicians.
Thu. How now, sir Proteus ? are you crept be-
fore us ?
Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio; for, you know, that love
Will creep in service where it cannot go.
Thu. Ay, but, I hope, sir, that you love not here.
Pro. Sir, but I do; or else I would be bence.
Thu. Who? Silvia?
Pro. Ay, Silvia,—^for your sake.
Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen.
Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile.
Enter host, at a distance; and julia in hoy's clothes.
Host. Now, my young guest! methinks you're
allychoUy; I pray you, why is it ?
Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be
merry.
f Host. Come, we '11 have you merry: I '11 bring
you where you shall hear music, and see the gentle-
man that you asked for.
* Passionate reproaches and scofls.
#
170
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT ir»
Jul. But shall I hear him speak ?
Host. Ay, that you shall.
Jul. That will be music. [Masjc plays.
Host. Hark! hark!
Jul. Is he among these ?
Host. Ay: but peace, let's hear 'em.
SONG.
Who is Silvia 1 What is she,
That all our swains commend her 1
Holy, fair, and wise is she ;
The heaven such grace did lend her.
That she might admired he.
Is she kind, as she is fair!
For beauty lives with kindness;'
Love doth to her eyes repair.
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help'd, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing.
That Silvia is excelling ;
She excels each mortal thing.
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.
Host. How now ? are you sadder than you were
before ? How do you, man ? the music likes you
not.
Jul. You mistake; the musician likes me not..
Host. Why, my pretty youth ?
Jul. He plays false, father.
Beauty without kindness dies unenjoyed and undelighting.
SCENE II.
OF VERONA.
171
Host. How ? out of tune on the strings ?
Jul. Not so; but yet so false, that he grieves my
very heart-strings.
Host. You have a quick ear.
Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf! it makes me have
a slow heart.
Host. I perceive, you delight not in music.
Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so.
Host. Hark, what fine change is in the music!
Jul. Ay; that change is the spite.
Host. You would.then have them always play but
one thing ?
Jul. I would always have one play hut one thing.
But, host, doth this Proteus, that we talk on, often
resort unto this gentlewoman ?
Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me,
he loved her out of all nick.^
Jul. Where is Launce ?
Host. Gone to seek his dog; which, to-morrow
by his master's command, he must carry for a present
to his lady.
Jul. Peace! stand aside; the company parts.
Pro. Sir Thurio, fear you not; I will so plead,
Tliat you shall say, my cunning drift excels.
Thu. Where meet we ?
Pro. At saint Gregory's well.
Thu. Farewell. [Exeunt Thurio and musicians.
■ Beyond all reckoniuj.
172
TWO GENTLEMKN
ACT IV.
SILVIA appears above, at her window.
Pro. Madam, good evening to your ladyship.
Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen;
Who is that, that spake ?
Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's
truth,
Vou'd quickly leam to know him by his voice.
Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it.
Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.
Sil. What is your will }
Pro. That I may compass yours.
Sil. You have your wish ; my will is even this.—
'ITiat presently you hie you home to bed.
Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man!
Think'st thou, J am so shallow, so conceitless.
To be seduced by thy flattery,
That hast deceived so many with thy vows ?
Return, return, and make thy love amends.
For me,—^by this pale queen of night I swear,
I am so far from granting thy request.
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit;
And by and by intend to chide myself.
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.
Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;
But she is dead.
Jul. 'Twere false, if I should speak it;
For, I am sure, she is not buried. [a.^tde.
Sil. Say, that she be ; yet Valentine, thy friend.
Survives; to whom, thyself art witness.
SCENE II.
OF VERONA.
173
I am betrothed; and art thou not ashamed
To wrong him of' thy importunacy }
Pro. I likewise hear, that Valentine is dead.
Sil. And so, suppose, am I; for in his grave.
Assure thyself, my love is buried.
Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.
Sil. Go to thy lady's grave, and call her's thence;
Or, at the least, in her's sepulchre thine.
Jul. He heard not that. [rmde.
Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate.
Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love.
The picture that fs hanging in your chamber;
To that I '11 speak, to that 1 '11 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.
Jul. If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, de*
ceive it.
And make it but a shadow, as I am. {aside,
Sil. I am very loath to be your idol, sir;
liut, since your falshood shall become you well •
To worship shadows, and adore false shapes.
Send to me in the morning, and I '11 send it:
And so, good rest.
Pro. As wretches have o'er night.
That wait for execution in the mom.
[Exeunt Proteus; and Silvia, from above,
Jul. Host, will you go ?
1 "With.
' But, since your falshood, it shall become you well, &o.
174
two gentlemen
act it.
Host. By my halidom,* I was fast asleep.
Jul. Pray you, where lies sir Proteus ?
Host. Marry, at my house; trust me, I think, 'tU
almost day.
Jul. Not so; but it hath been the longest night
That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest.®
{Exeunt.
scene iii.
The same.
Enter eglamour.
Eg. This is the hour that madam Silvia
Entreated me to call, and know her mind:
There's some great matter she'd employ me in.—
Madam, madam!
SILVIA appears above, at her window.
Sii. Who calls ?
Eg. Your servant, and your friend;
One that attends your ladyship's command.
Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good mo.f'
row.
Eg. 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.
' Holy dame.
' This use of the double superlatire is frequent in our
author. * Injunction.
BCBNB III.
OF VERONA.
175
Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman,
(Think not, I flatter, for, I swear, 1 do not)
Valiant, wise, remorseful,^ well accomplish'd.
Thou art not ignorant, what dear good wUl
I bear unto the hanish'd Valentine;
Nor how my father would enforce me marry
Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhorr'd.
Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say.
No grief did ever come so near thy heart.
As when thy lady and thy true love died.
Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.
Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,
To Mantua, where, I hear, he makes abode ;
And, for® the ways are dangerous to pass,
I do desire thy worthy company.
Upon whose faith and honor I repose.
Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour,
But think upon my grief, a lady's grief;
And on the justice of my flying hence.
To keep me from a most unholy match.
Which heaven and fortune still reward with 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,
ITiat I may venture to depart alone.
Eg. Madam, I pity much your grievances
Which since I know they virtuously are placed,
' Compassionate. ® Because. ' Sorrows.
#
176
two gentifimen
act IT,
I give consent to go along with you;
Recking' as little what betideth me.
As much I wish all good befortune you.
When will you go ?
Sil. This evening coming.
£g. Where shall I meet you ?
Sil. At friar Patrick's cell.
Where I intend holy confession.
Eg. I will not fail your ladyship:
Good morrow, gentle lady.
Sil. Good morrow, kind sir Eglamour. [Exevnt.
scene iv.
The same.
Enter launce, with his dog.
Launce. WTien a man's servant shall play the cur
with him, look you, it goes hard: one that 1 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 'aught him—even as one would say pre-
cisely, 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
Ir^. 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 in-
■ Caring. ® Wooden pfice. ' Uestraiu hiiuself.
BCKKB 17.
OP VEKOITA,
177
ileed, to be, as it were, a dog at aH tilings. 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 sulFered for't: you
shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the com-
pany 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 ac-
quainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab;
and goes me to the feUow that whips the dogs:
* Friend,' quoth I, ' you mean to whip the dog f *
' 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 'U be sworn, I have sat in
the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he
had been executed: I have stood on the pillory for
geese he hath killed, otherwise he had sulFered for't:
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 ? 1 Didst thou ever see me do such a
trick?
0UAC«
' Hoop.
f.
#
178
TWO GENTLEMEN'
iCT IT.
Enter pkoteus and julia.
Pro. Sebastian is thy name ? I like thee well,
And wiU employ thee in some sendee presently.
Jul. In what you please ;—I will do what I can.
Pro. I hope thou wilt.—How now, you whore-
son peasant ? {to Launce.
Where have you been these two days loitering ?
Launce. Marry, sir, I earried mistress Silvia the
dog you hade me.
Pro. And what says she to my little jewel ?
Launce. Marry, she says, your dog was a eur;
and tells you, currish thanks is good enough for
Such a present.
Pro. But she received my dog ?
Launce. No, indeed, did she not: here have I
brought him hack again.
Pro. What, didst thou offer her this from me ?
Launce. Ay. sir; the other squirrel • was stolen
from me by the hangman's hoys 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.
Pro. Go, get thee hence, and find my dog again.
Or ne'er return again into iny sight.
.Away, I say. Stay'st thou to vex me here ?
A slave, that, still an end,® turns me to shame.
{Exit Launce.
I A diminutive animal, more re.^^embling a squirrel in siz«
than a dog * At the conclusion of every business.
/
8CENB iy«
OF VERONA.
179
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 lowt;
But, chiefly, for thy face and thy behaviour.
Which (if my augury deceive me not)
Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth :
Therefore know thee, for this I entertain thee.
Go presently, and take this ring with thee.
Deliver it to madam SiMa:
She loved me well, deliver'd it to me.^
Jul. It seems, you loved not her, to leave ® her
token:
She's dead, belike.
Pro. Not so; I think, she lives.
Jul. Alas!
Pro. Why dost thou cry, alas ?
Jul. I cannot choose but pity her.
Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her ?
Jul. Because, methinks, that she loved you as
well
As you do love your lady Silvia;
She dreams on him, that has forgot her love;
You dote on her, that cares not for your love.
'Tis pity, love should be so contrary;
And thinking on it makes me cry, alas!
Pro. Well, give her that ring, and therewithui
' She, who delivered it to me, loved me weUL
' To part with.
180
two gentlemen
act ir.
This letter; that's her chamber.—^Tell my lady,
I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.
Yowr message done, hie home unto my chamber.
Where thou shalt hnd me sad and solitary.
[Exit Proioas.
Jul. How many women would do such a mes-
sage ?
Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain'd
A fox, to be the shepherd of thy lambs:
Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him
That with his very heart despiseth me ?
Because he loves her, he despiseth me;
Because I love him, I must pity him.
This ring 1 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.
1 am my master's true confirmed love;
But cannot be true servant to my master.
Unless 1 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.
Sil. What would you with her, if that I be she ?
Jul. If you be she, I do entreat your patience
To hear me speak the message I am sent on.
SCENE nr.
OF VERONA.
181
Sil. From wliom r
Jul. From my master, sir Proteus, madam.
Sil. O !—he sends you for a picture ?
Jul. Ay, madam.
Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there.
[picture brought.
Go, give your master this. tell him from me.
One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget.
Would better lit his chamber, than lliis shadow.
Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter.
Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised
Deliver'd you a paper that I should not;
This is the letter to your ladyship.
Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again.
Jul. It may not be; good madam, pardon me.
Sil. There, hold.
I will not look upon your master's lines :
I know, they are stulF'd with protestations.
And full of new-found oaths ; which he will break.
As easily as I do tear his paper.
Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring.
Sil. The more shame for him that he sends it me:
For, 1 have heard him say a thousand times.
His Julia gave it him at his departure:
Though his false finger have profaned the ring.
Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.
Jul. She thanks you.
Sil. What say'st thou
Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her;
Poor gentlewoman ! my master wrongs her much.
Sil. Dost thou know her ?
182
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT IV.
Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself:
To think upon her woes, I do protest.
That I have wept a hundred several times.
Sil. Belike, she thinks that Proteus hath forsook
her.
Jul. I think she doth; and that's her cause of
sorrow,
Sil. Is she not passing fair ?
Jul. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is ;
When she did think my master loved her well.
She, in my judgment, was as fair as you;
But since she did neglect her looking-glass.
And threw her sun-expelling mask away.
The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks,
Aqd pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face.
That now she is become as black as I.
Sil. How tall was she ?
Jul. About my stature: for, at Pentecost,
When all our pageants of delight were play'd.
Our youth got me to play the woman's part.
And 1 was trimm'd in madam Julia's gown ;
Which served me as fit, by all men's judgment.
As if the garment had been made for me :
Therefore, I know she is about my height.
And, at that time, 1 made her weep a-good.'
For 1 did play a lamentable part:
Madam, 'twas Ariadne, passioning
For Theseus' perjury, and unjust flight;
■ Ta good earnest.
SCENE 1 .
OF VERONA.
18<l
Which I so lively acted with my tears,
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal.
Wept bitterly ; and, would I might be dead.
If I in thought felt not her very sorrow !
Sil. She is beholden to thee, gentle youth!—
Alas, poor lady ! desolate and left!—
I weep myself, to think upon thy words.
Here, youth, there is my purse! I give thee this
For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lovest her.
Farewell. • [Exit Silvia.
Jul. And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you
know her.—
A virtuous gentlewoman, mild, and beautiful.
I hope, my master's suit will be but eold.
Since she respects my mistress' love so much.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
Here is her picture. Let me see; I think.
If I had such a tire,' this face of mine
Were full as lovely as is this of hers:
And yet the painter flatter'd her a little.
Unless I flatter with myself too much.
Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow ;
If that be all tbe difFerence in his love,
I '11 get me such a color*d periwig.
Her eyes are grey as glass; and so are mine:
Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high.
What should it be, that he respects in her.
But I can make respective ® in myself.
' Head-dress. ® Respect fol or respectable.
184
two gentlemen
acr v.
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 worship'd, kiss'd, loved, and adored;
And, were there sense in his idolatry.
My substance should be statue in thy stead.
I '11 use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake.
That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow,
I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes.
To make my master out of love with thee. [^Exit
ACT V.
scene i. •
TJie same. An abbey.
Enter eglamour.
Eg. 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 roe.
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 !
SjV. Amen, amen! go on, good Eglamour,
Out at the postern by the abbey-wall;
I fear, I am attended by some spies.
8uknk II. OP VERONa. 185
Eg. Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off;
If we recover that, we are sure enough.i [Exem .
scene ii.
The same. A room in the Duke's palace.
Enter thorio, proteus, and julia.
Thtt. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ?
Pro. O, sir, I find her milder than she was;
And yet she takes exceptions at your person.
Thu. What, that my leg is too long ?
Pro. No ; that it is too little.
Thu. 1 '11 wear a boot, to make it somewhat
rounder.
Pro. But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes.
Thu. What says she to my face ?
Pro. She says, it is a fair one.
Thu. Nay, then the wanton lies; my face is black.
Pro. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is.
Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.
Jul. 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eye.s ;
For I had rather wink than look on them. [ostrfe.
Thu. How likes she my discourse ?
Pro. Ill, when you talk of war.
Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and
peace ?
Jul. But better, indeed, when you hold your ])eace.
[aside.
• Out of danger.
186
two gentlemen
act v*
Tku. What aays she to my valor ?
Pro. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.
Jul. She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.
[aside.
Thu. What says she to my birth ?
Pro. That you are well derived.
Jul. True; from a gentleman to a fool. [aside.
Thu. Considers she my possessions ?
Pro. O, ay ; and pities them.
Thu. Wherefore ?
Jul. That such an ass should owe * them, [aside.
Pro. That they are out by lease.
Jul. Here comes the duke.
Enter duke. ,
Duke. How now, sir Proteus ? how now, Thurio ?
Which of you saw sir Eglamour of late ?
Thu. Not I.
Pro. Nor I.
Duke. Saw you my daughter ?
Pro. Neither.
Duke. Why, then she's fled unto that peasant
Valentine ;
And Eglamour is in her company.
*Tis true ; for friar Laurence met them both.
As he in penance wander'd through the forest:
Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she;
But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it:
' Possess.
6cene iii.
of verona.
187
Besides, she did intend confession
At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not;
These likelihoods confirm her flight from helnce.
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 towards Mantua, whither they are fled :
Despatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.
Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish * girl.
That flies her fortune when it follows her:
I '11 after ; more to be revenged on Eglamour,
Tlian for the love of reckless ^ Silvia. [Exit.
Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love.
Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [Exit.
Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that love.
Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [Exit.
scene iii.
Frontiers of Mantua. The forest.
Enter silvja and outlaws.
1 Out. Come, come; be patient; we must bring
you to our captain.
Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one
Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently.
2 Out. Come, bring her away.
1 Out. Where is the gentleman that was with her'
3 Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us,
' Foolish. ' Heedless.
188
TWO GBNTLeMfiN
ACT V.
But Moyses, and Valerius, follow him.
(ro thou with her to the west end of tlie wood;
Tliere is our captain : we 'U follow him that's fled ;
The thicket is beset, he cannot 'scape.
1 Out. Come, I must bring you to our captain's
cave:
Fear not; he hears an honorable mind.
And will not use a woman lawlessly.
Sil. O Valentiue, this I endure for thee !
[Exemit.
scene IV.
Another part of the forest.
Enter valentine.
Vol. How use doth breed a habit in a man !
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than florishiiig 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 tenantiess ;
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall.
And leave no memory of what it was !
Repair me with thy presence, Silvia ;
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain !—
What hallooing, and what stir, is this to-day ?
These are my mates, that make their wills their law,
' Sing.
scene iv.
of verona.
189
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?
asidt.
Enter proteus, silvia, and julia.
Pro. 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 honor and your love.
Vouchsafe me, for my meed,i but one fair look;
A smaller boon than this I cannot beg.
And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give.
Val. How like a dream is this 1 see and hear!
Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. [asirfe.
Sil. O miserable, unhappy that I am !
Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;
But, by my coming, I ha\'e made you happy.
Sil. By thy approach thou makest me most un-
happy.
Jvl And me, when he approacheth to your
presence. {aside,
Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion,
1 would hftve 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:
* Reward.
#
* Dear.
190
TWO GENTtBMEN
ACT
And full as much (for more there cannot he)
I do detest false, perjured Proteus :
Therefore be gone, solicit me no more.
Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to
death.
Would I not undergo for one calm look !
O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved,'
When women cannot love where they 're beloved.
Sil. When Proteus cannot love where he's be
loved.
Read over Julia's heart, thy first best love.
For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith
Into a thousand oaths ; and aU those oaths
Descended into perjury, to love me.
Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou hadst 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 !
Pro. In love,
'Who respects friend ?
Sil. All men but Proteus.
Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
Can no way change you to a milder form,
I '11 woo you like a soldier, at anns' end;
And love yon 'gainst the nature of love : force you.
Sil. O heaven!
Pro. I '11 force thee yield to my desire.
Vol. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch ;
■ Experieaced.
I .C "\ ■ f1' vi 'r »'<i^. A ' _ .^/\ fl. - ■ ' r^ i.r-^ .
%H-
yvfe^
pm
ifi-t
iim
t-i=' ■■'
SCEN'i IV,
OF VEnONA.
IPI
Thou friend of an ill fashion !
Pro. Valentine!
Val. Thou common friend, that's without faith or
love;
(For such is a friend now) treacherous man !
Thou hast beguiled my hopes; naught 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 own 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 ac-
cursed 1
'Mongst all foes, that a friend should be the worst!
Pro. My shame and guilt confounds me.—
Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
I tender it here : I do as truly suffer.
As e'er I did commit.
Val. Then I am paid ;
And once again I do receive thee honest:—
Who by repentance is not satisfied.
Is nor of heaven nor earth; for these are jdeased ;
By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased :—
And, that my love may appear plain and free.
All that was mine in Silvia, I give thee.
Jul. O me unhappy! [faints.
Pro. Look to the boy.
#
192
TWO GENTLEMEN
ACT V.
Vat, Why, boy! why, wag! how now ? what's
the matter ? look up; speak.
Jul. O good sir, my master charged me to deliver
a ring to madam Silvia; which, out of my neglect,
was never done.
Pro. Where is that ring, boy ?
Jul. Here 'tis : this is it. [ yives a ring.
Pro. How! let me see: why this is the ring I
gave to Julia!
Jul. O, cry your mercy, sir, I have mistook; this
is the ring you sent to Silvia. [sAotcs another ring.
Pro. But how camest thou by this ring ? at my
depart, I gave this unto Julia.
Jul. And Julia herself did give it me ;
And Julia herself hath brought it hither.
Pro. How ! Julia!
Jul. Behold her that gave aim i to all thy oaths.
And entertain'd them deeply in her heart:
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! ®
D Proteus, let this habit make thee blush!
Be thou ashamed, that 1 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.
' Direction.
° Cleft the root of her heart. Here an allusion is made to
cleaving the pin in archery.
' If It be any shame to wear a disguise for the purposes of
love.
TWO GEJfTLEMEW OP TEaONA-
Valenline.frateus. Silvut kJitUa.
Jit V. sun» ly.
scbne iv. of veuona. 19S
Pro. Than men their minds! 'tis true. 0 heaven I
were man
But constant, he were perfect; that one error
Fills him with faults; makes him run through aU
sins;
Inconstancy falls oflF, ere it begins;
What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy
More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye ?
Val. Come, come, a hand from either t
Let me be blest to make this happy close.
'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.
Pro. Bear witness. Heaven. I have my wish for
txer.
Jul. And I mine.
Enter outlaws, with oukb and thubiu.
Out, A prize, a prize, a prize!
Val. Forbear, forbear, I say; it is my lord the
duke.
Your grace is welcome to a man disgraced.
Banished Valentine.
Duke. Sir Valentine!
Thu. Yonder is Sil\'ia; and Silvia's mine.
Val. 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:
' The length of my sword,
r.
0
194
TWO OENTLEMKK
ACT V.
Take but possesalon of her with a touch
I dare thee but to breathe upon my love,
Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, 1;
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 honor 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 unrival'd merit.
To which 1 thus subscribe,—sir Valentine,
Tlmu art a gentleman, and well derived ;
Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her.
Vat. 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.
Val. These banish'd men, that I have kept withal.
Are men endued with worthy qualities.
Forgive them what they have committed here.
And let them be recall'd from their exile :
They are reformed, civil, full of good.
I Interest. * Grievances, wrongs.
* 1.«. plead thou.
S-CENE IV.
OF VERON'A.
195
And fit for great employment, worthy lord.
Duke. Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them, and
thee;
Dispose of them, as thou know'st their deserts.
Come, let us go ; we wiU include' all jars
With triumphs,' mirth, and rare solemnity.
Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold
With our discourse to make your grace to smile:
What think you of this page, my lord ?
Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him: he
blushes.
Val. I warrant you, my lord; more grace than
boy.
Duke. What mean you by that saying ?
Val. Please you, I '11 tell you as we pass along.
That you will wonder, what hath fortuned.—
Come, -Proteus; 'tis your penance, but to hear
The etory of your loves discovered:
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness.
< Conclude. * Masques and revels.
END OF VOL. I.
#
THE
PLAYS AND POEMS
or
SHAKESPEARE.
VOL. IL
MEKEir WIVES OF WINDSOR
ie Talrtaff
■^ccflT SemiHL
THE
PLAYS AND POEMS
OF
SHAKESPEARE.
WITH
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY ILLUSTRATIONS,
PROM DESIGNS BY EMINENT ARTISTS.
EDITED BY
A. J. VALPY, A.M..
FELLOW OP PEMBROKE COLLEGE, OXFORD.
FIFTEEN VOLUMES IN EIGHT.
VOL. II.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEBBIE & BARRIE, 615 SANSOM STREET.
,1878.
Sweet swan of Avon, what a sight it were,
To see thee in our waters yet appear;
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
Ben Jonson.
If ever any author deserved the name of an original, it was
Shakspeare. Homer himself drew not his art so immediately
from the fountains of Mature; it proceeded through Egyptian
strainers and channels, and came to him not without some
tincture of the learning, or some cast of the models, of those
before him. The poetry of Shakspeare was inspiration indeed:
he is not so much an imitator as an instrument of Nature; and
it is not so just to say that he speaks from her, as that she
speaks through him.
Pope.
#
CONTENTS
OF TOE
SECOND VOLUME.
FAOl
MERRT WIVES OF WINDSOR .... 1
MEASURE FOR MEASURE .... 127
COMEDY OF ERRORS 253
ILLUSTRATIONS
TO THE
SECOND VOLUME.
ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.
PA6I
1. Concealment of FalstaiT in the Basket, from a Paint-
ing by Peters. Frontispiece.
2. Ann Page, Slender, and Simple.—Smirlce. . .18
3. Cains, Mrs. Quickly, Simple, and Rugby.—Ditto. . 28
4. Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford comparing letters.—Peters. 34
5. Mrs. Page, Mrs. Quickly, Evans, and William.—
Smirke. 89
6. Falstaff as the old woman of Brentford.—Duma. . 97
7. Falstaff between Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford.—Smirke. 116
8. Falstaff with a buck's head on. Fairies, Ac.—Smirke. 116
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
9. Escalus, Elbow, Froth, Clown, Ac.—Srmrhe. . . 158
10. Angelo and Isabella.—Ditto 179
11. Abhorson, Clown, and Provost.—Ditto. . . . 209
12. Duke in a friar's habit, Angelo, Ac.—Kirk. . . 243
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
13. Storm at sea; J^mUia and infants drowning.—
Wheatley 263
14. Antipholus of Ephesus, Dromio, Ac.—Ditto. . . 313
15. Scene before the Priory.—Rigaud 333
MERKr WIVES OF WmDSOR.
fiRAK.
HTSrORTCAl, NOTICE
OF THE
MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.
An old tnansLttion of II Pecorone, by Giovanni
Flcrentino, is supposed to have furnished Shakspeare
with some of the incidents of this comedy.
Mr. Howe informs us, that Queen Elizabeth was so
well pleased with the admirable character of Falstalf
in the two parts of Henry IV. that she commanded our
author to continue it for one play more, and to show
him in love ; a task, which he is said to have completed
in a fortnight, to the admiration of his royal patroness,
who Was afterwards very well pleased at the represen-
tation. This information, it is probable, came origin-
ally from Dryden, who, from his intimacy with Sir
William Davenant, had an opportunity of learning many
particulars concerning Shakspeare. Mr. Chalmers
has endeavored to set aside the general tradition
relative to this comedy, but does not appear to have
succeeded.
Speaking of this play. Dr. Johnson remarks, that
• no task is harder than that of writing to the ideas ol
another. Shakspeare knew what the queen, if the
story be true, seems not to bave known ;—that by any
real passion of tenderness, the selfish craft, the careless
jollity, and the lazy luxury of Falslaff must have
suflered so much abatement, that little of his former
cast would have remained. Falstalf could not love but
4
HISTORICAL NOTICE.
by ceasing to be Falstaff. He could only connlerfeit
love ; and his professions could be prompted, not by
the love of pleasure, but of money. Thus the poet
approached as near as he could to the work enjoined
hlin : yet having, perhaps, in his former plays com-
pleted his own idea, seems not to have been able to
give Falstaff all his former power of entertainment.
' This comedy is remarkable for the variety and
number of the personages, who exhibit more characters
appropriated and discriminated, than, perhaps, can be
found in any otiier play. Whether Shakspeare was
the first that produced on the English stage the etfect
of language distorted and depraved by provincial or
foreign pronunciation, I cannot certainly decide. This
mode of forming ridiculous characters can confer
praise only on him who originally discovered it, for it
requires not much of either wit or judgment: its
success must be derived almost wholly from the player ;
but its power in a skilful mouth, even he that despises
it is unable to resist.
' The conduct of this drama is deficient: the action
begins and ends often before the conclusion, and the
dilferent parts might change places without incon-
venience: but its general power; that power, by
wiiich all works of genius shall finally be tried, is such,
that, perhaps, it never yet had reader or spectator,
who did not think it too soon at an end.'
Dr. Johnson conjectures that this play should be
read between King Henry IV. Part 2d. and King
Henry V. while Mr. Malone would place it between
the First and Second Parts of King Henry IV.
6
A R G U M E N T.
The vanity of sir John Falstaft' having misinlerpretecl the
hospitable attentions of two ladies at Windsor into an admi-
ration for his person, he resolves to profit by his good
fortune, but is betrayed by some discarded domestics, who
revenge their dismissal by revealing their master's designs
to the husbands of his mistresses. Page disregards the in*
formation altogether ; while Ford, who had, for some time
past, entertained unfounded suspicions of his wife's honor,
resolves to asceitain the truth of the information. For this
purpose, unner the assumed name of Brook, he causes him-
self to be introduced to Falstaft', whom he artfully draws
into the confession of an assignation which he had just before
made with mistress Ford, who in the mean time had con-
spired with her friend to punish the knight for his infamous
proposals. Ford, now supposing that he has sufficiently
detected the infidelity of his wife, assembles his neighbors,
in order to surprise Falstaff at the appointed interview : he
is* however, conveyed away by the two wives in a basket
with foul linen, and thrown into the Thames, where he
narrowly escapes drowning. The suspicions of Ford are now
somewhat abated ; hut when he again repairs to Falstaff as
Brook, and learns the deception that has been practised on
him, and -the arrangements which have been made by his
wife for a second visit from her admirer, his fury rekindles;
he again solicits his friends to accompany him home, whence
Falstaff is again conveyed in the disgui.se of an old witch,
though not without suffering a severe cudgelling at the
hands of the enraged Ford as a fortune-teller. A third as-
signation is now made with him in Windsor forest at mid-
night, where Falstaft', representing the spirit of a deceased
huntsman, with horns on bis head, is severely pinched by
the accomplices of the plot, in the garb of fairies and hob*
goblins; when the husbands, who are now made acquainted
with the intention of their wives, rusli from the place of
tlieir concealment; and, having sufhciently exposed ami
derided him, forgive him. 'J be remainder of this comedy is
occupied by the rivalry of Slender and Caiu.s, for the hanu
of Page's daughter, who prefers a young gentleman named
teuton, whom she marries.
0
6
PEESONS KEPKESENTED.
Sir John Famtafp.
Fenton.
Shallow, a country justice.
Slender, cousin to Shallow.
two gentlemen dwelling at WindaM;
Mr, PagE)>
William Page, a boy, son to Mr. Page.
Sir Hugh Evans, a Welsh parson.
Dr. Caids, a French physician.
Host of the Garter Inn.
Bardolph,!
Pistol, > followers of Falstafl;
Nvm, )
IloniN, page to Falstaff.
Simple, servant to Slender.
Kugby, servant to Dr. Caius.
Mrs. Ford.
Jlrs. Pace.
Mrs. Anne Page, her daughter, in love with Fentoa.
Mrs. Quickly, servant to Dr. Caius.
Servants to Page, Ford, &c.
Scene, Windsor; and the parts adjacent.
MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.
ACT I.
scene i.
Windsor. Before Page's house.
Enter justice shallow, slender, and sir hugh
' evans.
Shal. Sir Hugh,' persuade me not; I will make a
Star-chamber ® matter of it: if he were twenty sir
John FalstafFs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow,
esquire.
Slen. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace,
and cor am.^
Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and Cust-alorum.*
Slen. Av. and ratolorum too; and a gentleman
bom, master parson ; who writes himself armigero; ®
in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, armi-
gero.
' It was the castom in ancient times to j^ive the title of
• Sir' to certain orders of the clergy as well as to knights.
' Ben Jonson intimates, that the Star-chamber had a right
to take cognisance of routs and riots.
^ Quorum, Such a number of justices as is sufficient to
transact business. * Custos rotulorum,
* Armiger, esquire.
8
MKRRT WIVES
ACT I.
Shal. Ay, that I do; and have done any time
these three hundred years.
Slen, All his successors, gone before him, have
done't; and all his ancestors, that come after him,
may : they may give the dozen white luces ' in their
Coat.
Shal. It is an old coat.
Evans. The dozen white louses do become an old
coat well; it agrees well, passant: ® it is a familiar
beast to man, and signifies—love.®
Shal. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is
an old coat.*
Slen. I may quarter, coz ?
Shal. You may, by marrying.
Evans. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it.
Shal. Not a whit.
Evans. Yes, per-lady; ® if he has a quarter of
your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in
my simple conjectures; but that is all one. If sir
John FalstafF have committed disparagements unto
you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my
benevolence, to make atonements and compromises
between you.
Shal. The Council ® shall hear it; it is a riot.
•' Full-grown pikes or jacks. ^ By the way.
3 Frolmbty signifying, that thislittle nnimal deserts not man
in his distress, but rather sticks closer to him in his adversity.
• ' Hint is, the fresli fish i.s the coat of an ancient family ;
and the salt fish is the coat of aiuerchant grown rich by trading
over the sea.'—.lohnson. ^ liy our lady.
* I'he court of Star-chamber.
SCENE I.
OF WINDSOR.
9
Evans. It is not meet the Council hear a riot;
there is no fear of Got in a riot: the Council, look
you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to
hear a riot; take your vizaments i in that.
Shal. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the
sword should end it.
Evans. It is petter that friends is the sword, and
end it: and there is also another device in my prain,
which, peradventure, prings goot discretions with it.
There is Anne Page, which is daughter to master
George Page, which is pretty virginity.®
Slcn. Mistress Anne Page ? She has brown hair,
and speaks small like a woman.
Evans. It is that fery person for all the 'orld, as
just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds
of monies, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire,
upon his death's-bed, (Got deliver to a joyful resur-
rections !) give, when she is able to overtake seven-
teen years old : it were a goot motion, if we leave
.wr pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage
between master Abraham and mistress Anne Page.
Shal. Did her grandsire leave her occen hundred
pound ?
Evans. Ay, and her father is make her a petter
penny.
Shal. 1 know the young gentlewoman; she has
good gifts.
* Take counsel, ' A pretly maiden. ' Soft. It w.
10
MKRR* WIVES
ACT I.
Evans. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities,'
is good gifts.
Shal. Well, let us see honest master Page. Is
Falstaff there ?
Evans. Shall I tell you a lie ? I do despise a liar,
as I do despise one that is false; or, as I despise
one that is not true. The knight, sir John, is there;
and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers.
I will peat the door [AnocArs] for master Page.
What, boa! Got pless your house here!
Enter page.
Page. Who's there ?
Evans. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend,
and justice Shallow; and here young master Slender;
that, peradventures, shall tell you another tale, if
matters grow to your likings.
Page. I am glad to see your worships well; I
thank you for my venison, master Shallow.
Shal. Master Page, I am glad to see you; much
good do it your good heart! I wished your venison
better; it was iU killed.—How doth good mistress
Page 1—and I thank you always with my heart, la;
with my heart.
Page. Sir, I thank you.
Shal. Sir, I thank you ; by yea and no, I do.
Page. I am glad to see you, good master Slender.
' Expectations.
scene j.
op windsok.
11
Slen. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I
heard say, he was outrun on Cotsall.*
Page. It could not be judged, sir.
Slen. You '11 not confess, you '11 not confess.
Shal. That he will not;—'tis your fault, 'tis your
fault.—'Tis a good dog.
Page. A cur, sir.
Shal. Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog. Can
there be more said ? he is good and fair.—Is sir
John FalstafF here ?
Page. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do
a good office between you.
Evans. It is spoke as a christians ought to speak.
Shal. He hath wronged me, master Page.
Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it.
Shal. If it be confessed, it is not redressed; is not
that so, master Page ? He hath wronged me;—
indeed, he hath;—at a word, he hath;—believe me;
—Robert Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged.
Page. Here comes sir John.
Enter sia john palstaff, bardolph, nym, and
pistol.
Fal. Now, master Shallow; you '11 complain of
me to the king ?
Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my
deer, and broke open my lodge.
Fal. But not kissed your keeper's daughter ?
^ Cotswold, in Glocestershire.
#
1'2
MERRY WIVES
ACT I.
S/ial. Tut, a pin ! this shall be answered.
i'a/. I will answer it straight:—I have done all
this.—Hiat is now answered.
SAa/. The Council shall know this.
Fal. 'Twere better for you, if it were known in
counsel: you 'U be laughed at.
Evans. Pauca verba, sir John ; good worts.
Fal. Good worts ! good cabbage.'—Slender. I
broke your head. What matter have you against
me ?
Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against
you; and against your coney-catching • rascals,
Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the
tavern, and made me drunk, and afterwards picked
my pocket. .
Bar. You Banbury cheese! '
Slen. Ay, it is no matter.
Pis. How now, Mephostophilus ? ♦
Slen. Ay, it is no matter.
Nym. Slice, I say ! pauca, pauca slice ! that's my
humor.
Slen. Where's Simple, my man ?—can you tell,
cousin ?
Evans. Peace, I pray you! Now let us under-
* Worts was the ancient name of all the cabbage kind.
' Shnrpers were called coney-catchers.
^ (Jheesc ccnsisting of notliing but paring : in allusion to
the thin carcase of Slender.
* I lie name of a t'limiliar spirit in the old story of Doctor
•"^austus, ^ Few words.
SCENE I.
OF WINDSOR.
13
stand, llierc is three umpires in this matter, as I
understand : that is—master Page, fidelicet, master
Page : and there is myself, fidelicet, myself; and
the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of
the Garter.
Page. We three, to hear it, and end it between
them.
Evans. Fery goot; I will make a prief of it in my
note-book; and we will afterwards 'orke upon the
cause, with as great discreetly as we can.
Fal. Pistol,
Pis. He hears with ears.
Evans. The tevil and his tarn! what phrase is
this, • He hears with ear ?' Why, it is affectations.
Fal. Pistol, did you pick master Slender's purse 1
Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, (or I would I
might never come in mine own great chamber again
else) of seven groats in mill-sixpences,^ and two
Edward shovel-boards,® that cost me two shilling
and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by these
gloves.
Fal. Is this true. Pistol ?
Evans. No; it is fiJse, if it is a pick-purse.
Pis. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner!—Sir John,
and master mine.
' Mill-sixpences were used by way of counters to cast up
money.
" TLe broad shillings of Edward the Sixtli, much used in
the game of shufHe-board.
14
MERRY WIVES
ACT J,
I combat challenge of this latten bilbo : '
Word of denial in thy labras • here ;
Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest.
Slen. By these gloves, then 'twas he.
iVym. Be avised,^ sir, and pass good humors: I
wiU say, ' marry trap ' with you,'* if you run the
nuthook's humor on me; ® that is the veiy note ® of it,
S/en. By this hat, then he in the red face had it:
for though I cannot remember what I did when you
made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.
Fal. What say you. Scarlet and John ? ^
Bar. Why, sir, for my part, I say, the gentleman
had drunk himself out of his five sentences.
Evans. It is his five senses: fie, what the igno-
ranee is!
Bar. And being fap,® sir, was, as they say,
cashiered; and so conclusions passed the carcires.v
Slen. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis
no matter: I '11 ne'er be drunk whilst 1 live again,
but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick :
if 1 be drunk, 1 '11 be drunk ■with those that have the
fear of God, and not with drunken knaves.
' This blade as tliin as a lath. Latten is a mixed metal,
mude of copper and calamine. * Lips.
' Cautious. * I will catch you in your own trap.
' If you say I am a thief. ® Truth.
' In allusion to Bardolph's red face. • Drunk.
• • And so, in the end, he reeled about with a circuitous
motion, like a horse, passing a carier.'—Malone. ■ To pass a
caner' was a technical term, signifying running a career.
8ceke i.
of windsor.
15
Evans. So Got 'udge me, that is a virtuous mind.
Fal. You hear all these matters denied, gentle-
men; you hear it.
Enter annr page with wbie; mrs. ford and mrs.
page following.
Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we 'U
drink within. [Exit Anne Page.
Slen. O heaven! this is mistress Anne Page.
Page. How now, mistress Ford ?
Fal. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very
well met: by your leave, good mistress, [kissing her.
Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome.
Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner; come,
gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkind-
ness. [Exeunt all but Shallow, Slender, and Evans.
Slen. I had rather than forty shillings, I had my
book of Songs and Sonnets here.—
Enter simple.
How now. Simple! where have you been r I must
wait on myself, must I ? You have not The Book
of Riddles about you, have you ?
Sim. Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend
it to Alice Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a fort-
night afore Michaelmas ? ^
Shal. Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you.
* Allhallowmas is almost five weeks after Michaelmas.
Shakspeare probably intended to blunder.
#
16
MERRY WIVES
ACT I.
A word with you, coz ; marry, this, coz. There is,
as 'twere, a tender, a kind of terjder, made afar off
by sir Hugh here;—Do you understand me ?
Slen. Ay, sir. you shall find me reasonable ; if it
be so, I shall do thiit that is reason.
Shal. Nay, but understand me.
Slen. So I do, sir.
Evans. Give ear to his motions,' master Slender:
I will description the matter to you, if you be capa-
city of it.
Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says;
I pray you, pardon me; he's a justice of peace in his
country, simple though I stand here,
Evans. But that is not the question : the question
is concerning your marriage.
Shal. Ay, there's the point, sir.
Evans. Marry, is it; the very point of it; to mis-
tress Anne Page.
Slen. Why, if it be so, I will marry her, upon
any reasonable demands.
Evans. But can you aflFection the 'oman ? Let us
command to know that of your mouth, or of your
lips; for divers philosophers hold, that the lips is
parcel of the mouth;—therefore, precisely, can you
carry your good will to the maid ?
Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her ?
Slen. I hope, sir, I will do, as it shall become one
that would do reason.
' Proposal.
SCENE I.
ok windsob.
17
Evans. Nay, Got's lords and his ladles, you must
speak possitable,' if you can carry her your desires
towards her.
Shal. That you must. Will you, upon good
dowry, marry her ?
Slen. I will do a greater thing than that, upon
your request, cousin, in any reason.
Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz ;
what I do, is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love
the maid ?
Slen. I will marry her, sir, at your request; but
if there be no great love in the beginning, yet
Heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance,
when we are married, and have more occasion to
know one another. I hope, upon familiarity will
grow more contempt: but if you say, ' Marry her,' I
will marry her, that I am freely dissolved, and dis-
solutely.
Evans. It is a fery discretion answer; save, the
faul' is in the 'ort dissolutely; the 'ort is, according
to our meaning, resolutely;—his meaning is good.
Shal. Ay, I think my cousin meant well.
Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la.
Re-enter anne page.
Shal. Here comes fair mistress Anne.—Would I
were young, for your sake, mistress Anne!
' Positively.
SHAK. ti. >
18
MERRY WIVES
ACT L
Anne. The dinner is on the table; my father de-
sires your worships' company. .
Shal. I will wait on him, fair mistress Anne.
Evans. Od's plessed will! I will not he absence
at the grace. [Exeunt Shallow and Sir H. Evans.
Anne. Will't please your worship to come in,
sir ?
Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am
very well.
Anne. The dinner attends you, sir.
Slen. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth.
—Go, sirrah, for aU you are my man, go, wait upon
my cousin Shallow. [Exit Simple.'] A justice of
peace sometime may be beholden to his friend for a
man :—I keep but three men and a hoy yet, till my
mother he dead. But what though ? yet I live like
a poor gentleman born.
Anne. I may not go in without your worship:
they will not sit, till you come.
Slen. I 'faith, I '11 eat nothing; I thank you as
much as though I did.
Anne. I pray you, sir, walk in.
Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you: I
bruised my shin the other day with playing at sword
and dagger with a master of fence, (three veneys'
for a dish of stewed prunes) and, by my troth, I
cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do
your dogs bark so ? be there bears i' the town ?
' Three bouts or hits ; a technical term.
Sairto , Surli&g ac.
MEBBTWIVES OFWINBSOS
^JVK fi^c.SltnitrJcSuncle
Actl Saate-l.
scene i.
or WINDSOR.
19
Anne. I think, there are, sir; I heard them
talked of.
Slen. I love the sport well; but I shall as soon
quarrel at it as any man in England.—You are
afraid, if .you see the bear loose, are you not ?
Anne. Ay, indeed, sir.
Slen. That's meat and drink to me now: I have
seen Sackerson^ loose twenty times; and have
taken him by the chain: but, I warrant you, the
women have so cried and shrieked at it, that it
passed: •—^but women, indeed, cannot abide 'em;
they are very ill-favored rough things.
Re-enter page.
Page. Come, gentle master Slender, come; we
stay for you.
Slen. I '11 eat nothing, I thank you, sir.
Page. By cock and pye,' you shall not choose,
sir: come, come.
Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way.
Page. Come on, sir.
Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first.
Anne. Not I, sir ; pray you, keep on.
Slen. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la: 1 will
not do you that wrong.
' The name of a bear, exhibited, in our author's time, at
Paris Garden, in Southwark.
' It surpassed all description. ' A popular adjuration
20
merry wives
act r.
Anne. I pray you, sir.
Slen. I '11 rather be unmannerly than troublesome :
you do yourself wrong, indeed, la. \Exeunt.
scene ii.
The same.
Enter sir hcgh evans and simple.
Evans. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius'
house, which is the way: and there dwells one
mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his
nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry,
his washer, and his wringer.
Sim. Well, sir.
Evans. Nay, it is petter yet: give her this
letter; for it is a 'oman that altogether's acquaint-
ance with mistress Anne Page ; and the letter is, to
desire and require her to solicit your master's desires
to mistress Anne Page : I pray you, be gone; I will
make an end of my dinner: there's pippins and
cheese to come. {Exeunt.
scene iii.
A room in the Garter Inn.
Enter falstaff, host, bardolph, ntm, pistol,
and ROBIN.
Fal. Mine host of the Garter.—
SCENK III. OK WINDSOR. 21
Host. What says my bully-rook ? ' speak scholar-
ly, and wisely.
Fal. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some oi
my followers.
Host. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier ; let them
wag; trot, trot.
Fal. 1 sit at ten pounds a week.
Host. Thou 'rt an emperor, Csesar, Keisar,® and
Pheezar.® 1 will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw,
he shall tap : said 1 well, bully Hector ?
Fal. Do so, good mine host.
Host. 1 have spoke; let him follow. Let me see •
thee froth, and lime : ♦ I am at a word; follow.
[Fsit Host.
Fal. Bardolph, follow him ; a tapster is a good
trade. An old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered
servingman, a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.
Bar. It is a life that 1 have desired; 1 will thrive.
[Exit Bardolph.
Pis. O base Gongarian® wight! wilt thou the
^ spigot wield ?
' The latter part of this compound title is taken from the
rooks at the game of chess.
' An emperor in Germany is named Keisar.
® Pheezar is a made word from *pheeze,' i.e. to curry, to
fleece. * I '11 plieeze you,' says Sly to the hostess in The Taming
of tlie Shrew.
' Frothing beer and liming sack were tricks practised in
the time of Shakspeare: the first was done by putting soap
into the bottom of the tankard when they drew the beer; the
otlicr, by mixing lime with the sack, to make it sparkle in the
glass.'—Steevens. ^ For Hungarian.
22
MERRY WIVES
ACT I.
Nym. He was gotten in drink. Is not the humor
conceited ? His mind is not heroic, and there's the
humor of it.
Fal. I am glad, I am so acquit of this tinder-box :
his thefts were too open : his filching was like an
unskilful singer, he kept not time.
Nym. The good humor is, to steal at a minute's
rest.'
Pis. Convey, the wise it call. Steal! foh; a
fico - for the phrase !
Fal. Well, sirs, 1 am almost out at heels.
Pis. Why, then, let kibes ' ensue.
Fal. There is no remedy; I must coney-catch ; ♦
I must shift.
Pis. Young ravens must have food.
Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town ?
Pis. 1 ken the wight; he is of substance good.
Fal. My honest lads, 1 will tell you what 1 am
about.
Pis. Two yards, and more.
Fal. No quips ® now. Pistol; indeed 1 ion in the ^
waist two yards about: but 1 am now about no
waste; 1 am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to
make love to Ford's wife: 1 spy entertainment in
her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of
invitation; 1 can construe the action of her familiar
• When watchfulness is off its guard, and reposes but for a
minute. ' Fig. * Ulcerated chilblains.
♦ Cheat. * Taunts.
SCKNE 111.
OF WINDSOR.
23
style ; and the hardest voice of her behavior, to be
Englished rightly, is, ' I am sir John FalstafFs.'
Pis. He hath studied her well, and translated
her well; out of honesty into English.
Nym. The anchor is deep: * will that humor pass?
Fal. Now, the report goes, she has all the rule of
her husband's puise; she hath legions of angels.'
Pis. As many devils entertain;' and, ' To her,
boy,' say I.
Nym. The humor rises; it is good: humor me
the angels.
Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her: and
here another to Page's wife; who even now gave
me good eyes too, examined my parts with most
judicious eyliads : * sometimes the beam of her view
gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly.
Pis. Then did the sun on dunghill shine.
Nym. 1 thank thee for that humor.
Fal. O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with
such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye
did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass!
Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse
too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty.
I will be cheater® to them both, and they shah be
* The scheme is well laid.
' A gold coin, impiessed with an angel, rated at ten
shillings.
» Oo you retain in your service as many devils as she has
angels. * Eyelids.
^ Kscheatour, an officer in the Exchequer.
'#
24
MERRY WIVES
ACT 1,
exchequers to me ; they shall be my East and West
Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear
thou this letter to mistress Page ; and thou this to
mistress Ford: we will thrive, lads, we will thrive.
Pis. Shall I sir Pandanis of Troy become.
And by my side wear steel ? then, Lucifer take all!
JVym. I will run no base humor: here, take the
humor-letter; I will keep the 'havior of reputation.
Fal. Hold, sirrah, [to Rob.'] bear you these let-
ters tightly; *
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.—
Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hail-stones, go;
Trudge, plod, away, o' the hoof; seek shelter, pack !
Falstalf will learn the humor of this age
French thrift, you rogues; myself, and skirted page.
[Exeunt Falstaff and Robin.
Pis. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gotird, and
fullam ® holds.
And high and low ® beguile the rich and poor :
Tester I '11 have in pouch,* when thou shall lack.
Base Phrygian Turk!
Nym. I have operations in my head, which be
humors of revenge.
Pis. Wilt thou revenge ?
Nym. By welkin, and her star!
Pis. With wit, or steel ?
' Cleverly, adroitly.
* Certain false dice known by the name of gourd and full .ni.
' Dice called hiuh men and low men.
* Sixpence I '11 have in my pocket.
8cbne iv.
of windsor.
25
Nym. With both the humors, I:
I will discuss the humor of this love to Page.
Pis. And I to Ford shall eke ' unfold.
How Falstaff, varlet vile,
His dove will prove, his gold will hold.
And his soft couch defile.
Nym. My humor shall not cool: I will incense ®
Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with
yellowness,® for the revolt of mien * is dangerous:
that is my true humor.
Pis. Thou art the Mars of malcontents : I second
thee; troop on. [Exeunt.
scene iv.
A room in Dr. Cains's house.
Enter mrs. quickly, simple, and rugby.
Mrs. Quick. What; John Rugby!—I pray thee,
go to the casement, and see if you can see my master,
master Doctor Caius, coming; if he do, i'faith, and
find any body in the house, here will be an old
abusing of God's patience, and the king's English.
Rug. I '11 go watch. [Exit Rugby.
Mrs. Quick. Go; and we '11 have a posset for't
soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal
fire. An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant
shall come in house withal; and, I warrant you, no
' Likewise. ® Instiiiate. ' Jealousy.
* Cliunge of countenance.
26
mkruy wives
act i.
lell-tale, nor no breed-bate : ' his worst fault is, that
he is given to prayer; he is somtching peevish®
that way: but nobody but has his fault;—but let
that pass. Peter Simple, you say your name is ?
Sim. Ay, for fault of a better.
Mrs. Quick. And master Blender's your master?
Sim. Ay, forsooth.
Mrs. Quick. Does he not wear a great round
beard, like a glover's paring-knife ?
Sim. No, forsooth : he hath but a little wee face,
with a little yellow beard ; a Cain-colored ® beard.
Mrs. Quick. A softly-sprighted man,'* is he not ?
Sim. Ay, forsooth: but he is as tall ® a man of
his hands, as any is between this and his head ; he
hath fought with a warrener.
Mrs. Quick. How say you ?—O, I should re-
member him. Does he not hold up his head, as it
were, and strut in his gait ?
Sim. Yes, indeed, does he.
Mrs. Quick. Well, Heaven send Anne Page no
worse fortune ! Tell master parson Evans, I will do
what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl,
and I wish—
Re-enter kugbt.
Rug. Out, alas! here comes my master.
' No breeder of strife. * Foolish.
' Cain and Judas were represented with yellow beards iit
aid tapestries and pictures. * A man of a mild disposition,
® Courageous.
SCENI? IV.
OF WINDSOR.
27
Mrs. Quick, We shall ifll be shent.* Run in here,
good young man ; go into this closet. Simple
in the closet.'\ He will not stay long.—What, John
Rugby! John, what, John, I say !—Go, John, go
inquire for my master; I doubt, he be not well,
that he comes not home:—' and down, down,
adown-a,' &c.
Enter dr. caids.
Cuius. Vat is you sing ? I do not like dese toys.
Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet un hoitier
verd; a box, a green-a box. Do intend vat I speak ?
a green-a box.
Mrs. Quick. Ay, forsooth, I '11 fetch it you. I am
glad he went not in himself: if he had found the
young man, he would have been hom-mad.® [aside.
Cuius. Fe, fe, fe, fe ! mu foi, il fuit fort chuud.
Je m'en vuis d la Cour,—la grunde affaire.
Mrs. Quick. Is it this, sir ?
Cuius, Guy; mette le au man pocket; Dcpdclte,
quickly.—Vere is dat knave Rugby?
Mrs. Quick. What, John Rugby ! John!
Rug. Here, sir.
Caius. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack
Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after
my heel to de court.
Rug. 'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.
' Scolded, roughly treated.
' As angry as a man who has discovered the infidelity of his
wife.
28
MEltBY WIVES
ACT I.
Cuius. By my trot, I tarry too long.—Od's me !
Quay j'oublie ? dere is some simjdes in my closet,
dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.
Mrs. Quick. Ah me ! he '11 find the young man
there, and be mad.
Cuius. 0 diuble, diuble ! vat is in my closet?—Vil-
lany! lurron! [^pulling Simple out.'\ Rugby, my
rapier,
Mrs. Quick. Good master, be content.
Cuius. Verefore shall I be content-a?
Mrs. Quick. The young man is an honest man.
Cuius. Vat shall the honest man do in my closet?
Dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet.
Mrs. Quick. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic;'
hear the truth of it. He came of an errand to me
from parson Hugh.
Cuius. Veil.
Sim. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to
Mrs. Quick. Peace, I pray you.
Cuius. Peace-a your tongue.—Speak-a your tale.
Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your
maid, to speak a good word to mistress Anne Page
for my master, in the way of marriage.
Mrs. Quick. ITiis is all, indeed, la; but I '11 ne'er
put my finger in the fire, and need not.
Cuius. Sir Hugh send-a you ?—Rugby, buillez me
some paper. Tarry you a little-a while. [writes.
Mrs. Quick. I am glad he is so quiet: if he had
' Mistress Quickly probably means basty.
JCEBES'WIVES OPWCIDSOR.
■Cauu.lC Qw3eLy.S-onpi^hlbtghy-
Aetl ScauZf
SCENE IV,
OF WINDSOR.
29
been thoroughly moved, you should have heard him
so loud, and so melancholy ;—But notwithstanding,
man, I '11 do your master what good I can : and the
very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my
master,—I may call him my master, look you, for I
keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake,
scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do
all myself;—
Sim. 'Tis a great charge, to come under one
body's hand,
Mrs. Quick. Are you avised i o' that ? you shall
find it a great charge: and to be up early and down
late;—but notwithstanding, (to tell you in your
ear ; I would have no words of it) my master him-
self is in love with mistress Anne Page: but not-
withstanding that,—I know Anne's mind,—that's
neither here nor there,
Caius. You jack'nape ; give-a dis letter to sir
Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge : I vill cut his troat
in de park; and I vill teach a scurvy jack-a-nape
priest to meddle or make :—you may be gone; it is
not good you tarry here:—by gar, I vill cut all his
two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stor.e to
trow at his dog. \Exit Simple.
Mrs. Quick. Alas, he speaks but for bis friend,
Caius. It is no matter-a for dat:—do not you
tell-a me dat I shiill have Anne Page for myself ?—
' Informed,
30
merry wives
act 1.
by gar, I vill kill de .lack' priest; and I have ap-
pointed mine host of de Jurterre to measure our
weapon :—^by gar, I vill myself have Anne Page.
Mrs. Quick. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall
be well: we must give folks leave to prate. What,
the good-jer!
Cuius. Rugby, come to the court vit me.—By
gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head
out of my door.—Follow my heels, Rugby.
[Exeunt Cuius und Rugby,
Mrs. Quick. You shall have An fools-head of
your own. No, I know Anne's mind for that: never
a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind
than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I
thank Heaven.
Fen. [within."] Who's within there, ho ?
Mrs. Quick. Who's there, I trow ? Come near
the house, I pray you.
Enter fenton.
Fen. How now, good woman; how dost thou ?
Mrs. Quick. The better, that it pleases your good
worship to ask.
Fen. What news? how does pretty mistress
Anne ?
Mrs. Quick. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and
honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I
' In our author's time Jack was a term of contempt.
SCENE IV,
OK WINDSOR^
31
can tell you that by the way; I praise Heaven
for it.
Fvn. Shall I do any good, thinkest thou ? Shall I
not lose my suit ?
Mrs. Quick. Troth, sir, all is in his hands above :
but notwithstanding, master Fenton, I '11 be sworn
on a hook, she loves you.-—Have not your worship a
wart above your eye ?
Fen. Yes, marry, have I; what of that ?
Mrs. Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale;—good
faith, it is such another Nan;—but, I detest,' an
honest maid as ever broke bread.—We had an
hour's talk of that wart; and I shall never laugh
but in that maid's company!—But, indeed, she is
given too much to allicholly ^ and musing. But for
you—Well, go to.
Fen. Well, I shall see her to-day.' Hold, there's
money for thee; let me have thy voice in my
behalf : if thou seest her before me, commend me—
Mrs. Quick. Will I ? i'faith, that we will: and I
will tell your worship more of the wart, the next .
time we have confidence ; and of other wooers.
Fen. Well, farewell; I am in great haste now.
[^Exit.
Mrs. Quick. Farewell to your worship.—^Truly,
an honest gentleman; but Anne loves him not; for
I know Anne's mind as well as another does:—0-at
upon't! what have I forgot} lExU.
' Protest. ' Melaoclioly.
#
82
merhy wives
ACT n.
ACT 11.
scene i.
Before Page's house.
Enter mrs. page, with a letter.
Mrs. Page. What! have I 'scaped love-letters iu
the holyday time of my beauty, and am I now a
subject for them ? Let me see: {reads.
' Ask me no reason why I love you; for though
love use reason for his precisian,' he admits him not
for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am
1; go to then, there's sympathy: you are merry, so
am 1; Ha! ha! then there's more sympathy: you
love sack, and so do 1; Would you desire better
sympathy ? Let it suffice thee, mistress Page, (at the
least, if the love of a soldier can suffice) that 1 love
thee. 1 will not say, pity me, 'tis not a soldier-like
phrase; but 1 say, love me. By me.
Thine own true knight.
By day or night.
Or any kind of light.
With all his might.
For thee to fight. john falstaff.'
What a Herod of .lewTy is this!—O wicked, wicked
' Thoush love permit renson to tell what is fit to be done.
Jly precisian is meant one who pretends to oxtraordinary
sanctity.
SCrKE I. OF WINDSOR. 33
world !—one that is well nigh worn to pieces with
age, to show liimself a young gallant! What an
unweighed i behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard
picked (with the devil's name) out of my conversa-
tioii, that he dares in this manner assay me ? Why,
he hath not been thrice in my company!—Wh it
should I say to him.?—I was then frugal of my
mirth :—Heaven forgive me !—Why, I '11 exhibit a
bill in the parliament for the putting down of fat
men. How shall I be revenged on him ? for re-
venged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of
puddings.
Enter mrs. fobd.
Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page I trust me, I was going
to your house.
Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you.
You look very ill.
Mrs. Ford. Nay, I 'II ne'er believe that; I have
to show to the contrary.
Mrs. Page. 'Faith, but you do, in my mind.
Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then ; yet, I say, I could
sliow you to the contrary. O, mistress Page, give
me some counsel!
Mrs. Page. What's the matter, woman ?
Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one
trifling respect, I could come to such honor !
Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman; take the
' Heedl-'ss.
84
MKRRY WIVES
ACT II.
honor "What is It ? dispense \^•ith trifles;—what
is it ?
Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an
eternal moment, or so, I could be knighted.
Mrs. Page. What ?—thou liest!—Sir Alice Ford !
These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst
not alter the article of thy gentry.^
Mrs. Ford. We burn day-light: ®—^here, read,
read ;—perceive how I might he knighted.—I shall
think the worse of fat men, as long as I have an
eye to make difference of men's likingA And yet he
would not swear; praised women's modesty; and
gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all
uncomeliness, that I would have sworn his disjiosi-
tion would have gone to the trutlyof his words : but
they do no more adhere, and keep place together,
than the hundredth psalm to the tune of ' Green
Sleeves."* What tempest, I trow, threw this whale,
with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at
WindsorHow shall I be revenged on himI
think, the best way were to entertain him with
hope, till the Avicked fire of lust have melted him in
his own grease.—Did you ever hear the like ?
Mrs. Page. Letter for letter, but that the name of
Page and Ford differs!—To thy great comfort in
' I'hese kniglits will Ir.icV, i. e. will become cheap and tuI-
gar, and therefore 1 advise vou not to sullv vour gentry by
becoming one. ' We have more proof than we want.
(. ondition of body.
* A favorite tune in our author's time.
MERaT"WIVES OF WINDS<(9fC
Hr'Tordr^ IC'J'affo.
■AetlL Scene L
SCENE I.
OF WINDSOR.
35
this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother
of thy letter : but let thine inherit first; for, I pro-
test, mine never shall. I warrant, he hath a thou-
sand of these letters, writ with blank space for dif-
ferent names, (sure more) and these are of the
second edition. He will print them out, of doubt;
for he cares not what he puts into the press, when
he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess,
and lie under mount Pelion. Well, I will find you
twenty lascivious turtles, ere one chaste man.
Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same ; the very
hand, the very words. What doth he think of us }
Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not; it makes me al-
most ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I '11
entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted
withal; for, sure, unless he knew some strain' in
me, that I know not myself, he would never have
boarded me in this fury.
Mrs. Ford. Boarding, call you it ? 1 '11 be sure to
keep him above deck.
Mrs. Page. So will I; if he come under my
hatches, I '11 never to sea again. Let's be revenged
on him; let's appoint him a meeting; give him a
show of comfort in his suit; and lead him on with a
fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to
mine host of the Garter.
Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any vil-
lany against him, that may not sully the chariness
' Fault*
86
merry wives
ACT II.
of our hoH&sty.^ O, that my husband saw this
letter! it would give eternal food to his jealousy.
Mrs. Page. Why, look, where he comes; and my
good man too : he's as far from jealousy, as I am
from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an un-
measurable distance,
Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman.
Mrs. Page. Let's consult together against this
greasy knight. Come hither. \lhey retire.
Enter ford, pistod, page, and nym.
Ford. Well, I hope, it be not so.
Pis. Hope is a curtail dog" in some affairs:
Sir John affects thy wife.
Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young.
Pis. He wooes both high and low, both rich and
poor.
Both young and old, one with another, Ford;
He loves the gally-mawfry; ® Ford, perpend.^
Ford. Love my wife ?
Pis. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou.
Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels:—
O, odious is the name !
Ford. What name, sir ?
Pis. The horn, I say. Farewell.
Take heed; have open eye; for thieves do foot by
night:
* (!aution which our honor requires.
" A dog that misses his game. ' A medUy.
* Attend to my advice.
SCENE I.
OF WINDSOR.
37
Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo-birds do
sing.—
Away, sir corporal Nym.
Believe it. Page; he speaks sense. [Exit Pistol.
Ford. I will be patient; I will find out this.
Nym. And this is true : [to Page.'\ I like not the
humor of lying. He hath wronged me in some
humors: I should have borne the humored letter to
her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my
necessity.' He loves your wife; there's the short
and the long. My name is corporal Nym ; I speak,
and I avouch. 'Tis true:—my name is Nym, and
Falstaflf loves your wife.—Adieu; I love not the
humor of bread and cheese; and there's the humor
of it. Adieu. [Exit Nym.
Page. ' The humor of it,' quoth 'a! here's a
fellow frights humor out of his wits.
Ford. I will seek out Falstaif.
Page. I never heard such a drawling, affecting
ro^e.
Ford. If I do find it, well.
Page. I will not believe such a Catalan,' though
the priest o' the town commended him for a true
man.
Ford. 'Twas a good sensible fellow. Well.
Page. How now, Meg ?
' My sword shall bite when my need drives me to unlawful
expedients.
® The Chinese, anciently called Catalans, were expert
sharpers.
#
38
merry wives
act ii.
Mrs. Page. Whither go you, George?—Hark
you.
Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank! Vi^hy art
thou melancholy ?
Ford. I melancholy! I am not melancholy.—Get
you home;, go.
Mrs. Ford. 'Faith, thou hast some crotchets * in
thy head now.—Will you go, mistress Page ?
Mrs. Page. Have with you.—You '11 come to din-
ner, George ?—Look, who comes yonder: she shall
be our messenger to this paltry knight.
[aside to Mrs. Ford.
Enter mrs. quickly.
Mrs. Ford. Trust me, I thought on her: she '11
fit it.
Mrs. Page. You are come to see my daughter
Anne ?
Mrs. Quick. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does
good mistress Anne ?
Mrs. Page. Go in with us, and see; we have an
hour's talk with you.
[Exeunt Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, and Mrs. Quicklg.
Page. How now, master Ford ?
Ford. You heard what this knave told me; did
you not ?
Page. Yes; and you heard what the other
told me ?
' (Conceits.
sceke i.
OF WINDSOR.
Ford. Do you think there is truth in them ?
Page. Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the
knight would offer it: but these that accuse him in
his intent towards our wives, are a yoke of his
discarded men ; very rogues, now they be out of
service.
Ford. Were they his men ?
Page. Marry, were they.
Ford. I like it never the better for that.—Does
he lie at the Garter ?
Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend
this voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose
to him ; and what he gets more of her tliari sharp
words, let it lie on my head.
Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife ; but I would be
loath to turn them together. A man may be too con-
fident: I would have nothing lie on my head: i I
cannot be thus satisfied.
Page. Look, where my ranting host of the Garter
comes : there is either liquor in his pate, or money
in his purse, when he looks so merrily.—How now,
mine host ?
Enter host and shallow.
Host. How now, bully-rook ? thou 'rt a gentleman;
cavalero-justice,® I say.
Shal. I follow, mine host, I follow.—Good even.
' In allusion to the cuckold's horns.
• Shallow was a justice of peace.
#
40
merrt wives
Acr IX.
and twenty, good master Page! Master Page, wLll
you go with us ? we have sport in hand.
Host. Tell him, cavalero-justiee; tell him, bully-
rook.
Shal. Sir, there is a fray to be fought, between sir
Hugh the Welsh priest, and Caius the French doctor.
Ford. Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with
you.
Host. What say'st thou, hully-rook ?
[they go aside.
Shal. Will you [to Page"] go with us to behold it?
My merry host hath had the measuring of their
weapons; and, I think, he hath appointed them
contrary places: for, believe me, I hear, the parson
is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport
shall be.
Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my
guest-cavalier ?
Ford. None, I protest: but I '11 give you a pottle
of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and teE
him, my name is Brook; only for a jest.
Host. My hand, bully: thou shalt have egress,
and regress; said I well ? and thy name shall be
Brook. It is a merry knight.—Will you go. An-
heires ?'
Shal. Have with you, mine host.
Page. I have heard, the Frenchman hath good
skill in his rapier.
' ' Probably, Will you go, and hear ust —Malona
scene ii.
of windsor.
41
Shal. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In
these times you stand on distance, your passes,
stoccadoes, and I know not what: 'tis the heart,
master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the
time, with my long sword, J would have made you
four tall fellows skip like rats.
Host. Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag ?
Page. Have with you:—I had rather hear them
scold than fight. IPxeunt Host, Shallow, and Page.
Ford. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands
so firmly on his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off
my opinion so easily: she was in his company at
Page's house; and, what they made i there, I know
not. Well, I wiU look farther into't; and I have
a disguise to sound FalstafF: if I find her honest,
I lose not my labor; if she be otherwise, 'tis labor
well bestowed. \Exil.
scene ii.
A room in the Garter Inn.
Enter falstaff and pistoi..
Tal. I will not lend thee a penny.
Pis. Why, then the world's mine oyster.
Which I with sword will open.—
I will retort the sum in equipage.®
Fal. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you
should lay my countenance to pawn: I have grated
' Did. - I will pay you again in stolen goods.
42
MERRY WIVES
ACT II.
upf)n' my good friends for three reprieves for you
and your coach-fellow ^ Nym; or else you had
kx)ked through the grate, like ageminy® ofhaboons.
1 am damned in hell, for swearing to gentlemen my
friends, you were good soldiers, and tall* fellows:
and when mistress Bridget lost the handle of her
fan, I took't upon mine honor, thou hadst it not..
Pis. Didst thou not share ? hadst thou not fifteen
pence'?
Fal. Reason, you rogue, reason. Think'st thou,
1 '11 endanger my soul gratis ? At a word, hang no
more about me; I am no gibbet for you :—go.—A
short knife and a throng; ■'—to your manor of Pickt-
hatch,® go.—You '11 not bear a letter for me, you
rogue!—you stand upon your honor !—Why, thou
unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do, to
keep the terms of my honor precise. I, I, I myself
sometimes, leaving the fear of heaven on the left
hand, and hiding mine honor in my necessity, am
fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you,
rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mo»mtain
looks, your red-lattice phrases,® and your bold-heat-
ing oaths, under the shelter of your honor! You
will not do it, you ?
' Importuned.
^ He who driiws along with you ; i. e. is joined with you in
all your knavery. ® A pair. * Bold.
' Go, cut purses in a crowd.
® A place in Turnbull-street noted for pickpockets.
' Cover. ' Your ale-liouse conversation.
scene ii. of windsor. 43
Pis. I do relent •. what wouldst thou more of
man ?
Enter robin.
Roh. Sir, here's a woman would speak with you.
Fal. Let her approach.
Enter mrs. quickly.
Mrs. Quick. Give your worship good-morrow.
Fal. Good-morrow, good wife.
Mrs. Quick. Not so, an't please your worship.
Fal. Good maid, then.
Mrs. Quick. J '11 be sworn; as my mother was,
the first hour I was born.
Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with me ?
Mrs. Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a
word or two ?
Fal. Two thousand, fair woman; and I '11 vouch-
safe thee the hearing.
Mrs. Quick. There is one mistress Ford, sir;—I
pray, come a little nearer this ways :—I myself dwell
with master doctor Caius.
Fal. Well, on. Mistress Ford, you say,
Mrs. Quick. Your worship says very true : I pray
your worship, come a little nearer this ways.
Fal. I warrant thee, nobody hears;—mine own
]ieo])le, mine own people.
Mrs. Quick. Are they so ? Heaven bless them,
and make them his servants!
Fal. Well: mistress Ford;—what of her ?
44
MERRY WIVES
ACT ir.
Mrs. Quick.' Why, sir, she's a good creature.
Lord, lord! your worship's a wanton. Well,
Heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray !
Fal. Mistress Ford;—come, mistress Ford,—•
Mrs. Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long
of it; you have brought her into such a canaries,'
as 'tis wonderful. The best courtier of them all,
when the court lay at Windsor, could never have
brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been
knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their
coaches; J warrant you, coach after coach, letter
after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly, (all
musk) and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and
gold; and in such alligant ® terms; and in such
wine and sugar of the best, and the fairest, that
would have won any woman's heart; and, I warrant
you, they coidd never get an eye-wink of her.—I
had myself twenty angels given me this morning:
but I defy all angels, (in any such sort, as they say)
but in the way of honesty:—and, I warrant you.
they could never get her so much as sip on a cup
with the proudest of them all: and yet there has
been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners; ® but, I
warrant you, all is one with her.
Fal. But what says she to me ? Be brief, my good
she Mercury.
Mrs. Quick. Marry, she hath received your letter;
' A mistake of Mrs. Quickly for quandary.
' Elegant. ® Gentlemen pensioners.
SCENE II.
OF WINDSOR.
for the which she thanks you a thousand times :
and she gives you to notify, that her husband will
be absence from his house between ten and eleven.
Fal. Ten and eleven ?
Mrs. Quick. Ay, forsooth; and then you may
come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of;
—master Ford, her husband, will be from home.
Alas! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him;
he's a very jealousy man; she leads a very fram-
pold' life with him, good heart!
Fal. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to
her; I Miill not fail her.
Mrs. Quick. Why, you say well. But I have
another messenger to your worship. Mistress Page
hath her hearty commendations to you too;—and
let me tell you in your ear, she's as fartuous a_civil
modest wife, and one (I tell you) that will not miss
you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in
Windsor, whoe'er be the other: and she bade me
tell your worship, that her husband is seldom from
home; but, she hopes, there will come a time. I
never knew a woman so dote upon a man; surely,
I think, you have charms, la; yes, in truth.
Fal. Not I, I assure thee; setting the attraction
of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.
Mrs. Quick. Blessing on your heart for't!
Fal. But, I pray thee, tell me this : has Ford's
wife, and Page's wife, acquainted each other how
they love me ?
' Fretful, cross.
#
46
MERRY WIVES
ACT II.
Mrs. Quick. That were a jest, indeed!—they
have not so little grace, I hope :—that were a tric;k,
indeed! But mistress Page would desire you to
send her your little page, of all loves; i her husband
has a marvellous infection to the little page : and,
truly, master Page is an honest man. Never a wife
in Windsor leads a better life than she does; do
what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go
to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she
will; and, truly, she deserves it; for if there be a
kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must
send her your page ; no remedy. ^
Fal. Why, I will.
Mrs. Quick. Nay, but do so then; and, look you,
he may come and go between you both; and, in any
case, have a nay-word,® that you may know one
another's mind, and the boy never need to under-
stand any thing; for 'tis not good that children
should know any wickedness : old folks, you know,
have discretion, as they say, and know the world.
Fal. Fare thee M'ell: commend me to them both :
there's my purse ; I am yet thy debtor.—Boy, go
along with this woman.—This news distracts me!
\_Ejceunt Mrs. Quickly and Robin.
Pis. Tliis punk is one of Cupid's carriers :—
Clap on more sails; pursue, up with your lights ; ®
• By all means. ' Watch-word.
' lights, i. e. clothes hung round the ship to conceal Che
men (ioin tlie enemy.
scene ii.
of windsor.
47
Give fire; she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all!
[Exit Pistol.
Fal. Say 'st thou so, old Jack ? go thy ways ; I '11
make more of thy old body than I have done. Will
they yet look after thee ? Wilt thou, after the ex-
pense of so much money, be now a gainer ? Good
body, I thank thee. Let them say, 'tis grossly done;
so it be fairly done, no matter.
Enter babdolpii.
Bar. Sir John, there's one master Brook below
would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with
you; and hath sent your worship a morning's
draught of sack.
Fal. Brook, is his name ?
Bar. Ay, sir.
Fal. Call him in. [Exit Bardolph.'] Such Brooks
are welcome to me, that o'erflow such liquor. Ah!
ha ! mistress Ford and mistress Page, have I encom-
passed you ? go to ; via ! '
Re-enter bardolph, with ford disguised.
Ford. Bless you, sir.
Fal. And you, sir. Would you speak with me 1
Ford. I make bold, to press with so little prepa-
ration upon you.
Fal. You're welcome. What's your will ? Give
us leave, drawer. [Exit Bardolph.
' A cant phrase of exultation.
♦8
MERRY WIVES
ACT II.
Ford Sir, 1 am a gentleman that have spent
nuch; my name is Brook.
Fal. Good master Brook, 1 desire more acquaint-
ance of you.
Ford. Good sir John, I sue for yours: not to
charge you; i for I must let you understand, 1 think
myself in better plight for a lender than you are :
the which hath something emboldened me to this
unseasoned intrusion ; for they say, if money go
before, all ways do lie open.
Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on.
Ford. Troth, and I have a bag of money here
troubles me : if you will help to bear it, sir John,
take all, or 1 idf, for easing me of the carriage.
Fal. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be
your porter.
Ford. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the
hearing. •
Fal. Speak, good master Brook; I shall be glad
to be your servant.
Ford. Sir, I hear you are a scholar,—I will be
brief with you; and you have been a man long
known to me, though I had never so good means,
as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I
shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very
much lay open mine own imperfection: but, good
sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as
you hear them unfolded, turn another into the
' To put you to expense.
SCENE II.
OF WINnsOR.
49
register of your own; that I may pass ■with a re-
proof the easier, sith ' you yourself know how easy
it is to be such an offender.
Fal. Very well, sir; proceed.
Ford. There is a gentlewoman in this town, her
husband's name is Ford.
Fal. Well, sir.
Ford. I have long loved her, and, I protest to you,
bestowed much on her ; followed her with a doting
observance; engrossed ® opportunities to meet her;
fee'd every slight occasion, that could but niggardly
give me sight of her; not only bought many presents
to give her, but have given largely to many, to
know what she would have given: briefly, I have
pursued her, as love hath pursued me ; which hath
been, on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever
I have merited, either in my mind or in my means,
meed,'' I am sure, I have received none; unless ex-
perience be a jewel: that I have purchased at an
infinite rate ; and that hath taught me to say this:
Love like a shadow flies, when substance love
pursues;
Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
Fal. Have you received no promise of satisfaction
at her hands ?
Ford. Never.
Fal. Have you importuned her to such a purpose ?
Ford. Never.
' Since. * Seized. • Reward.
SRAE. u. B
50
MERRT WIVES
4CT II.
Fal. Of what quality was your love then ?
Ford. Like a fair house, built upon another man's
ground; so that I have lost my edifice, by mistaking
the place where I erected it.
Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded this to
me ?
Ford. AVhen I have told you that, I have told you
all. Some say, that, though she appear honest to
me, yet, in other places, she enlargeth her mirth so
far, that there is shrewd construction made of her.
Now, sir John, here is the heart of my purpose;
You are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable
discourse, of great admittance,' authentic in your
place and person, generally allowed ® for your many
war-like, court-like, and learned preparations.®
Fal. O, sir!
Ford. Believe it, for you know it.—There is
money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all
I have: only give me so much of your time in ex-
change of it, as to lay an amiable siege* to the
honesty of this Ford's wife : use your art of wooing;
win her to consent to you; if any man may, you
may as soon as any.
Fal. "Would it apply well to the vehemency ot
your affection, that I should win what you would
enjoy ? Methinks, you prescribe to yourself very
preposterously
* Admitted into the 1)est society. * Approved.
• .Accomplishments. * A siege cf love.
SCKNB II. OF WINDSOR. 51
Ford. O, understand my drift! she dwells so se-
curely on the excellency of her honor, that the folly
of my soul dares not present itself; she is too bright
to be looked against. Now, could I come to her
with any detection in my hand, my desires had
instance ^ and argument to commend themselves ; I
could drive her then from the ward ^ of her purity,
her reputation, her marriage vow, and a thousand
other her defences, which now are too strongly
embattled against me. What say you to't, sir John ?
Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold with
your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as
I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy
Ford's wife.
Ford. O good sir!
Fal. Master Brook, I say you shall.
Ford. Want no money, sir John, you shall want
none.
Fal. Want no mistress Ford, master Brook, you
shall want none. I shall be with her (I may tell
you) by her own appointment; even as you came
in to me, her assistant, or go-between, parted from
me: I say, I shall be with her between ten and
eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally knave,
her husband, will be forth. Come you to me at
night; you shall know how I speed.
Ford. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you
know Ford, sir ?
• Kxample- ' Defence.
52
MERR7 WIVES
ACT II.
Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldiy knave! I know
him not:—yet I wrong him, to call him poor: they
say, the jealous wittolly^ knave hath masses of
money; for the which his wife seems to me well-
favored. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldiy
rogue's coffer; and there's my harvest-home.
Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you
might avoid him, if you saw him.
Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue ! I
will stare him out of his wits ; I will awe him with
my cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o'er the
cuckold's horns: master Brook, thou shalt know, I
will predominate o'er the peasant, and thou shalt lie
with his wife.—Come to me soon at night.—Ford's
a knave, and I will aggravate his style;® thou,
master Brook, shalt know him for a knave and
cuckold:—come to me soon at night. [Exit.
Ford. What a damned Epicurean rascal is this!—
My heart is ready to crack with impatience.—Who
says, this is improvident jealousy ? My wife hath sent
to him, the hour is fixed, the match is made. Would
any man have thought this ?—See the hell of having
a false woman! my bed shall be abused, my coffers
ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not
only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under
the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that
does me this wrong. Terms! names ! Amaimon
' Wittol is a tame cuckold.
' 1 will add more titles to those lie now enjoys.
scene iii. of windsor. 53
sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet
they are devils' additions, the names of fiends: but
cuckold ! wittol-cuckold: the devil himself hath not
such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass ; he will
trust his wife, he will not be jealous. I will rather
trust a Fleming with' my butter, parson Hugh the
Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my
aqua-vitae i bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling
gelding, than my wife with herself: then she plots,
then she ruminates, then she devises: and what
they think in their hearts they may effect, they will
break their hearts but they will effect. Heaven be
praised for my jealousy !—Eleven o'clock the hour!
—I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged
on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it;
better three hours too soon, than a minute too late.
Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold ! cuckold! [^Exit.
scene iii.
Windsor Park.
Enter caiits and rugby.
Caius. Jack Rugby!
Rug. Sir.
Caius. Vat is de clock. Jack ?
Rug. 'Tis past the hour, sir, that sir Hugh
promised to meet.
* Usquebaugh.
#
54
merrt wives
act ii.
Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no
eome ; he has pray his Pible veil, dat he is no come:
by gar. Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be
come.
Rug. He is wise, sir; he knew, your worship
would kill him, if he came.
Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead, so as I vill
kill him. Take your rapier. Jack: I vill tell you
how I vill kill him.
Rug. Alas, sir, I cannot fence.
Caius. Villany, take your rapier.
Rug. Forbear; here's company.
Enter ho.st, shallow, slender, and page.
Host. Bless thee, bully doctor.
Shal. Save you, master doctor Caius.
Page. Now, good master doctor!
Slen. Give you good-morrow, sir.
Caius. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come
for ?
Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin,^ to see
thee traverse, to see thee here, to see thee there ; to
see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy
distance, thy montant.® Is he dead, my Ethiopian ?
is he dead, my Francisco ? ha, bully ! What says
my .^sculapius ? my Galen ? my heart of elder ?
ha ! is he dead, bully Stale ? is he dead?
' 'J'hrust or loungo.
' Terms in fenning.
SCENE III.
OF WINDSOR.
,■>5
Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of the
vorld; he is not show his face.
Host. Thou art a Castilian^ king. Urinal! Hector
of Greece, my boy!
Caius. 1 pray you, bear vitness that me have stay
six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no
come.
Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is
a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you
should fight, you go against the hair ^ of your pro-
fessions: is it not true, master Page ?
Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a
great fighter, though now a man of peace.
Shal. Bodykins, master Page, though I now he
old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger
itches to make one: though we are justices, and
doctors, and churchmen, master Page, we have some
salt of our youth in us ; we are the sons of women,
master Page.
Page. 'Tis true, master Shallow.
Shal. It will be found so, master Page. Master
doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am
sworn of the peace: you have showed yourself a
wise physician, and sir Hugh hath shown himself a
wise and patient churchman : you must go with me,
master doctor.
■ Castillan is sometimes used for Spaniard in genera],
' As we now say, ' against the grain.'
#
56
MERRT WIVES
ACT 11.
Ho$t. Pardon, guest justice :—A word, monsieur
Muck-water.'
Catus. Muck-vater! vat Is dat ?
Host. Muck-water, In our English tongue, is
valor, bully.
Cuius. By gar, then I have as much muck-vater
as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog-prlest! hy
gar, me vill cut his ears.
Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.
Cuius. Clapper-de-claw! vat Is dat ?
Host. That is, he will make thee amends.
Cuius. By gar, me do look, he shall clapper-de-
claw me: for, by gar, me vlll have It.
Host. And I will provoke him to't, or let him
wag.
Cuius. Me tank you for dat.
Host. And moreover, bully,—But first, master
guest, and master Page, and eke cavalero Slender,
go you through the town to Frogmore.
[aside to them.
Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he }
Host. He is there; see what humor he is in;
and I will bring the doctor about hy the fields: will
it do well ?
Shal. We will do It.
Page, Shal. and Slen. Adieu, good master doctor.
[Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender.
* The drain of a dungliill is oalled muck-water.
SCENE III.
OF windsor.
.57
Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak
for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page.
Host, Let him die: but, first, sheathe thy impa-
tienee; throw cold water on thy choler; go about
the fields with me through Frogmore ; I will bring
thee where mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a
feasting; and thou shall woo her. Cried game,' said
I well ?
Caius. By gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, 1
love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest,
de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my pa-
tients.
Host. For the which, I will be thy adversary to-
wards Anne Page : said I well ?
Caius. By gar, 'tis good ; veil said.
Host. Let us wag then.
Caius. Come at my heels. Jack Rugby. [Exeunt.
ACT 111.
scene I.
A field near Frogmore.
Enter sir hugh evans and simple.
Evans. I pray you now, good msister Slender's
I serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which
way have you looked for master Caius, that calls
himself Doctor of Physic ?
' True game ; ■ cant phrase.
58
MERRY WIVES
ACT III.
Sim. Many, sir, the city-ward, the park-ward,
every way; old Windsor way, and every way but
the town way.
Evans. I most fehemently desire you, you will
also look that way.
Sim. I will, sir.
Evans. Pless my soul! how full of cholers I am,
and trempling of mind!—I shall be glad, if he have
deceived me : —how melancholies I am !—I will
knog his urinals about his knave's costard,* when I
have good opportunities for the 'orke:—pless my
soul! ' [sings.
To shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals ;'
There will we m.ike our peds of roses.
And a thousand fragrant posies.'
To shallow
Mercy on me ! I have a great dispositions to cry.
Melodious birds sing madrigals ;—
When as I sat in Pabylon.t
And a thousand ragram posies.
To shallow
Sim. Yonder he is coming, this way, sir Hugh.
Evans. He's welcome :
To shallow rivers, to whose falls
Heaven prosper the right!—What weapons is he ?
* Head. ' Pastoral son^s.
' This is part of a beautiful little poem of Marlowe's-
* This is the first line of the 139th psalm.
scene i.
of windsor.
59
Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my master,
master Shallow, and another gentleman from Frog-
more, over the stile, this way.
Evans. Pray you, give me my g^wn; or else
keep it in your arms.
Enter page, shallow, and slender.
Shal. How now, master parson ? Good-morrow,
good sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice,
and a good student from his book, and it is won-
derful.
Slen. Ah, sweet Anne Page !
Page. Save you, good sir Hugh!
Evans. Pless you from his mercy ake, all of you !
Shal. What! the sword and the word? do you
study them both, master parson t
Page. And youthful still, in your doublet and
hose, this raw rheumatic day ?
Evans. There is reasons and causes for it.
Page. We are come to you to do a good office,
master parson.
Evans. Fery well: what is it ?
Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who
belike, having received wrong by some person, is at
most odds with his own gravity and patience, that
ever you saw.
Shal. I have lived fourscore years, and upward; I
never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning,
so wide of* his own respect.
' Jf'orgetful of.
60
merry wives
act iii.
Evans. What is he ?
Page. I think you know him; master doctor
Caius, the renowned French physician.
Evans Got's will, and his passion of my heart!
I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of por-
ridge.
Page. Why ?
Evans. He has no more knowlege in Hibocrates
and Galen,-:—and he is a knave besides ; a cowardly
knave, as you would desires to be acquainted withal.
Page. I warrant you, he's the man shoidd fight
with him.
Slen. O, sweet Anne Page!
Shal. It appears so, by his weapons.—Keep them
asunder ;—here comes doctor Caius.
Enter host, caius, and rugby.
Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your
weapon.
Shal. So do you, good master doctor.
Host. Disarm them, and let them question; let
them keep their limbs whole, and hack our English.
Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word vit your
ear. Verefore vill you not meet-a me ?
Evans. Pray you, use your patience. In good
time.
Caius. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog,
John ape.
Evans. Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to
other men's humors; I desire you in friendship, and
1 will one way or other make you amends •—I will
SCKNE I. OF WINDSOR. 61
knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb,^ for
missing your meetings and appointments.
Caius. Diable !—Jack Rugby,—mine host de Jar-
terre, have I not stay for him, to kill him ? have I
not, at de place I did appoint ?
Evans. As I am a christians soul, now, look you,
this is the place appointed; I '11 be judgment by
mine host of the Garter.
Host. Peace, I say, Guallia and Gaul, French and
Welsh; soul-curer and body-curer.
Caius. Ay, dat is very good! excellent!
Host. Peace, I say; hear mine host of the Garter.
Am I politic ? am I subtle ? am I a Machiavel ?
Shall I lose my doctor ? no; he gives me the po-
tions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson?
my priest ? my sir Hugh ? no; he gives me the
proverbs and the no-verbs.—Give me thy hand,
terrestrial; so.—Give me thy hand, celestial; so.
Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have
directed you to wrong places: your hearts are
mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be
the issue.—Come, lay their swords to pawn.—Fol-
low me, lad of peace; follow, follow, follow.
Skal. Trust me, a mad host.—Follow, gentle-
men, follow.
Slen. O, sweet Anne Page!
[Exeunt Shallow, Slender, Page, and Host.
' In allusion to the comb, resembling that or a cock, wliicb
licensed fools wore in their caps.
62
merrt wives
act hi.
Caiits, Ha! do I perceive dat ? have you make-a
de sot 1 of us ? ha, ha!
Evans. This is well; he has made us his vlouting-
stog.—I desire you, that we may be friends; and
let us knog our prains together, to be revenge on
this same scall,® scuny, cogging® companion, the
host of the Garter.
Cuius. By gar, vit all my heart: he promise to
bring me vere is Anne Page: by gar, he deceive me
too.
Evans. Well, I will smite his noddles.—Pray
you, follow. [Exeunt
scene ii.
The street in Windsor.
Enter mrs. page and robin'.
Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant;
you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a
leader. Whether had you rather, lead mine eyes, or
eye your master's heels ?
Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a
man, than follow him like a dwarf.
Mrs. Page. O, you are a flattering boy: now, I
see, you '11 be a courtier.
Enter pord.
Tord. Well met, mistress Page. Whither go you ?
' fool. ' Scabby. ' Cheating.
SCENE II.
OF WINDfeOU.
63
Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at
home ?
Ford. Ay; and as idle as she may hang together,
for want of company. I think, if your husbands
were dead, you two would marry.
Mrs. Page. Be sure of that,—two other hus-
bands.
Ford. "Where had you this pretty weather-cock ?
Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens his
name is my husband had him of. What do you call
your knight's name, sirrah ?
Rob. Sir John FalstaflF.
Ford. Sir John Falstaffl
Mrs. Page. He, he; I can never hit on's name.
—There is such a league between my good man
and he!—Is your wife at home, indeed ?
Ford. Indeed, she is.
Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir;—I am sick, till
I see her. \_Exeunt Mrs. Page and Robin.
Ford. Has Page any brains ? hath he any eyes ?
hath he any thinking ? Sure, they sleep ; he hath
no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter
twenty miles, as easy as a cannon will shoot point-
blank twelve score. He pieces-out his wife's incli-
nation; he gives her folly motion and advantage;
and now she's going to my wife, and Falstaff's boy
with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the
wind !—and Falstaff's boy with her !—Good plots!
—they are laid ; and our revolted wives share dam-
nation together. Well; I will take him, then
torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty
•
64
merry wives
act iii.
from the so seeming' mistress Page, divulge Page
himself for a secure and wilful Actieon; and to
these violent proceedings all my neighbors shall
cry aim.® [clock strikes.^ The clock gives me my
cue, and my assurance bids me search ; there I shall
find FalstaiF: I shall be rather praised for this, than
mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm,
that FalstafF is there : I will go.
Enter page, shallow, slender, host, sir buoq
evans, CAius, and rugby.
Shal. Page, &c. Well met, master Ford.
Ford. Trust me, a good knot: I have good cheer
at home; and, I pray you, all go with me.
Shal. I must excuse myself, master Ford.
Slen. And so must I, sir; we have appointed to
dine with mistress Anne, and I would not break
with her for more money than I '11 speak of.
Shal. We have lingered about a match between
Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we
shall have our answer.
Slen. I hope, I have your good will, father Page.
Page. You have, master Slender; I stand wholly
for you:—^but my wife, master doctor, is for you
altogether.
Cuius. Ay, by gar: and de maid is love-a me;
my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush.
Host. What say you to young master Fenton?
* Specious.
* Shall gire encouragemeut.
SCENE II.
OP wiNosoa.
65
he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes
verses, he speaks holyday,* he smells April and
May: he will carry't, he will carry't; 'tis in his
buttons ; ® he will carry't.
Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. The
gentleman is of no having : * he kept company with
the wild prince and Poins; he is of too high a
region ; he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a
knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance:
if he take her, let him take her simply ; the wealth
I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes
not that way.
Ford. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go
home with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you
shall have sport; I will show you a monster.
Master doctor, you shall go, so shall you, master
Page ;—and you. Sir Hugh.
Shal. Well, fare you well: we shall have the
freer wooing at master Page's.
{Exeunt Shallow and Slender.
Cains. Go home, John Rugby; I come anon.
{Exit Rughy.
Host. Farewell, my hearts : 1 will to my honest
knight FalstafF, and drink canary with him.
{Exit Host.
' In a style supTior to the vulgar.
' iVlluding to an ancient custom among rustic swains, of
wearing the flowers called bachelors' buttons in their pocketi),
and judging of their success in courtship, bv their growing or
not growing there. * Of no estate or toriuoe*
SHAK. n. E
66
merrt wives
Atrr III.
Ford, [astde."] I think, I shall drink in pipe-wine
first with him; I '11 make him dance.* Will you
go, gentles ?
Ail. Have with you, to see this monster.
lExeunt,
scene in.
A room in Ford's house.
Enter mrs. ford and mrs. page.
Mrs. Ford. What, John! what, Robert!
Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck-
basket'—
Mrs. Ford. I warrant.—^What, Robin, I sav.
Enter Servants with a basket.
Mrs. Page. Come, come, come.
Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down.
Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge; we must
be brief.
Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John, and
Robert, be ready here hard by in the brewhouse;
and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and
(without any pause or staggering) take this basket
on your shoulders : that done, trudge with it in all
haste, and carry it among the whitsters' in Datchet
' T will give him pipe-wine, which shall make him dance.
Canary is the name of a dance as well as ef a wine.
» Kasket in which clothes are carried to the wash.
* Bleachers of linen.
SCENE III.
of windsor.
67
mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch, close
by the Thames side.
Mrs. Page. You will do it ?
Mrs. Ford. I have told them over and over; they
lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are
called. [Exeunt Servants.'
Mrs. Page. Here comes little Robin
Enter robin.
Mrs.tFord. How now, my eyas-musket ? i what
news with you ?
Rob. My master sir John is come in at your back-
door, mistress Ford, and requests your company.
Mrs. Page. You little Jack-a-lent,® have you been
true to us ?
Rob. Ay, I '11 be sworn. My master knows not
of your being here; and hath threatened to put me
into everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it; for. he
swears, he '11 turn me away.
Mrs. Page. Thou 'rt a good boy j this secresy of
thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee a
new doublet and hose.—I '11 go hide me.
Mrs. Ford. Do so.—Go, tell thy master, I am
alone. Mistress Page, remember you your cue.
[Exit Robin.
Mrs. Page. I warrant thee : if I do not act it,
hiss me. [Exit Mrs. Page.
' Eyas-musket is a younc;, unfledirod spnrrow-huwk.
* A puppet thrown at in Lent, iiKe siirove cocks.
68
MERRY WIVES
ACT III.
Mrs. Ford. Go to then; we '11 use this unwhole-
some humidity, this gross watery pumpion;—we '11
teach him to know turtles from jays.
Enter falstaff.
Fal. Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel?
Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough ;
this is the period of my ambition. O this blessed
hour!
Mrs. Ford. O sweet sir John! .
Fal. Mistress Ford, 1 cannot cog,* I cannot prate,
mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish: I
would thy husband were dead ; I '11 speak it before
the best lord, I would make thee my lady.
Mrs. Ford. I your lady, sir John! alas, I should
be a pitiful lady.
Fal. Let the court of France show me such
another. 1 see how thine eye would emulate the
diamond: thou hast the right arched bent of the
l)row, that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or
any tire of Venetian admittance.'
Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, sir John: my brows
become nothing else ; nor that well neither.
Fal. By the Lord, thou art a traitor' to say so:
thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the
firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent
mcition to thy gait, in a semicircled farthingale.*
' I'liiuer. ' pilsiiicn. ' i. e. to thy own merit.
* Hiiop.
SCENE III.
OF MINDSOK.
69
I see what thou wert, if fortune thy foe were not;
nature is thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it.
Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there's no such thing
in me.
Fal. What made me love thee ? let that persuade
thee, there's something extraordinary in thee.
Come, 1 cannot cog, and say, thou art this and that,
like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that
come like women in men's apparel, and smell like
Bucklersbury in simple-time; * I cannot: but I
love thee; none but thee; and thou deservest it.
Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir; I fear, you
love mistress Page.
Fal. Thou mightst as well say, I love to walk by
the Counter-gate ; which is as hateful to me as the
reek' of a lime-kiln.
Mrs. Ford. Well, Heaven knows, how I love
you; and you shall one day find it.
Fal. Keep in that mind; I '11 deserve it.
Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, ^o you do; or
else I could not be in that mind.
Roh. [within.'] Mistress Ford, mistress Ford!
here's mistress Page at the door, sweating, and
blowing, and looking wildly, and would needs speak
with you presently.
Fal. She shall not see me ; I will ensconce me
behind the arras.'*
' tiucklersbury, in our autlior's time, was chiefly initabiied
by druggists, who sold all kinds of herbs, green as well as dry.
* Vapor. * Hide. * Tapestry.
70 merry wives act iii.
Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so; she's a very tattling
woman.— [Falstaff hides himself.
Enter mrs. page and robin*.
What's the matter ? how now ?
Mrs. Page. O mistress Ford, what have you
done ? You 're shamed, you are overthrown, you
are undone for ever.
Mrs. Ford. What's the matter, good mistress
Page ?
Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, mistress Ford! having
an honest man to your hushand, to give him such
cause of suspicion!
Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ?
Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ?—Out upon
you! how am I mistook in you ?
Mrs. Ford. Why, alas ! what *s the matter ?
Mrs. Page. Your husband's coming hither,
woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search
for a gentleman, that, he says, is here now in the
house, hy your consent, to take an ill advantage of
his absence. You are undone.
Mrs. Ford. Speak louder.—[osirfe.]—'Tis not so,
I hope.
Mrs. Page. Pray Heaven it he not so, that you
have such a man here ; but 'tis most certain your
husband's coming with half Windsor at his heels,
to search for such a one. I come before to tell
you. If you know yourself clear, why I am glad of
it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey
BCE2IE lU.
ok windsor.
71
hiuj out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to
you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your
good life for ever.
Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ?—There is a gentle-
man, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own
shame so much as his peril: I had rather than a
thousand pound, he were out of the house.
Mrs. Page. For shame! never stand ' you had
rather,' and ' you had rather;' your husband's here
at hand ; bethink you of some conveyance ; in the
house you cannot hide him. O, how have you
deceived me !—Look, here is a basket; if he be of
any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and
throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to
bucking.* Or, it is whiting-time; * send him by
your two men to Datchet mead.
Mrs. Ford. He's too big to go in there. What
shall I do ?
Re-enter falstaff.
Fal. Let me see't, let me see't! O, let me see't!
I "11 in, I '11 in ;—^follow your friend's counsel;—
I '11 in.
Mrs. Page. What! sir John FalstafF! Are these
your letters, knight ?
Fal. I love thee, and none but thee; help me
EM'ay; let me creep in here ; 1 '11 never—
[ie goes into the basket; theg cover him with foul
linen.
' To the wash.
s Bleacbing-timo.
72
mekry wives
act iii.
Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. Call
your men, mistress Ford.—You dissembling kniglit!
Mrs. Ford. What, John, Robert, John ! \_Exit
Robin. Re-enter Servants.l Go, take up these clothes
here, quickly. Where's the eowl-staiF ? ^ look, how
you drumble: ® carry them to the laundress in
Datchet mead; quickly, come.
Enter foro, page, caius, and sir hugu evans.
Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without
cause, why then make sport at me, then let me be
your jest; I deserve it.—How now ? whither bear
you this ?
Ser. To the laundress, forsooth.
Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whither
they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-
washing.
Ford. Buck ? I would I could wash myself of the
buck! Buck, buck, buck ? Ay, buck; I warrant
you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear.
[Exeunt Servants with the basket."] Gentlemen, I
have dreamed to-night; I '11 tell you my dream.
Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers,
search, seek, find out: I '11 warrant, we'll unkennel
the fox.—Let me stop this way first:—so, now
uncape.®
* A staff used for carrying a large tub or basket, with two
bandies. ' How stupid and confused you are!
> Unbag the fox.
SCBNE III.
OK WINDSOR.
73
Page. Good master Ford, be contented; you
•wrong yourself too much.
Ford. True, master Page.—Up, gentlemen; you
shall see sport anon : follow me, gentlemen. [Exit.
Evans. This is fery fantastical humors, and jea-
lousies.
Cuius. By gar, 'tis no de fashion of France : it is
not jealous in France.
Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue
of his search. [Exeunt Evans, Page, and Cuius.
Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in
this?
Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me better,
that my husband is deceived, or sir John.
Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in, when yoiur
husband asked who' was in the basket!
Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have need of
washing; so throwing him into the water will do
him a benefit.
Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal!' I would,
all of the same strain ® were in the same distress.
Mrs. Ford. I think, my husband hath some
special suspicion of FalstafF's being here; for I
never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now.
Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that: and we
will yet have more tricks with FalstafF: his dissolute
disease will scarce obey this medicine.
Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion.
' What. ' Disposition.
74
merkt wives
act iii.
mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing
into the water; and give him another hope, to be-
tray him to another punishment ?
Mrs. Page. We'll do it; let him be sent for to-
morrow eight o'clock, to have amends.
Re-enter ford, page, caius, and sir hugh evans.
Ford. I cannot find him: may be the knave
bragged of that he could not compass.
Mrs. Page. Heard you that ?
Mrs. Ford. Ay, ay, peace.—You use me well,
master Ford, do you ?
Ford. Ay, I do so.
Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your
thoughts!
Ford. Amen.
Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong,
master Foid.
Ford. Ay, ay; I must bear it.
Evans. If there be any pody in the house, and in
the chambers, and in the coiFers, and in the presses.
Heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment!
Caius. By gar, nor I too; dere is no bodies.
Page. Fie, fie, master Ford! are you not ashamed ?
What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination ?
I would not have your distemper in this kind, for
the wealth of Windsor Castle,
Ford, 'Tis my fault, master Page : 1 suffer for it.
Evans. You suffer for a pad conscience : your
wife is as honest a 'omans, as I will desires among
five thousand, and five hundred too.
SCENE IV.
OF WINDSOR.
75
Caitts. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman.
Ford. Well;—I promised you a dinner.—Come,
come, walk in the park: I pray you, pardon me; I
will hereafter make known to you why I have done
this.—Come, wife;—come, mistress Page; I pray
you, pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me.
Page. Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me,
we 'II mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morn-
ing to my house to breakfast: after, we '11 a birding
together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it
be so ?
Ford. Any thing.
Evans. If there is one, I shall make two in the
company.
Cuius. If there be one or two, I shall make-a de
turd.
Evans. In your teeth : for shame.
Ford. Pray you go, master Page.
Evans. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow
on the lousy knave, mine host.
Cains. Dat is good; by gar, vit all my heart.
• Evans. A lousy knave ; to have his gibes and his
mockeries! [^Exeunt.
scene iv.
A room in Page's house.
Enter fenton and anne page.
Fen. 1 see, I cannot get thy father's love;
Therefore, no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.
Anne. Alas! how then i
•
76
merry wives
ACT Til.
Fen. Why, thou must be thyself.
He doth object, I am too great of birth;
And that, my state being gall'd with my exiiense,
I seek to heal it only by his wealth :
Besides these, other bars he lays before me,
My riots past, my wild societies,
And tells me, 'tis a thing impossible
I should love thee, but as a property.
Anne. May be, he tells you true.
Fen. No, Heaven so speed me in my time to
come!
Albeit, I will confess, thy father's wealth
Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne :
Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value
Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags;
And 'tis the very riches of thyself
That now I aim at.
Anne. Gentle master Fenton,
Yet seek my father's love ; still seek it, sir:
If opportunity and humblest suit
Cannot attain it, why then,—Hark you hither.
[they converse apart.
Enter shallow, slender, and mrs. quickly.
Shal. Break their talk, mistress Quickly; my
kinsman shall speak for himself.
Slen. I '11 make a shaft or a bolt on't:' slid, 'tis
but venturing.
' A proverb, signifying ' I will put all to hazard.' The
shaft was a long an-ow employed by skilful archers ; the bolt
SCLNE IV.
OF WINDSOR.
77
Shal. Be not dismayed.
Slen. No, she shall not dismay me : I care not for
that,—^but that I am afeard.
Mrs. Quick. Hark ye; master Slender would
speak a word with you.
Anne. I come to him.—This is my father's choiee.
O, what a world of vile ill-favor'd faults
Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!
[aside.
Mrs. Quick. And how does good master Fenton ?
Pray you, a word with you.
Skal. She's coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou
hadst a father!
Slen. I had a father, mistress Anne;—my uncle
can tell you good jests of him.—Pray you, uncle,
tell mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole two
geese out of a pen, good uncle.
Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you.
Slen. Ay, that I do, as well as I love any woman
in Glocestershire.
Shal. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman.
Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail,'
under the degree of a squire.
n short, thick one. In this place the fool's bolt is probably
alluded to.
* Come poor or rich to offer himself asmy rival. * According
to the forest laws,* says Steevens, * a man wlio had no right
to the privilege of chase, was obliged to cut his dog, hy de-
priving him of his tail. ' Cut and long-tail' therefore signify
the dog of a clown and the dog of a geiilleman.*
78
merry wives
act iii.
Skat: He will make you a hundred and fifty
pounds jointure.
Anne. Good master Shallow, let him woo for
himself.
Shal. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for
that good comfort. She calls you, coz : I '11 leave you.
Anne. Now, master Slender.
Slen. Now, good mistress Anne.
Anne. What is your will ?
Slen. My will ? od's heartlings, that's a pretty
jest, indeed! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank
Heaven: I am not such a sickly creature, I give
Heaven praise.
Anne. I mean, master Slender, what would you
with me ?
Slen. Truly, for mine own part, I would little or
nothing with you. Your father; and my uncle, have
made motions: ^ if it be my luck, so ; if not, happy
man be his dole! ® They can tell you how things
go, better than I can. You may ask your father;
here he comes.
Enter page and mrs. page.
Page. Now, master Slender!—Love him, daughter
Anne.—
' Proposals.
• a proverbial expression, frequent in Shakspeare; sin-
nifying liere ' Haupy may tliat man be wbom you cbouse lor a
husband ! '
SCENB IT.
OF WINDSOR.
79
Why, how now ! what does master t'enton here ?
You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:
I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of.
Fen. Nay, master Page, be not impatient.
Mrs. Page. Good master Fenton, come not to my
child.
Page. She is no match for you.
Fen. Sir, will you hear me ?
Page. No, good master Fenton.
Come, master Shallow; come, son Slender; in:—
Knowing my mind, you wrong me, master Fenton.
{Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender.
Mrs. Quick. Speak to mistress Page.
Fen. Good mistress Page, for ^ that I love your
daughter
In such a righteous fashion as I do.
Perforce,® against all checks, rebukes, and manners,
I must advance the colors of my love.
And not retire. Let me have your good will.
Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to yond'
fool.
Mrs. Page. I mean it not; I .seek you a better
husband.
Mrs. Quick. That's my master, master doctor.
Anne. Alas, I had rather be set quick i' the earth.
And bowl'd to death with turnips.
Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself. Good
master Fenton,
' Because. ' Of necessity.
80
MERRY WIVEjS
ACT III.
I will not be your friend, nor enemy ;
My daughter will I question how she loves you,"
And as I find her, so am I aflected;
'Till then, farewell, sir.—She must needs go in;
Her father will he angry.
[Exeunt Mrs. Page and Anne.
Fen. Farewell, gentle mistress; farewell. Nan.
Mrs. Quick. This is my doing now.—Nay, said
I, will you cast away your child on a fool, and' a
physician ? Look on master Fenton:—this is my
doing.
Fen. I thank thee; and I pray thee, once® to-
night
Give my sweet Nan this ring: there's for thy pains.
[Exit.
Mrs. Quick. Now Heaven send thee good for-
tune ! A kind heart he hath: a woman would run
through fire and water for such a kind heart. But
yet, 1 would my master had mistress Anne; or I
would master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would
master Fenton had her: I will do what I can for
them all three; fof so I have promised, and I '11 he
as good as my word; hut speciously' for master
Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to sir John
FalstafF from my two mistresses; what a heast am
I to slack * it! [Exit.
' Or. * Some time. ' Kspecially. * Neglect.
SCENE V.
OF WINDSOR.
81
SCENE V.
A room in the Garter Inn.
Enter falstaff and BARDOLrH.
Fal. Bardolph, I say,—
Bar. Here, sir.
Fal. Go, fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast
in t. \_Exit Bar."] Have I lived to be carried in a
basket, like a barrow of butcher's offal; and to be
tlirown into the Thames ? Well; if I be served such
another trick, 1 '11 have my brains ta'en out, and
buttered, and give them to a dog for a new year's
gift. The rogues slighted ' me into the river with
as little remorse as they would have drowned a
bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' the litter; and you
may know by my size, that I have a kind of alacrity
in sinking; if the bottom were as deep as hell, I
should down. I had been drowned, but that the
shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that 1 abhor;
for the water swells a man ; and what a thing should
1 have been, when I had been swelled! 1 should
have been a mountain of mummy.
Re-enter BARDOLrn, with the wine.
Bar. Here's mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with
you.
Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the
' Caielesslr threw.
•hac. II. V
82
merrt wives
act iii.
Thames water, for my belly's as cold, as if I had
swallowed snow-balls for pills to cool the reins. Call
her in.
Bar. Come in, woman.
Enter mrs. quickly.
Mrs. Quick. By your leave; I cry you mercy.
Give your worship good-morrow.
Fal, Take away these chalices. Go, brew me a
pottle of sack finely.
Bar. With eggs, sir ?
Fal. Simple of itself; 1 '11 no pullet-sperm in my
brewage.—[Exit Bardolph.']—How now ?
Mrs. Quick. Marry, sir, I come to your worship
from mistress Ford.
Fal. Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough: I
was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of
ford.
Mrs. Quick. Alas the day ! good heart, that was
not her fault: she does so take on with her men ;
they mistook their erection.
Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a fool'sh
woman's promise.
Mrs. Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it
would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband
■goes this morning a birding; she desires you once
more to come to her between eight and nine : I must
carry her word quickly : she '11 make you amends, 1
warrant you.
Fal. Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid
SCBNR T.
OF WINDSOR.
83
her think, what a man is: let her consider his frailty,
and then judge of my merit.
Mrs. Quick. I will tell her.
Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, say'st thou:
Mrs. Quick. Eight and nine, sir.
Fal. Well, be gone : I will not miss her.
Mrs. Quick. Peace be with you, sir! [Exit.
Fal. I man*el, I hear not of master Brook; he
sent me word to stay within: 1 like his money well.
O, here he comes.
Enter FORD.
Ford. Bless you, sir!
Fal. Now, master Brook, you come to know what
hath passed between me and Ford's wife ?
Ford. That indeed, sir John, is my business.
Fal. Master Brook, I will not lie to you; 1 was
at her house the hour she appointed me.
, Ford. And how sped you, sir ?
Fal. Very ill-favoredly, master Brook.
Ford. How so, sir ? Did she change her determi-
nation ?
Fal. No, master Brook : but the peaking cornuto
her husband, master Brook, dwelling in a continual
'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our
encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested,
and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy;
and nt his heels a rabble of his companions, thither
provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, for-
sooth, to search his house for his wife's love.
•
84
MKKKY Wir£S
ACT in.
Ford. What, while you were there ?
Fal. While I was there.
Ford. And did he search for you, and could not
find you ?
Fal. You shall hear. As good luck would have
it, comes in one mistress Page; gives intelligence of
Ford's approach; and, by her invention, and Ford's
wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-
basket.
Fo7-d. A buck-basket ?
Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket: rammed me in
with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings,
and greasy napkins: that, master Brook, there was
the rankest compound of villanous smell, that ever
offended nostril.
Ford. And how long lay you there ?
Fal. Nay, you shall hear, master Brook, what I
have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your
goo^ Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple
of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth by
their mistress, to carry me in the name of foul
clothes to Datchet-lane : they took me on their
shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the
door, who asked them once or twice what they had
in their basket; I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic
knave would have searched it; but Fate, ordaining
he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well; on
went he for a search, and away went I for foul
clothes. But mark the sequel, master Brook: I
suffered the pangs of three several deaths: first, an
intolerable fright, to be detected with a jealous
SCBMS T.
OF WINOSOIU
85
rotten bell-wether: next, to be compassed, like a
good bilbo,' in the circumference of a peck, hilt to
point, heel to head: and then, to be stopped in. like
a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that
fretted in their own grease: think of that,—a man
of my kidney,—think of that; that am as subject to
heat, as butter; a man of continual dissolution and
thaw; it was a miracle, to 'scape suffocation. And
in the height of this bath, when I was more than
half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be
thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot,
in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that,—
hissing hot,—think of that, master Brook.
Ford. In good sadness,® sir, I am sorry that for
my sake you have suffered all this. My suit then is
desperate; you '11 undertake her no more ?
Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into ^tna,
as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her
thus. Her husband is this morning gone a birding:
I have received from her another embassy of meet-
ing; 'twixt eight and nine is the hour, master
Brook.
Ford. 'Tis past eight already, sir.
Fal. Is it} I will then address me ® to my ap-
pointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure,
and you shall know how I speed; and the conclu-
sion shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu.
* A blade manufactured at Bilboa, in Spain, the excellence
of which consisted in its flexibleness and elasticity.
' Seriously. ^ Make myself ready.
sc
MERRY WIVES
ACT IV.
You shall have her, master Brook; master Brook,
you shall cuckold Ford. [Exit,
Ford. Hum! ha! is this a vision} is this a
dream } do I sleep ? Master Ford, awake; awake,
master Ford; there's a hole made in your best coat,
master Ford. This 'tis to be married! this 'tis to
have linen, and buck-baskets!—Well, I will pro-
claim myself what I am: I will now take the lecher;
he is at my house: he cannot 'scape me; 'tis im-
])ussible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny
purse, nor into a pepper-box: but, lest the devil
that guides him should aid him, I will search im-
j)ossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid,
yet to be what I would not. shall not make me tame :
if 1 have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go
with rae I '11 be horn mad. [Exit.
" A C T I V.
• ^ SCENE I,
The street.
E/lter MRS. I'AGE, MRS. QUICKLY, ttud WILLIAM.
Mrs. Page. Is he at master Ford's already
tliink'st thou ?
Mrs. Quick. Sure, he is by this, or will be pre-
sently: but, truly, he is verj' courageous' mad about
Outra;;eousIy.
SCBNE 1.
OF WINDSOR.
87
his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires
you to come suddenly.
Mrs. Page. I 'II be with her by and by: I '11 but
bring my young man here to school. Look, where
his master comes; 'tis a playing-day, I see.
Enter sir hugh evans.
How now, sir Hugh ? no school to-day ?
Evans. No; master Slender is let the boys leave
to play.
Mrs. Quick. Blessing of his heart!
Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says, my son
profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray you,
ask him some questions in his accidence.
Evans. Come hither, William; hold up your
head; come.
Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head;
answer your master; be not afraid.
Evans. William, how many numbers is in nouns ?
Wil. Two.
Mrs. Quick. Truly I thought there had been one
number more ; because they say, od's nouns.
Evans. Peace your tatlings. What is fair, Wil-
liam ?
Wil. Pulcher.
Mrs. Quick. Polecats! there are fairer things than
polecats, sure.
Evans. You are a very simplicity *oman; I pray
you, peace. What is lapis, William ?
88
MERRY WIVES
ACT IV.
fFi/. A stone.
Evans. And ivhat is a stone, William r
Wil. A pebble.
Evans. No, it is lapis: I pray you, remember in
your prain.
Wil. Lapis.
Evans. That is good, William. What is he,
William, that does lend articles ?
Wil. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and
be thus declined: Singulariter, nominativo, hie, luec,
hoc.
Evans. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog;—^pray you,
mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusa-
tive case ?
Wil. Accusativo, hinc.
Evans. I pray you, have your remembrance,
child. Accusativo, hing, hang, hog.
Mrs. Quick. Hang hog is Latin for bacon, I
warrant you.
Evans. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is
the focative case, William ?
Wil. O—vocativo, O.
Evans. Remember, William ; focative is, caret.
Mrs. Quick. And that's a good root.
Evans. 'Oman, forbear.
Mrs. Page. Peace.
Evans. What is your genitive case plural, WH-
liam ?
Wil. Genitive case ?
Evans. Ay.
MERK7 WIVES OF WINDSOR
3C.'Fa^eJC'QuuiJjf.Wmia/n, <Dt3/ SirBugKEvans.
^ctlE Scau I.
SCENE I.
OF Windsor.
89
Wil. Genitive,—horum, harum, horum.
Mrs. Quick. Vengeance of Jenny's case ! fie on
her!—^never name her, child, if she be a whore.
Evans. For shame, 'oman.
Mrs. Quick. You do ill to teach the child such
words: he teaches him to hick and to hack, which
they '11 do fast enough of themselves; and to call
horum :—^fie upon you!
Evans, 'Oman, art thou lunatics ? hast thou no
understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of
the genders ? Thou art as foolish christian creatures,
as I would desires.
Mrs. Page. Pr'ythee, hold thy peace.
Evans. Show me now, William, some declensions
of your pronouns.
iVil. Forsooth, I have forgot.
Evans. It is ki, kte, cod; if you forget your kies,
your k<es, and your cods, you must be preeches.'
Go your Y®ys. and play: go.
Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I thought
he was.
Evans. He is a good sprag - memory. Farewell,
mistress Page.
Mrs. Page. Adieu, good sir Hugh. [^Exit Sir
Hugh.'] Get you home, boy.—Come, we stay too
long. \Exennt.
' I'loKged. ® Ready.
m
90
mkrry wives
act IT.
scene ii.
A room in Ford's house.
Enter falstaff and mrs, ford.
Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up
my sufferance; I see, you are obsequious ^ in your
love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth ; not
only, mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but
in all the accoutrement, complement, and ceremony
of it. But are you sure of your husband now ?
Mrs. Ford. He's a birding, sweet sir John.
Mrs. Page. [tojVAia.] What hoa, gossip Ford!
what hoa!
Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, sir John.
[Exit Falstaff.
Enter mrs. face.
Mrs. Page. How now, sweetheart.' who's at
home besides yourself ?
Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people.
Mrs. Page. Indeed ?
Mrs. Ford. No, certainly.—Speak louder, [aside.
Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody
here.
Mrs. Ford. Why ?
Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in his
old lunes ® again: he so takes on ® yonder with my
' Sorrowful
' Frenzy.
» Rages.
£C£NB II.
OF WINDSOR.
91
husband; so rails against all married mankind ; so
curses all Eve's daughters, of what complexion so-
ever , and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying,
' Peer-out, peer-out!'' that any madness, I ever
yet beheld, seemed but tameness, civility, and pa-
tience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad
the fat knight is not here.
Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him ?
Mrs. Page. Of none hut him; and swears, he was
carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a
basket: protests' to my husband, he is now here;
and hath drawn him and the rest of their company
from their sport, to make another experiment of his
suspicion: but I am glad the knight is not here;
now he shall see his own foolery.
Mrs. Ford. How near is he, mistress Page ?
Mrs. Page. Hard by; at street end; he will he
here anon.
Mrs. Ford. I am undone !—the knight is here.
Mrs. Page. Why, then you are utterly shamed,
and he's hut a dead man. What a woman are you!
—Away with him 1 away with him ! better shame
than murder.
Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go? how
should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the
basket again ?
I Appear, liorns.
«
92
MEEAY WIVES
act IV.
Re-enter fai.staff.
F<d. No, I '11 come no more i' the basket. May I
not go out, ere he come ?
Mrs. Page. Alas, three of master Ford's brothers
watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue
out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came.
But what make you here ? ^
Fal. What shall I do?—I'll creep up into the
chimney.
Mrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge
their birding-pieces. Creep into the kiln-hole.
Fal. Where is it ?
Mrs. Ford. He will seek there, on my word.
Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but
he hath an abstract ^ for the remembrance of such
places, and goes to them by his note. There is no
hiding you in the house.
Fal. I '11 go out then.
Mrs. Page. If you go out in your own semblance,
you die, sir John. Unless you go out disguised,—
Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him r
Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not. There is
no woman's gown big enough for him; otherwise,
he might put on a hat, a muffler,® and a kerchief,
and so escape.
Fal. Good hearts, devise sometliing: any ex-
tremity, rather than a miscliief.
' What do you here 1 ' Inventory.
* A part of the dress that covered the face.
SCENE II.
CF WINDSOR.
93
Mrs. Ford. My n aid's aunt, the fat woman of
Brentford, has a gown above.
Mrs. Page. On my word, it will serve him ; she's
as big as he is : and there's her thrum'd hat,' and
her muffler too. Run up, sir John.
Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet sir John : mistress
Page and I will look some linen for your head.
Mrs. Page. Quick, quick; we '11 come dress you
straight: put on the gown the while. [Exit Falstaf.
Mrs. Ford. I would, my husband would meet him
in this shape: he cannot abide the old woman of
Brentford : he swears, she's a witch; forbade her
my house, and hath threatened to beat her.
Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy husband's
cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards !
Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ?
Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness,^ is he j and talks
of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelli-
gence.
Mrs. Ford. We '11 try that; for I '11 appoint my
men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the
door with it, as they did last time.
Mrs. Page. Nay, but he '11 be here i)resently r
let's go dress him like the witch of Brentford.
Mrs. Ford. I '11 first direct my men, what they
shall do with the basket. Go up : 1 '11 bring linen
for him straight. [Exit.
' Hat made of coarse woollen clotl).
' Seriously.
94
merry wives act it.
Mrs. Page. Hang him, lUshonest varlet! wc
cannot misuse him enough.'
We '11 leave a proof, by that which we will do.
Wives may be merry, and yet honest too.
We do not act, that often jest and laugh :
*Tis old, but true, ' Still swine eat all the draft'.''
[Exit.
Re-enter mrs. ford, with two Servants.
Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again on
your shou).ders; your master is hard at door : if he
bid you set it down, obey him: quickly, despatch.
[Exit.
1 Ser. Come, come, take it up.
2 Ser. Pray Heaven, it be not full of knight
again.
1 Ser. I hope not; I had as lief bear so much
lead.
Enter ford, page, shallow, caius, and sir
HUGH EVANS.
Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, master Page, have
y )U any way then to unfool me again ?—Set down
tlie basket, villain.—Somebody call my wife.
I'ou, youth in a basket, come out here!—O, you
panderly rascals! there's a knot, a ging,® a pack, a
conspiracy against me. Now shall the devil be
shamed. Wliat! wife, I say! come, come forth;
' Refuse, lees. * Gang.
scene 11*
of windsor*
95
behold what honest clothes you send forth to
bleaching.
Page. Why, this passes! > Master Ford, you are
not to go loose any longer ; yon must be pinioned.
Evans. Why, this is lunatics 1 this is mad as a
mad dog!
Shal. Indeed, master Ford, this is not well; in-
deed.
tenter mrs. ford.
Ford. So say I too, sir.—Come hither, mistress
Ford; mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest
wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous
fool to her husband!—1 suspect without cause,
mistress, do I ?
Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness, you do, if you
suspect me in any dishonesty.
Ford. Well said, brazen-face; hold it out.
Come forth, sirrah. [Pulls the clothes out of the basket.
Page. This passes!
Mrs. Ford. Are you not ashamed ? let the clothes
alone.
Ford. I shall find you anon.
Evans. 'Tis unreasonable ! Will you take up your
wife's clothes ? Come away.
Ford. Empty the basket, I say.
Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why,—
Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one
conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket.
' Goes beyond all bounds.
96
MERRY WIVES
ACT IT.
AVTij- may not he be there again ? In my house I am
sure he is ; my intelligence is true ; my jealousy is
reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen.
Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shall die
a fiea's death.
Page. Here's no man.
IShal. By my fidelity, this is not well, master
Ford; this wrongs you.
Evans. Master Ford, you must pray, and not
follow the imaginations of your own heart: this is
jealousies.
Ford. Well, he's not here I seek for.
Page. No, nor no where else, hut in your brain.
Ford. Help to search my Jiouse this one time: if
I find not what I seek, show no color for my ex
tremity,^ let me for ever be your table-sport: let
them say of me. As jealous as Ford, that searched a
hollow walnut for his wife's leman.® Satisfy me
once more; once more search with me.
Mrs. Ford. What hoa, mistress Page ! come you,
and the old woman, down; my husband will come
into the chamber.
Ford. Old woman! What old woman's that ?
Mrs. Ford. Why, it is my maid's aunt of Brent-
ford.
Ford. A witch, a quean,^ an old cozening quean !
Have I not forbid her my house ? She comes of er-
' Make no excuses for my extravagant behaviour.
* i-over. ' A worthless woman
SCENE II.
OF WINDSOR.
07
rands, does she? We are simple men; we do not
know what's brought to pass under the profession
of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells,
by the figure, and such daubery * as this is; beyond
our element: we know nothing. Come down,
you witch, you hag you ; come down, I say.
Mrs. Ford. Na)', good, sweet husband;—good
gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman.
Enter falstaff in women's clothes, led by mrs. page.
Mrs. Page. Come, mother Prat, come, give me
your hand.
Ford. I'll prat her. Out of my door, you
witch! [beats Aim.] you rag, you baggage, you pole-
cat, you ronyon! out! out! 1 '11 conjure you, I '11
fortune-tell you. [Exit Falstaff.
Mrs. Page. Are you not ashamed ? I think, you
have killed the poor woman.
Mrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it.—'Tis a goodly
credit for you.
Ford. Hang her, witch!
Evans. By yea and no, I think, the 'oman is a
witch indeed: I like not when a 'oman has a great
peard; I spy a great peard under her muffler.
Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen ? I beseech
you, follow; see but the issue of my jealousy : if I
cry out thus upon no trail,® never trust me when I
open ' again.
' Counterfeits.
SBAK.
» Scent.
II.
' Cry out.
98
MERRY WIVES
ACT IT.
Page. Let 'a obey his humor a little farther.
Come, gentlemen.
[Exeunt Page, Ford, Shallow, and Evans.
Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.
Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he did not;
he beat him most unpitifully, methought.
Mrs. Page, I '11 have the cudgel hallowed, and
hung o'er the altar: it hath done meritorious service.
Mrs. Ford. What think you ? May we, with the
warrant of womanhood, and the witness of a good
conscience, pursue him with any farther revenge ?
Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure,
scared out of him: if the devil have him not in fee-
simple, with fine and recovery,' he will never, I
think, in the way of waste, attempt us again.®
Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how we
have served him ?
Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means; if it be but to
scrape the figures ® out of your husband's brains. If
they can find in their hearts, the poor unvirtuous
fat knight shall be any farther afflicted, we two will
still be the ministers.
Mrs. Ford. 1 '11 warrant, they 'U have him pub-
licly .shamed; and, methinks, there would be no
period to the jest, should he not be publicly
shamed.
' Have not the right of perpetual possession, without the
power of redemption.
" He will not make farther attempts to destroy our repu-
tation. ' Conceits. * No proper catastrophe.
scene iv.
of windsor.
99
Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then, shape
it: I would nit have things cool. \Exeunt.
scene iii.
A room in the Garter Inn.
Enter host and bardolph.
Bar. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of
your horses : the duke himself will be to-morrow at
court, and they are going to meet him.
Host. What duke should that be, comes so
secretly ? I hear not of him in the court. Let me
speak with the gentlemen; they speak English ?
Bar. Ay, sir ; I '11 call them to you.
Host. They shall have my horses ; but I '11 make
them pay, I '11 sauce them: > they have had my
houses a week at command; I have turned away
my other guests: they must come off; * I '11 sauce
them. Come. [Exeunt.
scene iv.
A room in Ford's house.
Enter page, ford, mrs. page, mrs. ford, and sir
hugh evans.
Evans. 'Tis one of the pest discretions of a 'oman
as ever I did look upon.
' I '11 charge at a high price. ' Pay
#
100
MERRY WIVES
ACT IV.
Page. And did he send you both these letters at
an instant ?
Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour.
Ford. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou
wilt;
1 rather will suspect the sun with cold.
Than thee with wantonness : now doth thy honor
stand.
In him that was of late an heretic.
As firm as faith.
Page. 'Tis well, 'tis well; no more.
Be not as extreme in submission
As in offence;
But let our plot go forward: let our wives
Yet once again, to make us public sport.
Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow.
Where we may take him, and disgrace him for it.
Ford. There is no better way than that they
spoke of.
Page. How ! to send him word they '11 meet him
in the park at midnight ? fie, fie; he '11 never
come.
Evans. You say, he has been thrown into the
rivers; and has been grievously peaten, as an old
'oman : methinks, there should be terrors in him,
that he should not come; methinks, his flesh is
punished, he shall have no desires.
■ Page. So think I too.
Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you 'U use him when
he comes.
And let us two devise to bring him thither.
SCBNB IT.
OF WINDSOR.
101
Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes, that Heme
the hunter.
Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest.
Doth all the winter time, at still midnight.
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns j
And there he blasts the tree, and takes ' the cattle;
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a
chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner ;
You have heard of such a spirit; and well you
know.
The superstitious idle-headed eld 2
Received, and did deliver to our age.
This tale of Heme the hunter for a truth.
Page. Why, yet there want not many, that do fear
In deep of night to walk by this Heme's oak;
But what of this ?
Mrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device;
That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us.
Disguised like {lerne, with huge homs on his head.
Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he '11 come.
And in this shape. When you have brought him
thither.
What shall be done with him ? what is your plot ? ,
Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought upon,
^ and thus :
Nan Page my daughter, and my little son.
And three or four more of their growth, we 'U dress
* Strikes. ' Old per^ions.
102
MERUY -WIVES
ACT IV.
Like urchins,* ouphes,® and fairies, green and white.
With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads.
And rattles in their hands ; upon a sudden.
As FalstaflF, she, and I, are newly met.
Let them from forth a saw-pit rush at once
With some diflFused ' song; upon their sight.
We two in great amazedness will fly:
Then let them all encircle him about.
And, fairy-like, to-pinch * the unclean knight;
And ask him, why, that hour of fairy revel.
In their so sacred paths he dares to tread.
In shape profane.
Mrs. Ford. And till he tell the truth.
Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound.
And bum him with their tapers.
Mrs. Page. The truth being known.
We '11 all present ourselves; dis-horn the spirit.
And mock him home to Windsor.
Ford. The children must
Be practised well to this, or they '11 ne'er do *t.
Evans. I will teach the children their behaviours;
and I will be like a jack-an-apes 5 also, to bum the
knight with my taher.
Ford. That will be excellent. I 'U go buy them
vizards.
' fledge-liogs. ' Elres. * Wild
* The pleonasm of ' to/ in the composition of verbs, is very
common in our early English poets.
' An ape.
SCENE IV.
OF WINDSOR.
103
Mrs. Page. My Nan shall be the queen of all the
fairies.
Finely attired in a robe of white.
Page. That silk will I go buy;—and in that time
Shall master Slender steal my Nan away, [aside.
And marry her at Eton. Go, send to FalstafF
straight.
Ford. Nay, I '11 to him again in name of Brook:
He '11 tell me all his purpose. Sure, he '11 come.
Mrs. Page. Fear not you that. Go, get ns
properties,'
And tricking* for our fairies.
Evans. Let us about it: it is admirable pleasures,
and fery honest knaveries.
[Exeunt Page, Ford, and Evans.
Mrs. Page. Go, mistress Ford,
Send Quickly to sir John, to know his mind.
[Exit Mrs. Ford.
I '11 to the doctor; he hath my good will.
And none but he, to marry with Nan Page.
That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot;
And he my husband best of all affects:
The doctor is well money'd, and his friends
Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have hrar.
Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.
[Exit.
I Little incidental necessaries appertaining to a theatre.
* Fit dresses.
.
104
merry wives
act ir.
scene v.
A room in the Garter Inn,
Enter host and simple.
Host. What wouldst thou have, boor? what,
thick-skin? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short,
quick, snap.
Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with sir John
Falstaff from master Slender.
Host. There's his chamber, his house, his castle,
his standing-bed, and truckle-bed; ^ 'tis jiainted
about with the story of the prodigal, fresh and new.
Go, knock and call; he '11 speak like an Anthropo-
phaginian ® unto thee. Knock, I say.
Sim. There's an old woman, a fat woman, gone
up into his chamber; I '11 be so bold as stay, sir, till
she come down: I come to speak with her, indeed.
Host. Ha! a fat woman! the knight may be
robbed : I '11 call.—Bully knight! Bully sir John !
speak from thy lungs military. Art thou there ? it
is thine host, thine Ephesian,® calls.
Fal. [aJow.] How now, mine host ?
Host. Here's a Bohemian-Tartar* tarries the
coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend.
' A bed that runs on wheels ; on which servants were ac-
customed to sleep. » Cannibal.
' This was a cant term of the time.
* Probably in allusion to the wild appearance of Simple.
Gipsies are called Bohemians.
scene v. of windsor. 105
bull)'; let her descend; my chambers are honorable.
Fie ! privacy ? fie !
Enter falstafp.
Fal. There was, mine host, an old fat woman
even now with me; but she's gone.
Sim. Pray you, sir, was't not the wise woman of
Brentford ?
Fal. Ay, marry, was it, muscle-shell.^ What
would you with her ?
Sim. My master, sir, my master Slender, sent to
her, seeing her go thorough the streets, to know, sir,
whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain,
had the chain, or no.
Fal. I spake with the old woman about it.
Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir ?
Fal. Marry, she says, that the very same man,
that beguiled master Slender of his chain, cozened
him of it.
Sim. I would, I could have spoken with the
woman herself. I had other things to have spoken
with her too, from him.
Fal. What are they ? let us know.
Host. Ay, come; quick.
Sim. I may not conceal them, sir.
Fal. Conceal them, or thou diest.
Sim. Why, sir, they were nothing but about
' He calls Simple ' muscle-shell,' because he stood open-
mouthed.
0
106
mbrht wives
ac t iv.
mistress Anne Page; to know, if it were my master's
fortune to have her, or no.
Fal. 'Tis, 'tis his fortune,
Sim. What, sir ?
Fal. To have her,—or no. Go; say, the woman
told me so.
Sim. May I be so bold to say so, sir ?
Fal. Ay, sir Tike; who more hold ?
Sim. I thank your worship; I shall make my
master glad with these tidings. [Exit Simple.
Host. Thou art clerkly,* thou art clerkly, sir
John. Was there a wise woman with thee ?
Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host; one, that
hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before
m my life: and I paid nothing for it neither, but
was paid for my learning.
Enter bardolph.
Bar. Out, alas, sir! cozenage ! mere cozenage!
Host. Where be my horses ? speak well of them,
varletto.
Bar. Run away with the cozeners : for so soon as
I came beyond Eton, they threw me off, from behind
one of them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs, and
away, like three German devils, three Doctor Fan-
stuses.
Host. They are gone but to meet the duke, vil-
* ScholHr-lile.
scenk v.
of windsok.
107
laia: do not say, they be fled ; Germans are honest
men.
Enter sir hugh evans.
Evans. Where is mine host ?
Host. What is the matter, sir ?
Evans. Have a care of your entertainments: there
is a friend of mine come to town, tells me, there is
three couzin germans, that has cozened all the hosts
of Readings, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses
and money. I tell you for good will, look you: you
are wise, and full of gibes and vlouting-stogs; and
'tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare
you well. [Exit.
Enter caics.
Cuius. Vere is mine host de Jarterre ?
Host. Here, master doctor, in perplexity, and
doubtful dilemma.
Cuius. I cannot tell vat is dat. But it is tcU-a
me, dat you make grand preparation for a duke de
Jarmany: by my trot, dere is no duke, dat de court
is know to come: I tell you for good vill: adieu.
[Exit.
Host. Hue and cry, villain, go: — assist me,
knight; I am undone:—fly, run, hue and cry, vil-
lain! I am undone! [Exeunt Host and Bardolph.
Ful. I would, all the world might be cozened;
for I have been cozened, and beaten too. If it
should come to the ear of the court, how I" have
108
MERRY WIVES
ACT IV.
been transformed, and how my transformation hath
been washed and cudgeled, they would melt me out
of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor fishermen's boots
with me; I warrant, they would whip me with their
fine wits, till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear,
I never prospered since I forswore myself at pri-
mero.* Well, if my wind were but long enough to
say my prayers, I would repent.—
Enter mks. quickly.
Now, whence come you ?
Mrs. Quick. From the two parties, forsooth.
Fal. The devil take one party, and his dam the
other, and so they shall be both bestowed! I have
suffered more for their sakes, more, than the vil-
lanous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to
bear.
Mrs. Quick. And have not they suffered ? Yes, 1
warrant; speciously one of them: mistress Ford,
good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you can-
not see a white spot about her.
Fal. What tellest thou me of black and blue ? I
was beaten myself into all the colors of the rainbow;
and I was like to be apprehended for the witch of
Brentford: but that my admirable dexterity of wit,
my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, de-
' A fashionable game at cards in our author's tima.
i Especially^
8cbne yi.
of windsor.
109
livered me, the knave constable had set me i' the
stocks, i' the common stocks, for a witch.
Mrs. Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your
chamber: you shall hear how things go; and, I
warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say
somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring
you together! Sure, one of you does not serve Hea-
ven well, that you are so crossed!
Fal. Come up into my chamber. [^Ejceunt.
scene vi.
Another room in the Garter Inn.
Enter fenton and host.
Host. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind
is heavy : I will give over all.
Fen. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my pur-
pose.
And, as I am a gentleman, 1 'U give thee
A hundred pound in gold, more than your loss.
Host. I will hear you, master Fenton ; and I will,
at the least, keep your counsel.
Fen. From time to time I have acquainted you
With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page;
Who, mutually, hath answer'd my affection
(So far forth as herself might be her chooser)
Even to my wish : I have a letter from her
Of such contents as you will wonder at;
The mirth whereof so larded with my matter.
That neither, singly, can be manifested.
Without the show of both ;—wherein fat Falstaff
•
110
MERRY WIVES
ACT IV.
Hath a great scene :' the image - of the jest
{showing the letter.
I '11 show you here at large. Hark, good mine host:
To-night at Heme's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one,
Must my sweet Nan present the fairy queen;
The purpose why, is here; ® in which disguise.
While other jests are something rank on foot,*
Her father hath commanded her to slip
Away with Slender, and with him at Eton
Immediately to marry; she hath consented :
Now, sir.
Her mother, even strong ^ against that match.
And firm for doctor Caius. hath appointed
That he shall likewise shufHe her away.
While other sports are tasking of ® their minds.
And at the deanery, where a priest attends.
Straight marry her; to this her mother's plot.
She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath
Made promise to the doctor.—Now, thus it rests :
Her father means she shall be all in white;
And in that habit, when Slender sees his time
To take her by the hand, and bid her go.
She shall go with him :—her mother hath intended,
The better to denote her to the doctor,
(For they must all be mask'd and vizarded)
That, quaint" in green, she shaU be loose enrobed.
' Bears a conspicuous character.
' Representation. ^ In this letter.
^ While they are busily pursuing their own merriment.
* As strong. ® Occupying. ' fantastically
8CKKB VI.
OF WINDSOR.
Ill
With ribands pendent, flaring, 'bout her head;
And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe.
To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token.
The maid hath given consent to go with him.
Host. Which means she to deceive? father or
mother ?
Fen. Both, my good host, to go along with me ;
And here it rests,—that you '11 procure the vicar
To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one.
And, in the lawful name of marrying.
To give our hearts united ceremony.
Host. Well, husband your device; I'll to the
vicar:
Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest.
Fen. So shall I evermore be bound to thee;
Besides, I '11 make a present recompense. [Exevnt.
ACT V.
scene 1.
A room in the Garter Inn.
Enter falstaff and mrs. quickly.
Fal. Pr'ythee, no more prattling:—go. 1 '11
hold.' This is the third time; I hope, good luck
r lies in odd numbers. Away, go ; they say, there is
divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance,
or death.—Away.
■ I'll keep tlie appointment.
112
merry wives
act v.
Mrs. Quick. I '11 provide you a chain ; and I '11 do
what I can to get you a pair of horns.
Fnl. Away, I say; time wears: hold up your
head, and mince.^ [Exit Mrs. Quickly.
Enter ford.
How now, master Brook ? Master Brook, the matter
will be known to-night, or never. Be you in the
Park about midnight, at Heme's oak, and you shall
see wonders.
Ford. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you
told me you had appointed ?
Fal. I went to her, master Brook, as you see,
like a poor old man; but I came from her, master
Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave.
Ford her husband, hath the finest mad devil of
jealousy in him, master Brook, that ever governed
frenzy. I will tell you.—He beat me grievously, in
the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man,
master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver's
beam; because I know also, life is a shuttle. I am
in haste; go along with me; I '11 tell you all.
master Brook. Since I plucked geese,® played
truant, and whipped top, I knew not what it was to
be beaten, till lately. Follow me; I '11 tell you
strange things of this knave Ford; on whom to-
night I will be revenged, and I ■wiU deliver his wife
• ' To mince' is to walk with affected delicacy.
* To strip a living goose of his feathers was formerly an act
of pueiile barbarity:
scbnb iii.
of windsor.
113
into your hand.—Follow; strange things in hand,
master Brook! follow. {Exeunt.
scene ii.
Wittdsor Park.
Enter page, shallow, and slekdee.
Page. Come, come; we '11 coudi i' the castle*
ditch, till we see the light of our fsuries.—Remember,
son Slender, my daughter.
Slen. Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her, and
we have a nay-word,* how to know one another. I
come to her in white, and cry, ' mumshe cries,
* budgetand by that we know one another.
Shal. That's good too: but what needs either
your ' mum,' or her ' budget ?' the white will de-
cipher her well enough.—It hath struck ten o'clock.
Page. The night is dark; light and spirits will
become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man
means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by
his horns. Let's away; follow me. {Exeunt.
scene in.
T%e street in Windsor.
Enter mrs. page, mrs. ford, and caius.
Mrs, Page. Master doctor, my uaugnter is in
' Watch-word.
SHiiK. Hi
114
UERBT WIVES
ACT V.
green: when you see your time, lake her by the
hand, away with her to the deanery, and despatch it
quickly. Go before into the park; we two must go
together.
Caius. I know vat I have to do. Adieu.
Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [^Exit Caius.
My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of
FalstaiF, as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying
my daughter: but 'tis no matter; better a little
chiding, than a great deal of heart-break.
Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now, and her troop of
fairies, and the Welsh devil, Hugh ?
Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit hard by
Kerne's oak, with obscured lights; which, at the
very instant of FalstafF's and our meeting, they will
at once display to the night.
Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze him.
Mrs. Page. If he be not amazed, he will be
mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be
mocked.
Mrs. Ford. We '11 betray him finely.
Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters,* and their
lechery,
I'hose that betray them do no treachery.
Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on. To the oak! to
the oak! [Exeunt.
* Profli'sates.
sckitb ▼.
of windsor.
116
scene iv.
Windsor Park.
Enter sir hugh evans, and Fairies.
Evans. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember
your parts : be pold, I pray you; follow me into the
pit; and when I give the watch-'ords, do as I pid
you. Come come ; trib, trib. [Exeunt.
scene v.
Another part of the park.
Enter falstaff disguised, with a buck's head on.
Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the
minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist
me!—Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy
Europa; love set on thy horns.—O powerful love !
that, in some respects, makes a beast a man; in
some other, a man a beast.—You were also, Jupiter,
a swan, for the love of Leda.—O, omnipotent
love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a
goose !—A fault done first in the form of a beast;—
O Jove, a beastly fault! and then another fault in
the semblance of a fowl; think on't, Jove ; a foul
fault.—When gods have hot backs, what shall poor
men do ? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and
the fattest, I think, i' the forest. Send me a cool
rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my
tallc w ? Who comes here ? my doe ?
0
116
merry wives
ACT T.
Enter mrs. ford and mrs. page.
Mrs. Ford. Sir John! art thou there, my deer ?
my male deer ?
Fal. My doe with the black scut!—Let the sky
rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of ' Green
Sleeves hail kissing-comfits,' and snow eringoes ; *
let there come a tempest of provocation, I will
shelter me here. {embracing her.
Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, sweet-
heart.
Fal. Divide me like a bribe-buck,' each a haunch:
I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the
fellow of this walk,* and my horns I bequeath your
husbands. Am I a woodman ? ha! Speak I like
Heme the hunter ?—Why, now is Cupid a child of
conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a trae
spirit, welcome ! {noise within.
Mrs. Page. Alas! what noise ?
Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins!
Fal. What should this he ?
Mrs. Ford. } . r.i jr
Mrs. Page. S ^
Fal. I think, the devil will not have me damned,
lest the oil that is in me should set hell on fire; he
would never else cross me thus.
' Sugarplums. ' Sea-holly.
* A buck sent for a bribe.
* The shoulders of deer were formerly claimed by keepers
as a perquisite.
Sserlre etel. St*diag «c.
StERSY wrvss OF^WINDSCa.
Falsxajr. MT'ttipejrFari.
^ct V Sum V
SCENE r.
of windsor.
117
Enter sir hugh evans, like a satyr; mrs. quicklt.
and pistol; anne page, as the fairy queen, at-'
tended by her brother and others, dressed like
fairies, with waxen tapers on their heads.
Mrs. Quick. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night.
You orphan-heirs of fixed destiny,'
Attend your office, and your quality.®
Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy o-yes.®
Pis. Elves, list your names; silence, you airy
toys.
Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:
Where fires thou find'st unraked, and hearths un-
swept.
There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry : *
Our radiant queen hates sluts, and sluttery.
Fal. They are fairies; he, that speaks to them,
shall die:
111 wink and couch. No man their works must eye.
[fiVs down on his face.
Evans. Where's Pede ?—Go you, and where yo.u
find a maid.
That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers siud.
Raise up the organs of her fantasy.
Sleep she as sound as careless infancy;
* ' Orphans in respect of your real parents, and now da*
pendent only on Destiny herself.'—Farmer.
Companions. ' The usual proclamation.
♦ A sweet sbruh, called a whortleberry.
118
MEART WIVES
ACT r.
But those as sleep, and think not on their sins.
Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and
shins.
Mrs. Quick. About, about;
Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out:
Strew good luck, ouphes,* on every sacred room;
That it may stand till the perpetual doom.
In state as wholesome, as in state 'tis fit;
Worthy the owner, and the owner it.
The several chairs of order look you scour
With juice of balm, and every precious flower;
Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest.
With loyal blazon evermore be bless'd!
And nightly, meadow-fairies, look, you sing,
Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring:
The expressure ® that it bears, green let it he.
More fertile-fresh than all the fleld to see;
And Hohjf soil qui mal y pense, write.
In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white;
Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, "J
Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee ; J-
Fairies use flowers for their charactery. )
Away ; disperse. But, till 'tis one o'clock.
Our dance of custom, round about the oak
Of Heme the hunter, let us not forget.
Evans. Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves
in order set:
And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be.
> Elves
* Impression.
SCENE T.
OF ■WINDSOR.
119
To guide our measure round about the tree.
But, stay; 1 smell a man of middle earth.
Fttl. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy,
lest he transform me to a piece of cheese !
Pi$. Vile worm, thou wast o'er-look'd even in
thy birth.*
Mrs. Quick. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:
If he be chaste, the fiame will back descend.
And turn him to no pain; but if he start.
It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.
Pis. A trial, come.
Evans. Come, will this wood take fire ?
[They burn hint with their tapers.
Fal. Oh, oh, oh!
Mrs. Quick. Corrupt, corrupt; and tainted in dcwe!
About him, fairies ; sing a seomful rhyme :
And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.
Evans. It is right; indeed he is full of lecheries
and iniquity.
I SONG.
Fie on sinful fantasy !
Fie on lust and luxury !
Lust is but a bloody fire,*
Kindled with unchaste desire.
Fed in heart; whose flames aspire.
As thoughts do blow them higher and higher.
Pinch him, fairies, mutually ;
Pinch him for his villany ;
Pinch nim, and burn him, and turn him about.
Till candles, and star-light, and moonshine he out.
During this song, the fairies pinch Falstaff. Doctor
* Slighted as soon as bom. * A fire in the blood.
120
merut wives
act v.
Canis comes one way, and steals away a fairy in
green ; Slender another way, and takes off a fairy
in white; and Fenton comes, and steals away Mrs.
Anne Page. A noise of hunting is made within.
All the fairies run away. Falstaff pulls off hi*
buck's head, and rises.
Enter page, ford, mrs. page, and mrs. ford.
They lay hold on him.
Page. Nay, do not fly: I think, we have watch'd
you now.
"Will none but Heme the hunter serve your turn ?
Mrs. Page. I pray you, come; hold up the jest
no higher.—
Now, good sir John, how like you Windsor wives ?
See you these, husband ? do not these fair yokes'
Become the forest better than the town ?
Ford. Now, sir, who's a cuckold now ?—Master
Brook, FalstaflF's a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here
are his horns, master Brook: and, master Brook, he
hath enjoyed nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket,
his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which
must be paid to master Brook: his horses are
arrested for it, master Brook.
Mrs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill luck; we
could never meet. I will never take you for my
love again, hut I will always count you my deer.
Fal. 1 do begin to perceive that I am made an ass.
' Horns.
SCENE V.
OF WINDSOR.
121
Ford. Ay, and an ox too: both the proofs aie
extant.
Fal. And these are not fairies ? I was three or
four times in the thought, they were not fairies:
and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden sur*
prise of my powers, drove the grossness of the
foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth
of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See
now, how wit may be made a Jack-a-lfnt,' when
'tis upon ill employment!
Evans. Sir John FalstaiF, serve Got, and leave
your desires, and fairies will not pinse you.
Ford. Well said, fairy Hugh.
Evans. And leave you your jealousies too, I pray
you.
Ford. I will never mistrust my wife again, till
thou art able to woo her in good English.
Fat. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried
it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o'er-
reaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat
too ? Shall I have a coxcomb of frize ? ^ 'tis time
I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese.
Evans. Seese is not good to give putter; your
pelly is all putter.
Fal. Seese and putter! Have I lived to stand at
the taunt of one that makes fritters of English?
This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-
walking through the realm.
' A puppet thrown at in Lent, like Shrove cocks.
' A fool's cap of Welsh materials.
122
MEHRY WIVES
ACT V.
Mrs. Page, Why, sir John, do you think, though
we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by
the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves
without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could
have made you our delight ?
Ford. What a hodge-pudding ? 1 a bag of flax ?
Mrs. Page. A puffed man ?
Page. Old, cold, withered, ftnd of intolerable*
entrails ? .
Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan ?
Page. And as poor as Job ?
Ford. And as wicked as his wife ?
Evans. And given to fornications, and to taverns,
and sack, and wine, and metheglins,* and to
drinkings, and swearings, and starings, pribbles and
prabbles ?
Fal. Well, I am your theme; you have the start
of me ; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the
Welsh flannel: * ignorance itself is a plummet o'er
me : 5 use me as you will.
Ford. Marry, sir, we '11 bring you to Windsor, to
one master Brook, that you have cozened of money,
to whom you should have been a pander: over
' A niige compound of evil ingredients.
' Enormous. * Sweet fermented drinks.
* Flannel was originally the manufacture of Wales.
' Serves to point my obliquities. ' Allusion appears to be
made,' says Mr. Henley, * to the examination of a carpenter's
work by the plummet held over it, of which line sir Hugh is
here represented as the lead.'
8CBKB V*
OF WINDSOR.
123
and above that you have suffered, I think, to rejiay
that money will be a biting affliction.
Mrs. Ford. Nay, husband, let that go to make
amends:
Forgive that sum, and so we '11 all be friends.
Ford. Well, here's my hand; all's forgiven at
last.
Page. Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt eat a
posset to-night at my house; where I will desire
thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee.
Tell her, master Slender hath married her daughter.
Mrs. Page. Doctors doubt that: if Anne Page be
my daughter, she is, by this, doctor Caius' wife.
[ostWe.
Enter slender.
Slen. Whoo, ho! ho! father Page!
Page. Son ! how now ? how now, son ? have you
despatched ?
Slen. Despatched ?—I'll make the best in Gloces-
tershire know on't; would I were hanged, la, eLse.
Page. Of what, son ?
Slen. I came yonder at Eton to marry mistress
Anne Page, and she's a great lubberly boy. If it
had not been i' the church, I would have swinged
him, or he should have swinged me. If 1 did not
think it had been Anne Page, would I might never
stir; and 'tis a post-master's boy.
Page. Upon my life then you took the wrong.
Slen. What need you tell me that ? I think so,
when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married
#
124
merry wives
act v.
to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would
not have had him.
Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I
tell you, how you should know my daughter by her
garments ?
Slen. I went to her in white, and cried * mum,*
and she cried ' budget,' as Anne and I had ap-
pointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a post-
master's boy.
Evans. Jeshu! Master Slender, cannot you see
but marry boys ?
Page. O, I am vexed at heart. What shall
I do?
Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry: I knew
of your purpose ; turned my daughter into green;
and, indeed, she is now with the doctor at the
deanery, and there married.
Enter caivs.
Caius. Vere is mistress Page ? By gar, I am
cozened; I ha' married un garcon, a boy ; un paisan,
by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page: by gar, I am
cozened.
Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green ?
Caius. Ay, be gar, and 'tis a boy: be gar, I '11
raise all Windsor. [Exit Caius.
Ford. This is strange. Who hath got the right
Anne ?
Page. My heart misgives me. Here conies master
Fenton.
bcekb T.
of windsor.
125
Enter fenton and anne page.
How now, master Fenton ?
Artnt. Pardon, good father! good my mother,
pardon!
Tage. Now, mistress! how chance you went not
with master Slender ?
Mrs. Page. Why went you not with master doc-
tor, maid ?
Fen. You do amaze her.' Hear the truth of it.
You would have married her most shamefully.
Where there was no proportion held in love.
The truth is, she and I, long since contracted.
Are now so sure,® that nothing can dissolve us.
The offence is holy, that she hath committed:
And this deceit loses the name of craft.
Of disobedience, or unduteous title ;
Since therein she doth evitate ^ and shun
A thousand irreligious cursed hours.
Which forced marriage would have brought upon her.
Ford. Stand not amazed: here is no remedy;—
In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state;
Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.
Fat. I am glad, though you have ta'en a special
stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced.
Page. Well, what remedy ? Fenton, Heaven giva
thee joy!
' Coafound her hy your questions, * United.
* Avoid.
126 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. ACT T.
A^Tiat cannot be eschew'd, must be cmbniced,
Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are
chased.
Evans. I will dance and eat plums at your
wedding.
Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no farther.—
Master Fenton,
Heaven give you many, many merry days?—
Good husband, let us every one go home.
And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;
Sir John and all.
Ford. Let it be so.—Sir John,
To master Brook you yet shall hold your word ;
For hs, to-night, shall lie with mistress Ford.
[Exeunt,
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
129
mSTORICAL NOnCE
OF
MEASURE FOE MEASURK
The primary source of the fable of this play is to be
traced to a story in the Ecatommithi of Giraldi Cin-
thio, which was repeated in the tragic histories of
Belleforest; but Shakspeare's immediate original was
the play of Promos and Cassandra of George Whet-
stone, published in 1578. •' This story,' says Mr.
Steevens, ' which, in the hands of Whetstone, produced
little more than barren insipidity, under the culture of
Shakspeare, became fertile of entertainment. The old
play of Promos and Cassandra exhibits an almost
complete embryo of Measure for Measure; yet the
hints on which it is formed are so slight, that it is
nearly as impossible to detect them, as it is to point
out in the acorn the future ramifications of the oak.'
Doctor Johnson, speaking of this play, says, 'I
cannot hut suspect that some other had new-modelled
the novel of Cinthio, or written a story, which in some
particulars resembled it, and that Cinthio was not the
author whom Shakspeare immediately followed. The
emperor in Cinthio is named Maximihe: the duke, in
Shakspeare's enumeration of the persons of the drama,
is called Vincentio. This appears a very slight re-
mark; but since the duke has no name in the play,
nor is ever mentioned but by his title, why should he
be called Vincentio among the persons but because
SHAK. II I
130
HISTOBICAL NOTICE.
the name was copied from the story, and placed super-
iltiously at the head of the list by the mere habit of
transcription 1 It is therefore likely that there was
then a story of Vincentio, duke of Vienna, different
from that of Maximine, emperor of the Romans.
'Of this play, the light or comic part is very natural
and pleasing; but the grave scenes, if a few passages
be excepted, bave more labor than elegance. The plot
is rather intricate than artful. The time of the action
is indefinite: some time, we know not how much, must
have elapsed between the recess of the duke and the
imprisonment of Claudio; for be must have learned
the story of Mariana in his disguise, or he delegated
his power to a man already known to be corrupted.
The unities of action and place are sufficiently pre-
served.'
131
A K G U M £ N T
Vincentie, duke of Vienna, anxious to reform the laxity ct
public morals, which too great remissness on the part of his
government had introduced, invests Angelo, an officer
renowned for rigid justice, with unlimited authority during
his pretended absence ; and, having assumed the hahil of a
friar, is enabled in this disguise to view attentively the pro-
ceedings of his deputy. A young lady of the city, named
Juliet, proves pregnant by her betrothed lover, who, ac-
cording to an old penal enactment, is sentenced by the
severe governor to lose his head. Isabella, the sister of the
culprit, intercedes for the life of her brother with Angelo,
who becomes deeply enamored, and proposes her dishonor
as the price of his compliance with her petition. 'J'he vir-
tuous maiden spurns at the proffered terms, and dies to
Claudio, to whom she relates the perfidy of the governor,
exhorting him to submit to his fate with fortitude ; but the
fear of death overpowers his resolution, and he implores his
sister to yield to the solicitations of the deputy; which
request she rejects with abhorrence. In the mean time the
disguised duke has become acquainted with Mariana, a lady
formerly affianced to Angelo, who is persuaded to keep a
private assignation with her husband, which Isabella has
feigned to make in her own name, to secure the safety of
her brother. The inhuman tyrant, supposing that he has
now perpetrated his object, and dreading the vengeance of
the injured Claudio, sends orders to the prison for his im-
mediate execution. The duke now pretends to return from
his travels, and Angelo is publicly convicted of murder and
seduction both by Isabella and his master; and is about to
suffer the punishment of his crimes, when the entreaties of
his deserted wife, and the unexpected appearance of Clau-
diOy who had been rescued from death by the interposition
of the disguised duke, preserve him from the fate which he
has so justly merited.
132
FEBSONS BEPBESENTED.
ViNCENTio, duke of Vienna.
Angelo, lord deputy in the duke's absence.
EscaiiOS, an ancient lord, joined with Angelo in the deputa-
tion.
Claodio, a young gentleman.
Ldcio, a fantastic.
Two other like Gentlemen.
Varrius,* a gentleman, serrant to the dukei
Provost.
Thomas,! t„o friars.
Peter, }
A Justice.
Elbow, a simple constable.
Eroth, a foolish gentleman.
Clown, servant to Mrs. Over-doni.
Abhorson, an executioner.
Barnardine, a dissolute prisoner.
Isabella, sister to Claudio.
Mariana, betrothed to Angelo.
Juliet, beloved by Claudio.
' Francisca, a nun.
Mrs. Over-done, a bawd.
Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, Officers, and other Attendants.
Scene, Vienna.
* Varrius might be omitted, for he is only once spoken to,
and says nothing. Johnson.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
ACT r.
scene i.
An apartment in the Duke's jutlace.
Enter duke, escalvs. Lords, and Attendants.
Duke. Escalus,—
Esc. My lord,
Duke. Of government the properties to unfold.
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse;
Since, I am put to know,i that your own science
Exceeds, in that, the lists® of all advice
My strength can give you. Then no more remains.
But that to your sufficiency,' as your worth is able.
And let them work. The nature of our people.
Our city's institutions, and the terms
For common justice, you are as pregnant ♦ in.
As art and practice hath enriched any
That we remember. There is our commission^
From which we would not have you warp.—Call
hither.
' Since 1 am assured. • Bounds, limits.
* Skill in government. * Ready.
134 measure for measure. act i.
I say, Ud come before us Aneelo.—
^Exit an Attendant.
What figure of us think you he will bear ?
For you must know, we have with special soul'
Eldcted him our absence to supply ;
Lent him our terror, dress'd him with our love;
And given his deputation all the organs
Of our own power. What think you of it
Esc. If any in Vienna be of worth
To undergo such ample grace and honor.
It is lord Angelo.
Enter angelo.
Duke. Look, where he comes.
Ang. Always obedient to your grace's will.
I come to know your pleasure.
Duke. Angelo,
There is a kind of character in thy life.
That, to the observer, doth thy history
Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings -
Are not thine own so proper,' as to waste
Thyself upon thy virtues, them on thee.
Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do;
Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely
touch'd.
But to fine issues : ■* nor nature never lends
' Immediate clioice
' So much thy owu property.
' Kndowments.
* For high purposes.
SCENE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
135
The smallest scruple of her excellence.
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor.
Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech
To one that can my part in him advertise ; ^
Hold therefore, Angelo;
In our remove, be thou at full ourself;
Mortality and mercy in Vienna
Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus,
Though first in question,® is thy secondary ;
Take thy commission.
Ang, Now, good my lord.
Let there be some more test made of my metal.
Before so noble and so great a figure
Be stamp'd upon it.
Duke. No more evasion:
We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice
Proceeded to you ; therefore take your honors.
Our haste from hence is of so quick condition.
That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd
Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,
As time and our concernings shall importune.
How it goes with us ; and do look to know
What doth befal you here. So, fare you well:
To the hopeful execution do I leave you
Of your commissions.
Aug. . Yet, give leave, my lord.
' Who IS himself conversant in the nature and duties of
that office, which 1 have now delegated to him.
* First appointed.
136 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT I,
That we may bring you something on the way.
Duie. My haste may not admit it;
Nor need you, on mine honor, have to do
With any scruple: your scope ' is as mine own;
So to enforce, or qualify the laws.
As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;
I '11 privily away. I love the people.
But do not like to stage me to their eyes:
Though it do well, I do not relish well
Their loud applause, and aves • vehement;
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion.
That does affect it.. Once more, fare you well.
The Heavens give safety to your purposes !
£sc. Lead forth, and bring you back in happiness!
DuAe. I thank you. Fare you well. [JE«V.
Use. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave
To have free speech with you; and it concerns me
To look into the bottom of my place.
A power I have; but of what strength and nature
I am not yet instructed.
^nff, 'Tis so with me.—Let us withdraw together,
And wq may soon our satisfaction have
Touching that point.
J?sc. I '11 wait upon your honor.
[JSxewi/.
' Kxtent of power.
Greetings.
SCBNE II. measure for measure.
137
scene tl.
A street.
Enter lucid and two gentlemen.
Lucio, If the duke, with the other dukes, come not
to composition with the king of Hungary, why, then
all the dukes fall upon the king.
1 Gen. Heaven grant us its peace, but not the
king of Hungary's!
2 Gen. Amen.
Lucio. Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pi-
rate, that went to sea with the ten commandments,
but scraped one out of the table.
2 Gen. Thou shalt not steal ?
Lucio. Ay, that he razed.
1 Gen. Why, 'twas a commandment to command
the captain and all the rest from their functions;
they put forth to steal. There's not a soldier of us
all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, doth
relish the petition well that prays for peace.
2 Gen. I never heard any soldier dislike it.
Lucio. I believe thee; for, I think, thou nevet
wast where grace was said.
2 Gen. No? a dozen times.at least.
1 Gen. What ? in metre ?
Lucio. In any proportion,* or in any language.
1 Gen. I think, or in any religion.
■ Measure.
138 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT I.
Lucio. Ay! why not? Grace is grace, despite of
all controversy. As for example; thou thyself art
a wicked villain, despite of all grace.
1 Gen. Well, there went but a pair of sheers he-
tween us.'
Lucio. I grant; as there may between the lists
and the velvet. Thou art the list.
1 Gen. And thou the velvet: thou art good
velvet; thou art a three-piled piece, I warrant thee:
I had as lief be a list of an English kersey, as be
piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I
speak feelingly now ?
Lucio. I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most
painful feeling of thy speech: I wiU, out of thine
own confession, learn to begin thy health; but,
whilst I live, forget to drink after thee.
1 Gen. I think, I have done myself wrong; have
I not ?
2 Gen. Yes, that thou hast; whether thou art
tainted or free.
1 Gen. Behold, behold, where madam Mitigation
comes! 1 have purchased as many diseases under
her roof, as come to—
2 Gen. To what, I pray ?
1 Gen. Judge.
2 Gen. To three thousand dollars a year.
1 Gen. Ay, and more.
Lucio A French crown more.
'We are both of the same piece.
SCENE II. measure for measure. 13£l
1 Gen. Thou art always figuring diseases In mc :
but thou art full of error; I am sound.
Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but
so sound, as things that are hollow : thy bones are
hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee.
£nter bawd.
1 Gen. How now ? Which of your hips has the
most profound sciatica ?
Bawd. Well, well; there's one yonder arrested,
and carried to prison, was worth five thousand of
you all.
1 Gen. Who's that, I pray thee ?
Bawd. Marry, sir, that's Claudio, signior Ciaudio.
1 Gen. Claudio to prison ? 'tis not so.
Bawd. Nay, but I know, 'tis so ; I saw him ar-
rested ; saw him carried away ; and, which is more,
within these three days his head's to be chopped off.
Lucio. But, after all this fooling, I would not
have it so. Art thou sure of this ?
Bawd. I am too sure of it: and it is for getting
madam Julietta with child.
Lucio. Beheve me, this may be: he promised to
meet me two hours since; and he was ever precise
in promise-keeping.
2 Gen. Besides, you know, it draws something
near to the speech^ we had to such a purjiose.
1 Gen. But most of all, agreeing with the pro-
clamation.
Lucio. Away ; let's go learn the truth of it.
\_Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen.
140
measure for measure.
act i.
Bawd. Thus, what with the war, what with the
sweat,* what with the gallows, and what with
poverty, I am custom-shrunk. How now ? what's
the news with you ?
Enter clown.
Clown. Yonder man is carried to prison.
Bawd. Well; what has he done ?
Clown. A woman.
Bawd. But what's his oflFence ?
Clown. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.
Bawd. What, is there a maid with child by him ?
Clown. No ; but there 'a a woman with maid by
him. You have not heard of the proclamation,
have you ?
Bawd. What proclamation, man ?
Clown. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must
be plucked down.
Bawd. And what shall become of those in the
city ?
Clown. They shall stand for seed : they had gone
down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them.
Bawd. But shall all our houses of resort in the
suburbs be pulled down ?
Clown. To the ground, mistress.
Bawd. Why, here's a change, indeed, in the com-
monwealth! What shall become of me ?
Clown. Come; fear not you: good counsellors
' Sweating sickness.
scene iii. measure for measure.
14
lack no clients ; though you change your place, you
need not change your trade; 1 '11 be your tapster
still. Courage; there will be pity taken on you:
you that have worn your eyes almost out in the
service, you will be considered.
Bawd. What's to do here, Thomas Tapster ?
liCt s withdraw.
Clown. Here comes signior Claudio, led by the
provost to prison : and there's madam Juliet.
\_Exeunt.
SCRKE 111.
The same.
Enter provost, claudio, juliet, and Officers;
Lucio, and two gentleme.v.
Clau. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the
world ?
Bear me to prison, where I am committed.
Pro. I do it not in evil disposition.
But from lord Angelo by special charge.
Clau. Thus can the demi-god, Authority,
Make us pay down for our offence by weight.—
The words of Heaven;—on whom it will, it will;
On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just.
Lucio. Why, how now, Claudio ? whence comes
this restraint ?
Clau. From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty;
As surfeit is the father of much fast.
#
142 MEASUBK FOR MEASURE. ACT I.
So every scope ^ by the immoderate use
Ttims to restraint. Our natures do pursue
(Like rats that ravin ® down their proper bane)
A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die.
Lucio. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest.
I would send for certain of my creditors : and yet,
to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of
freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What's
thy offence, Claudio ?
Clttu. What, but to speak of would offend again.
Lucio. What is it ? murder ?
Clau. No.
Lucio. Lechery ?
Clau. Call it so.
Pro. Away, sir ; you must go.
Clau. One word, good friend.—Lucio, a word
with you. [takes him aside.
Lucio. A hundred, if they '11 do you any good.—
Is lechery so look'd after ?
Clau. Tlius stands it with me :—Upon a true
contract,
I got possession of Julietta's bed ;
You know the lady: she is fast my wife.
Save that we do the denunciation lack
Of outward order: this we came not to.
Only for propagation ® of a dower
Remaining in the coffer of her friends;
' Act of riot.
• Payment.
* Voraciously devour.
SCENE III. MEASURE KOK MEASURE. J-lIi
From whom we thought it meet to hide our love.
Till time had made them for us. But it chances.
The stealth of our most mutual entertainment.
With character too gross, is writ on Juliet.
Lucio. With child, perhaps ?
Clau. Unhappily, even so.
And the new deputy now for the duke,—
Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness;'
Or whether that the body public be
A horse whereon the governor doth ride.
Who, newly in the seat, that it may know
He can command, lets it straight feel the spur;
Whether the tyranny be in his place.
Or in his eminence that fills it up,
I stagger in :—but this new governor
Awakes me all the enrolled penalties.
Which have, like unscour'd armor, hung by the wall
So long, that nineteen zodiacs have gone round.
And none of them been worn ; and, for a name.
Now puts the drowsy and neglected act
Freshly on me :—'tis, surely, for a name.
Lucio. I warrant, it is: and thy head stands so
tickle • on thy shoulders, that a milk-maid, if she be
in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke, and
appeal to him.
Clau. I have done so, but he's not to be found.
I pr'ythee, Lucio, do me this kind service:
' ' Whether it he the fault of newness, arising from the mind
being dazzled by a novel authority, of which the new governor
has yet had only a glimpse '—Malone. ® Tjcfclish.
#
144 measure fob measure. act i.
This day my sister should the cloister enter.
And there receive her approbation :'
Acquaint her with the danger of my state :
Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends
To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him ;
I have great hope in that: for in her youth
There is a prone ® and speechless dialect,
Such as moves men; beside, she hath prosperous art
When she will play with reason and discourse,
And well she can persuade.
Lucio. I pray, she may: as well for the en-
couragement of the like, which else would stand
under grievous imposition; ' as for the enjoying of
thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus
foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I '11 to her.
Clau. I thank you, good friend Lucio.
Lucio. Within two hours,
Clau. Come, officer, away. [Exeunt.
scene iv.
A monastery.
Enter duke and friar thomas.
Duhe. No, holy father; throw away that thought;
Believe not that the dribbling ♦ dart of love
Can pierce a complete bosom: » why I desire thee
' Enter on lier probation or noviciate. ' Prompt.
* Penalties imposed. * Fluttering without force.
* A breast completely armed.
SCENE IV. MEASVRb FOR MEASURE.
145
To give me secret harbor, hath a purpose
More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends
Of burning youth.
Friar. May your grace speak of it ?
Duke. My holy sir, none better knows than you
How I have ever loved the life removed;'
And held in idle price to haunt assemblies,
AVhere youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps.^
I have deliver'd to lord Angelo
(A man of stricture,® and firm abstinence)
My absolute power and place here in Vienna,
And he supposes me travell'd to Poland;
For so I have strew'd it in the common ear.
And so it is received. Now, pious sir,
Vou will demand of me, why I do this ?
Friar. Gladly, my lord.
Duke. We have strict statutes, and most biting
laws,
(The needful bits and curbs for headstrong steedsj
Which for these fourteen years we have let sleep;
Even like an o'er-grown lion in a cave.
That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers
Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch.
Only to stick it in their children's sight.
For terror, not to use ; in time the rod
Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees.
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;
And liberty plucks justice by the nose ;
' A life cf retirement. ' Showy dress resides.
* Strictness.
SHAK. *
146 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT 1.
The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart
Goes all decorum.
Friar. It rested in your grace
To unloose this tied-up justice, when you pleased t
And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd
Than in lord Angelo.
Duke. I do fear, too dreadful:
Sith' 'twas my fault to give the people scope.
'Twould be my tyranny to strike, and gall them.
For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done.
When evil deeds have their permissive pass.
And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my
father,
I have on Angelo imposed the office;
Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home.
And yet my nature never in the sight.
To do it slander. And to behold his sway,
I will, as 'twere a brother of your order.
Visit both prince and people: therefore, I pr'ythee.
Supply me with the habit, and instruct me
How I may formally in person bear me
Like a true friar. More reasons for this action.
At our more leisure shall I render you;
Only, this one :—Lord Angelo is precise;
Stands at a guard - with envy; scarce confesses
That his blood flows, or that his appetite
Is more to bread than stone. Hence shall we see,
If power change purpose, what our seemers be.
[ Exeunt.
■ Since.
' On his defence.
eOlNK T, measure for measure.
147
scene v.
A nunnery.
Enter Isabella and francisca.
lea. And have you nuns no farther privileges ?
Fran. Are not these large enough ?
Isa. Yes, truly : I speak not as desiring more ;
But rather wishing a more strict restraint
Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of saint Clare.
Lucio. Ho ! Peace be in this place ! [within.
Isa. Who's that which calls ?
Fran. It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella,
Turn you the key, and know his business of him:
You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn :
When you have vow'd, you must not speak with
men.
But in the presence of the prioress:
Then, if you speak, you must not show your face ;
Or, if you show your face, you must not speak.
He calls again : I pray you, answer him.
[Exit Francisca.
Isa. Peace and prosperity! Who is't that calls ?
Entei- LUCID.
Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be; as those cheek-
roses
Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me.
As bring me to the sight of Isabella,
A novice of this place, and the fair sister
148 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT X.
To her unhappy brother Claudio ?
Isa. Why her unhappy brother ? let me ask ;
The rather, for I now must make you know
I am that Isabella, and his sister.
Lucia. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets
you:
Not to be weary with you, he's in prison.
Isa. Woe me ! For what ?
Lucio. For that, which, if myself might be Lis
judge.
He should receive his punishment in thanks;
He hath got his friend with child.
Isa. Sir, mock me not:—^your story.
Lucio. 'Tis true. I would not.^ Though 'tis my
familiar sin
With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest.
Tongue far from heart,—play with all virgins so:
I hold you as a thing ensky'd, and sainted;
By your renouncement, an immortal spirit;
And to be talk'd with in sincerity.
As with a saint.
Isa. You do blaspheme the good, in mocking me.
Lucio. Do not believe it. Fewness and truth,*
'tis thus :
Your brother and his lover have embraced;
•As those that feed grow full; as blossoming time,
liiat from the seedness the bare fallow brings
To teeming foison; ^ even so her plenteous womb
' T would not mock you. ® In few and true words.
' Abundant produce.
SC£K£ V. MEASURE FOB MEASURE. 149
Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry.
Jsa. Some one with child by him ?—My cousin
Juliet ?
Lucio. Is she your cousin ?
Isa. Adoptedly; as school-maids change their
names.
By vain though apt affection.
Lucio. She it is.
Isa. O, let him marry her!
Lucio. This is the point.
The duke is very strangely gone from hence;
Bore many gentlemen, myself being one.
In hand,* and hope of action: but we do leam
By those that know the very nerves of state.
His givings out were of an infinite distance
From his true-meant design. Upon his place.
And with full line ® of his authority.
Governs lord Angelo; a man, whose blood
Is very snow-broth; one who never feels
The wanton stings and motions of the sense;
But doth rebate' and blunt his natural edge
With profits of the mind, study and fast.
He (to gpve fear to use and liberty.
Which have, for long, run by the hideous law.
As mice by lions) hath pick'd out an act.
Under whose heavy sense your brother's life
Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it;
• Kept many gentlemen in expectation. * Extent.
• Kepress.
150 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT 1.
And follows close the rigor of the statute,
I'o make him an example : all hope is gone.
Unless you have the grace' by your fair prayer
To soften Angelo : and that's my pith
Of business 'twixt you and your poor brother.
Isa. Doth he so seek his life ?
Lucio. Has censured® him
Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath
A warrant for his execution.
Isa. Alas! what poor ability's in me
To do him good ?
Lucio. Assay the power you have.
Isa. My power ! Alas! I doubt,—
Lucio. Our doubts are traitors.
And make us lose the good we oft might win.
By fearing to attempt. Go to lord Angelo,
And let him learn to know, when maidens sue.
Men give like gods; hut when they weep and kneel.
All their petitions are as freely theirs
As they themselves would owe * them.
Isa. I '11 see what I can do.
Lucio. But, speedily.
Isa. I will about it straight;
No longer staying hut to give the mother *
Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you ;
Commend me to my brother; soon at night
I '11 send him certain word of my success.
' Power of gaining favor.
' Possess.
' Sentenced.
* The abbess or prioress.
scene v. measure for measure. 151
Lucio. I take my leave of you.
Good sir, adieu.
[_Exeunt.
ACT II.
scene i.
A hall in Angela's house.
Enter angelo, escalus, a justice, provost. Officers,
and other Attendants.
Ang. We must not make a scare-crow of the law.
Setting it up to fear * the birds of prey.
And let it keep one shape, till custom make it
Their perch, and not their terror.
Esc. Ay, but yet
Let us be keen, and rather cut a little,
Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas ! this gentle-
man.
Whom I would save, had a most noble father.
Let but your honor know,®
(Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue)
That, in the working of your own affections.
Had time cohered with place, or place with wishing.
Or that the resolute acting of your blood
Could have attain'd the effect of your own purpose.
Whether you had not sometime in your life
Err'd in this point which now you censure him.
' Terrify. ' Examine.
#
152
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT 11.
And puU'd the law upon you.
Ang. *Tis one thing tc be tempted, Escalus,
Another thing to fall. I not deny.
The jury, passing on the prisoner's life.
May, in the sworn twelve, have a thief or two
Guiltier than him they try. What's open made to
justice.
That justice seizes. What know the laws.
That thieves do pass on thieves ? 'Tis very pregnant,^
The jewel that we find, we stooj) and take it.
Because we see it; but what we do not see.
We tread upon, and never think of it.
You may not so extenuate his offence.
For ® I have had such faults; but ratber tell me.
When I, that censure ® him, do so offend.
Let mine own judgment pattern out my death.
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.
Esc. Be it as your wisdom will.
Ang. Where is the provost ?
Pro. Here, if it like your honor.
Ang. See that Claudio
Be executed by nine to-morrow morning:
Bring him his confessor ; let him be prejjared ;
For that's the utmost of his pilgrimage.
[Exit Provost.
Esc. Well, Heaven forgive him, and foigjve
us all!
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall;
' Plain. » Because. » Sentenoe.
scene i. measure for measure, 153
Some run from brakes' of vice, and answer none;
And some condemned for a fault alone.
Enter elbow, froth, clown. Officers, 8(C.
Elbow. Come, bring them away : if these be good
people in a commonweal, that do nothing hut use
their abuses in common houses. I know no law;
bring them away.
Ang. How now, sir! What's your name ? and
what's the matter ?
Elbow. If it please your honor. I am the poor
duke's constable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean
upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your
good honor two notorious benefactors.
Ang. Benefactors ? Well; what benefactors are
they ? are they not malefactors ?
Elbow. If it please your honor, I know not well
what they are : but precise villains they are, that I
am sure of; and void of all profanation in the world,
that good Christians ought to have.
Esc. Tliis comes off well; ® here's a wise officer.
Ang. Go to. What quality are they of ? Elbow
is your name ? Why dost thou not speak. Elbow ?
Clown. He cannot, sir ; he's out at elbow.
Ang. What are you, sir ?
Elbow. He, sir ? a tapster, sir; parcel bawd;
one that serves a bad woman; whose house, sir,
I 1 hickets, thorny paths. ® This is well told.
' I'lirtly.
154 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT II.
was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and
now she professes a hot-house,* which, I think, is a
very ill house too.
Use. How know you that ?
Elbow. My wife, sir, whom I detest® before
Heaven and your honor,—
Esc. How ! thy wife ?
Elbow. Ay, sir; whom, I thank Heaven, is an
honest woman;—
Esc. Dost thou detest her therefore ?
Elbow. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as
well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd's
house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty
house.
Esc. How dost thou know that, constable ?
Elbow. Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had
been a woman cardinally given, might have been
accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanii-
ness there.
Esc. By the woman's means ?
Elbow. Ay, sir, by mistress Over-done's means:
but as she spit in his face, so she defied him.
Clown. Sir, if it please your honor, this is not so.
Elbow. Prove it before these varlets here, thou
honorable man, prove it.
Esc. Do you hear how he misplaces ? [to AuqcIo.
Clown. Sir, she came in great with child; and
longing (saving your honor's reverence) for stewed
' Keeps a bagnio. * Protest
SCENK I.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
153
pranes; sir, we had but two in the house, whicli at
that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-
dish, a dish of some threepence; your honors have
seen such dishes: they are not China dishes, but
very good dishes.
Esc. Go to, go to ; no matter for the dish, sir.
Clown. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are
therein in the right: but to the point. As I say,
this mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and
being great bellied, and longing, as I said, for
prunes; and having but two in the dish, as I said,
master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the
rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very
honestly;—for, as you know, master Froth, I could
not give you threepence again.
Froth. No, indeed.
Clown. Very well: you being then, if you be
remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid
prunes.
Froth. Ay, so I did, indeed.
Clown. Why, very well: I telling you then, if
you be remembered, that such a one, and such a
one, were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless
they kept very good diet, as I told you.
Froth. All this is true.
Clown. Why, very well then.
Esc. Come, you are a tedious fool: to the pur-
pose.—What was done to Elbow's wife, that he hath
cause to complain of? Come me to what was done
to her.
Clown. Sir, your honor cannot come to that j'et.
«
156
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
ACT II.
JUsc. No, sir, nor I mean it not.
Clown. Sir, but you shall come to it, by your
honor's leave : and, I beseech you, look into master
Froth here, sir; a man of fourscore pound a year;
whose father died at Hallowmas.i—Was't not at
Hallowmas, master Froth ?
Froth. All-hallownd eve.®
Clown. Why, very well; I hope here be truths.
He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower ® chair, sir ;—
'twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you
have a delight to sit. Have you not ?
Froth. 1 have so; because it is an open room, and
good for winter.
Clown. Why, very well then;—I hope here be
truths.
Aug. This will last out a night in Russia,
When nights are longest there. I 'U take my leave.
And leave you to the hearing of the cause;
Hoping, you '11 find good cause to whip them aU.
Esc. I think no less. Good morrow to your lord*
ship. [Exit Angelo.
Now, sir, come on. What was done to Elbow's
wife, once more ?
Cloum. Once, sir ? there was nothing done to her
once.
Elbow. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man
did to my wife.
Clown. I beseech your honor, ask me.
■ All Souls day.
' Eve of All Saints day.
* Easy.
SCENE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
157
Esc. Well, sir ; -what did this gentleman to her ?
Clown. I heseech you, sir, look in this gentle-
man's face.—Good master Froth, look uj)on his
honor; 'tis for a good purpose. Doth your honor
mark his face ?
Esc. Ay, sir, very well.
Clown. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well.
Esc. Well, I do so.
Clown. Doth your honor see any harm in his face ?
Esc. Why, no.
Clown. I '11 be supposed' upon a book, his face is
the worst thing about him. Good then; if his face
be the worst thing about him, how could master
Froth do the constable's wife any harm ? I would
know that of your honor.
Esc. He's in the right. Constable, what say you
to it ?
Elbow. First, an it like you, the house is a re-
spected house; next, this is a respected fellow; and
his mistress is a respected woman.
Clown. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more re-
spected person than any of us all.
Elbow. Varlet, thou liest; thou liest. wicked
■varlet: the time is yet to come, that she was ever
respected with man, woman, or child.
Clown. Sir, she was respected with him before he
married with her.
' Deposed, sworn.
#
158 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT II.
Esc. Which is the wiser here. Justice or Ini-
quity ? 1 Is this true ?
Elbow. O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou
wicked Hannibal! ® I respected with her, before I
was married to her ? If ever I was respected with
her, or she with me, let not your worship think me
the poor duke's officer.—Prove this, thou wicked
Hannibal, or I '11 have mine action of battery on thee.
Esc. If he took you a box o' th' ear, you might
have your action of slander too.
Elbow. Marry, I thank your good worship for it.
What is't your worship's pleasure I should do with
this wicked caitiff ?
Esc. Truly, officer, because he hath some of-
fences in him, that thou wouldst discover if thou
couldst, let him continue in his courses, till thou
know'st what they are.
Elbow. Marry, I thank your worship for it.—
Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what's come
upon thee ; thou art to continue now, thou varlet;
thou art to continue.
Esc. Where were you bom, friend ? [to Froth.
Froth. Here in Vienna, sir.
Esc. Are you of fourscore pounds a year ?
Froth. Yes, an't please you, sir.
Esc. So.—What trade are you of, sir 1
[to the Clown.
' The constable or the clown 1 " For cannibal.
SCENE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 159
Clown. A tapster; a poor widow's tapster.
Esc. Your mistress's name ?
Clown. Mistress Over-done.
Esc. Hath she had any more than one husband ?
Clown. Nine, sir; Over-done by the last.
Esc. Nine!—Come hither to me, master Froth.
Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with
tapsters; they will draw' you, master Froth, and
you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear
no more of you.
Froth. I thank your worship. For mine own part,
I never come into any room in a taphouse, hut I am
drawn in.
Esc. Well; no more of it, master Froth: fare-
well. lExit Froth.'}—Come you hither to me, master
tapster: what's your name, master tapster ?
Clown. Pompey.
Esc. What else ?
Clown. Bum, sir.
Esc. Troth, and your bum is the,greatest thing
about you; so that, in the beastliest sense, you are
Pompey the great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd,
Pompey, howsoever you color it in being a tapster.
Are you not ? come, tell me true, it shall be the
better for you.
Clown. Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow, that would
live.
Esc. How would you live, Pompey ? by being a
' Drain.
160 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT 11,
bawd } What do you think of tlie trade, Pompey ?
is it a lawful trade ?
Clown. If the law would allow it, sir.
Esc. But the law will not allow it, Pompey ; nor
it shall not be allowed in Vienna.
Clown. Does your worship mean to geld and spay
all the youth in the city ?
Esc. No, Pompey.
Clown. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will
to't then. If your worship will take order i for the
drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the
bawds.
Esc. There are pretty orders beginning, I can tell
you : it is but heading and hanging.
Clown. If you head and hang all that offend that
way but for ten year together, you '11 be glad to
give out a commission for more heads. If this law
hold in Vienna ten year, I '11 rent the fairest house
in it, after threepence a bay.® If you live to see
this come to pass, say, Pompey told you so.
Esc. Thank you, good Pompey: and, in requital of
your prophecy, hark you,—I advise you, let me not
find you before me again upon any complaint what-
soever, no, not for dwelling where you do : if I do.
Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a
shrewd Caesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I
' Measures.
* A bay of build'ng is the space between t.lc main beams of
a loof.
SOENS I.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
161
shall have you whipped: so for this time, Pompey,
fare you well.
Clown. I thank your worship for your good
counsel; hut I shall follow it, as the flesh and for-
tune shall better determine.
Whip me ? No, no; let carman whip his jade ;
The valiant heart's not whipp'd out of his trade.
\_Exit.
Esc. Come hither to me, master Elbow; come
hither, master constable. How long have you been
in this place of constable ?
Elbow. Seven year and a half, sir.
Esc. I thought, by your readiness in the office,
you had continued in it some time. You say, seven,
years together ?
Elbow. And a half, sir.
Esc. Alas ! it hath been great pains to you !
They do you wrong to put you so oft upon't. Are
there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it ?
Elbow. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters:
as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for
them: I do it for some piece of money, and go
through with all.
Esc. Look 3'ou, bring me in the names of some
SIX or seven, the most sufficient of your parish.
Elbow. To your worship's house, sir ?
Esc. To ray house. Fare you well. [Exit Elbow.']
What's o'clock, think you ?
Jus. Eleven, sir.
Esc. I pray you, home to dinner with me.
Jus. I humbly thank you.
AHAK. II.
162
measure for measure. act II.
JUsc. It grieves me for the death of Claudio;
But there's no remedy.
Jus. Lord Angelo is severe.
Esc. It is but needful:
Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so ;
Pardon is still the nurse of second M'oe :
But yet,—poor Claudio !—There's no remedy.
Come, sir. [Exeunt.
scene ii.
Another room in the same.
Enter provost and servant.
Ser. He's hearing of a cause; he will come
straight.
I '11 tell him of you.
Pro. Pray you, do. [Exit Servant.'} I '11 know
His pleasure; may be, he will relent. Alas,
He hath but as offended in a dream!
All sects, all ages smack of this vice ; and he
To die for it I
Enter angelo.
Ang. Now, what's the matter, provost r
Pro. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow ?
Ang. Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou not
order ?
Why dost thou ask again ?
Pro. Lest I might be too rash ■.
Under your good correction, I have seen.
When, after execution, judgment hath
8CEXC ii. measure for measure. 163
Repented o'er his doom.
Ang. Go to; let that be mine :
Do you your office, or give up your place.
And you shall well be spared.
Pro. I crave your honor's pardon.—
What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet ?
She's very near her hour.
Ang. Dispose of her
To some more litter place ; and that with speed.
Re-enter servant.
Ser. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd.
Desires access to you.
Ang. Hath he a sister ?
Pro. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid.
And to be shortly of a sisterhood.
If not already.
Ang. Well, let her be admitted.
[Exit Servant.
See you, the fornicatress be removed;
Let her have needful, but not lavish means:
There shall be order for it.
Enter lucio and Isabella.
Pro. Save your honor! [offering to retire.
Ang. Stay a little while.—[to Isabella.'] You are
welcome. What's your will.'
Isa. I am a woful suitor to your honor.
Please but your honor hear me.
Ang. Well; what's your suit f
164
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
At-r II.
Isa. There is a vice, that most I do abhor.
And most desire should meet the blow of justice;
For which I would not plead, but that I must;
For which I must not plead, but that I am
At war, 'twixt will, and will not.
u4nff. Well; the matter ?
Isa. I have a brother is condemn'd to die :
I do beseech you, let it be his fault.
And not my brother.
Pro. Heaven give thee moving graces !
Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ?
Why, every fault's condemn'd, ere it be done:
Mine were the very cipher of a function.
To fine the faults,' whose fine stands in record.
And let go by the actor.
Isa. O just, but severe law !
I had a brother then.—Heaven keep your honor !
Sjetiring.
Lucio. {to Jsa.] Give't not o'er so: to him again,
entreat him;
Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown ;
You are too cold : if you should need a pin.
You could not with more tame a tongue desire it:
To him, I say.
Isa. Must he needs die ?
Ang. Maiden, no remedy.
Isa. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon him.
And neither Heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.
■ To pronounce the fine or sentence of the la«-, appointed
for certain crimes.
SCENE II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 165
Aug. I will not do't.
/««. But can you, if you would ?
Ang. Look, what I wiU not, that I cannot do.
Isa. But might you do't, and do the world no
wrong.
If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse >
As mine is to him ?
Ang. He's sentenced; 'tis too late.
Lucio. You are too cold. \to Isabella.
Isa. Too late ? why, no ; I, that do speak a
word.
May call it back again. Well, believe this: -
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs.
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword.
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe.
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does. If he had been as you, and you
as he.
You would have slipp'd like him ; but he, like you.
Would not have been so stern.
Ang. Pray you, begone.
Isa. I would to Heaven I had your potency.
And you were Isabel! should it then be thus ?
No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge.
And what a prisoner.
Lucio. Ay, touch him : there's the vein, [aside.
Ang. Your brotlier is a forfeit of the law.
And you but waste your words.
' Pity. ' Be assured of this.
166
UEASURB FOB MEASURE.
ACT II.
Isa. Alas ! alas !
Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once;
And He that might the vantage best have took.
Found out the remedy. How would you be.
If he, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are ? O, think on that;
And mercy then will breathe within your lips.
Like man new made.'
Ang. Be you content, fmr maid;
It is the law, not I, condemns your brother;
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son.
It should be thus with him;—he must die to»
morrow.
Isa. To-morrow ? O, that's sudden ! Spare him,
spare him;
He's not prepared for death! Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season; * shall we serve Heaven
With less respect than we do minister
I'o our gross selves ? Good, good my lord, bethink
you :
Who is it that hath died for this offence ?
There's many have committed it.
Lucio. Ay, well said.
Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath
slept:
Those many had not dared to do that evil.
If the first man that did the edict infringe.
Had answer'd for his deed: now, 'tis awake :
' As man regenerate.
* When it is in season.
SCENE II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
167
Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet.
Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils
(Either now, or b)' remissness new-conceived.
And so in progress to be hatch'd and born)
Are now to have no successive degrees.
But, where they live, to end.
Isa. Yet show some pity.
Ang. I show it most of all, when 1 show justice ;
For then I pity those I do not know.
Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall;
And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong.
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied;
Your brother dies to-morrow: be content.
Isa. So you must be the first, that gives thb sen-
tence;
And he, that suffers! O, it is excellent
To have a Rant's strength, but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
Lucio. That's well said.
Isa. Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet.
For every pelting,* petty officer.
Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but
thunder.
Merciful Heaven!
Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled® oak
Than the soft myrtle ; but man, proud man !
' Paltry, ® Knotted,
168
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT II.
Dress'u in a little brief authority;
Most ignorant of what he's most assured.
His glassy essence,—like an angry ape.
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven.
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens.
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
Lucio. O, to him, to him, wench ; he will relent;
He's coming; I perceive't.
Pro. Pray Heaven, she win him!
Isa. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:
Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them ;
But, in the less, foul profanation.
Lucio. Thou 'rt in the right, girl; more o' that.
Isa. That in the captain's but a choleric word.
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Lucio. Art advised o' that ? more on't.
Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ?
Isa. Because authority, though it err like others.
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself.
That skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom ;
Knock there ; and ask your heart, what it doth know
That's like my brother's fault: if it confess
A natural guiltiness, such as is his.
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue
Against my brother's life.
Ang. She speaks, and 'tis
Such sense, that my sense breeds with it.' Fare
you well.
' She delivers her sentiments with such eloquence, that my
sensual desires are inflamed even hy what she says.
scene h. measure for measure.
169
Isa. Gentle my lord, turn back.
Ang. I will bethink me.—Come again to-morrow.
Isa Hark, how I '11 bribe you. Good my lord,
turn back.
Ang. How ! bribe me ?
Isa. Ay, with such gifts, that Heaven shall share
with you.
Lucio. You had marr'd all else.
Isa. Not with fond shekels of the tested ^ gold.
Or stones, whose rates are either rich, or poor.
As fancy vedues them : but with true prayers.
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there.
Ere sun-rise; prayers from preserved souls,®
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.
Ang. Well: come to me
To-morrow.
Lucio. Go to; it is well; away, [aside to Isabel.
Isa. Heaven keep your honor safe!
Ang. Amen:
For I am that way going to temptation, [aside.
Where prayers cross.
Isa. At what hour to-morrow
Shall I attend your lordship i
Ang. At any time 'fore noon.
Isa. Save your honor!
[Exeunt Lucio, Isabella, and Provost.
' Attested, stamped.
» Preserved from the. corruption of the world:
170 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT II.
Aug. From thee; even from thy virtue!—
What's this ? what's this ? Is this her fault, or
mine ?
The tempter, or the tempted, who sins most ? Ha!
Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I,
That lying by the violet, in the sUn,
Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower.
Corrupt with virtuous season.' Can it be.
That modesty may more betray our sense
Than woman's lightness? Having waste groimd
enough.
Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary.
And pitch our evils there ? O, fie, fie, fie!
What dost thou ? or what art thou, Angelo ?
Dost thou desire her foully, for those things
That make her good ? O, let her brother live :
Thieves for their robbery have authority.
When judges steal themselves. What ? do I love
her.
That I desire to hear her speak again.
And feast upon her eyes ? What is 't I dream on ?
O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint.
With saints dost bait thy hook ! Most dangerous
Is that temptation, that doth goad us on
To sin in loving virtue : never could the strumpet.
With all her double vigor,'art, and nature.
Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid
' I am like the carrion, which grows putrid hy those beanui
wliich increase tlio fragrance of tlie violet.
scene iii. measure for measure.
171
Subdues me quite.—^Ever, till now.
When men were fond, 1 smiled, and wonder'd how.
scene iii.
A room in a prison.
Enter duke, habited like a Friar, and provost.
Duke. Hail to you, provost! so, I think, you are.
Pro. I am the provost. What's your will, good
friar ?
Duke. Bound hy my charity, and my hless'd order,
I come to visit the afflicted spirits
Here in the prison: do me the common right
To let me see them; and to make me know
The nature of their crimes, that I may minister
To them accordingly.
Pro. I would do more than that, if more were
needful.
Enter juliet.
Look, here comes one; a gentlewoman of mine.
Who falling in the flames of her own youth,
Hath hlister'd her report. She is with child :
And he that got it sentenced: a young msm
More fit to do another such offence.
Than die for this.
Duke. When must he die ?
Pro. As I do think, to-morrow.—
I have provided for you ; stay awhile, \to Juliet.
And you shall he conducted.
172 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT II.
Duke. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry ?
Jul. I do ; and bear the shame most patiently.
Duke. I '11 teach you how you shall arraign your
conscience.
And try your penitence, if it he sound.
Or hollowly put on.
Jul. I '11 gladly leam.
Duke. Love you the man that wrong'd you ?
Jul. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him.
Duke. So then, it seems, your most ofFenceful act
Was mutually committed ?
Jul. Mutually.
Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind than his.
Jul. I do confess it, and repent it, ^her.
Duke. 'Tis meet so, daughter. But lest you do
repent.
As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,—
Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not
Heaven;
Showing, we'd not spare Heaven,' as we love it.
But as we stand in fear,—
Jul. I do repent me, as it is an evil;
And take the shame with joy.
Duke. There rest.-
Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow.
And 1 am going with instruction to him.—
Grace go with you ! Benedicite I \Exil,
' Spare to offend Heaven.
* Keep yourself in tliis temper.
scen'e it. measure for measure.
173
Jul. Must die to-morrow ! O, injurious love.
That respites me a life, whose very comfort
Is still a dying horror !
Pro. 'Tis pity of him. \Excurit
scene iv.
A room in Angela's house.
Enter angelo.
Ang. When I would pray and think, I think and
pray
To several subjects : Heaven hath my empty words;
Whilst my invention,' hearing not my tongue.
Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth.
As if I did but only chew his name ;
And in my heart, the strong and swelling evil
Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied.
Is, like a good thing, being often read.
Grown fear'd and tedious; yea, my gravity.
Wherein (let no man hear me) I take pride.
Could I, with boot,'' change for an idle plume.
Which the air beats for vain. O place ! O form!
How often dost thou with thy case,^ thy habit.
Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls
To thy false seeming ! Blood, thou still art blood:
Let's write good angel on the devil's horn,
'Tis not the devil's crest.
^ Imaginutioa. ® Prolit. ® Outside.
174
measure for measure. ACT ii.
Enter servant.
How now, who's there ?
Ser One Isabel, a sister.
Desires access to you.
Ang. Teach her the way. Servant.'] O
heavens!
Why does my blood thus muster to my heart;
Making both it unable for itself.
And dispossessing all my other parts
Of necessary fitness ?
So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons:
Come all to help him, and so stop the air
By which he should revive : and even so
The general,' subject to a well-wish'd king.
Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness
Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love
Must needs appear oflFence.
Enter Isabella,
How now, fair maid ?
Isa, I am come to know your pleasure.
Ang. Tliat you might know it, would much better
please me,
I'han to demand what 'tis. Your brother cannot
live.
Isa. Even so ?—Heaven keep your honor !
[retiring.
' People.
8CENK IV. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
175
Ang. Yet may lie live awhile ; and, it may be.
As long as you or I : yet he must die.
Isa, Under your sentence ?
Ang. Yea.
Isa. When, I beseech you ? that in his reprieve.
Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted.
That his soul sicken not.
Ang. Ha! Fie, these filthy vices ! It were as good
To pardon him, that hath from nature stolen
A man already made,' as to remit
Their saucy sweetness, that do coin Heaven's image
In stamps that are forbid: 'tis all as easy
Falsely to take away a life true made.
As to put mettle in restrained means.
To make a false one.
Isa. 'Tis set down so in heaven, hut not in
earth.
Ang. Say you so ? then I shall poze you quickly.
Which had you rather; that the most just law
Now took your brother's hfe ; or, to redeem him.
Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness.
As she that he hath stain'd ?
Isa. Sir, believe this ;
I had rather give my body than my soul.
Ang. I talk not of your soul; our compell'd sins
Stand more for number than account.
Isa. How say you ?
Ang. Nay, I '11 not warrant that; for I can speak
' That nath killed a man.
176 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT It.
Against the thing I say. Answer to tliis:—
I, now the voice of the recorded law,
Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life •
Might there not he a charity in sin,
To save this brother's life ?
Isa. Please you to do't,
I '11 take it as a peril to my soul,
It is no sin at all, but charity.
ying. Pleased you to do't, at peril of your soul.
Were equid poize of sin and charity.
Isa. 'Phat I do beg his life, if it be sin.
Heaven, let me bear it! you granting of my suit,
If that be sin, I '11 make it my morn prayer
To have it added to the faults of mine.
And nothing of your answer.
Aug. Nay, but hear me :
Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ig-
norant.
Or seem so, craftily; and that's not good,
Isa. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good.
But graciously to know I am no better.
Aug. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright,
When it doth tax itself: as these black masks
Proclaim an enshield ^ beauty ten times louder
Than beauty could display'd.—But mark me;
To be received plain, I '11 speak more gr )ss ;
Your brother is to die.
Isa. So.
' Enshieldtd, covered.
SCENK IV. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
177
An^. And his offence is so, as it appears.
Accountant to the law upon that pain.^
Isa. True.
Ang. Admit no other way to save his life,
(As I subscribe not that,® nor any other.
But in the loss of question that you, his sister,
Finding yourself desired of such a person.
Whose credit with the judge, or own great place,
Could fetch your brother from the manacles
Of the all-binding law ; and that there were
No earthly mean to save him, but that either
You must lay down the ti'easures of your body
To this supposed, or else to let him suffer;
What would you do ?
Isa. As much for my poor brother as myself:
That is, were I under the terms of death.
The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies.
And strip myself to death, as to a bed
That longing I have been sick for, ere I'd yield
My body up to shame.
Ang. Then must your brother die.
Isa. And 'twere the cheaper way:
Better it were, a brother died at once.
Than that a sister, by redeeming him.
Should die for ever.
Ang. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence
That you have slander'd so ?
' Penalty. ' As I agree not to that.
® Conversation.
SBAK. II- '
178 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT II.
Isa. Ignomy > in ransom, and free pardon.
Are of two houses : lawful mercy is
Nothing akin to foul redemption.
Ang. You seem'd of late to make the law a
tyrant;
And rather proved the sliding of your brother
A meniment than a vice.
Isa. O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out,
To have what we'd have, we speak not what we
mean:
I something do excuse the thing I hate,
Foi his advantage that I dearly love.
Ang. We are all frail.
Isa. Else let my brother die.
If not a feodary,® but only he.
Owe,® and succeed by weakness.
Ang. Nay, women are frail too.
Isa. Ay, as the glasses where they view them-
selves;
Which are as easy broke as they make forms.
Women!—Help Heaven! men their creation mar
In profiting by them.* Nay, call us ten times frail;
For we are soft as our complexions are.
And credulous to false prints.®
Ang. I think it well;
And from this testimony of your own sex,
(Since, I suppose, we are made to be no stronger
' Ii^ominy. ' Associate in his crime.
* In taking advantage of their weakness.
* Take any impression.
' Own.
3ffEASU3SLE I^ORKRAStTBE
Jsa^euA
j^<t H Scat^I^
SCKNB IT.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
179
Than faults may shake our frames) let me be bold;—
I do arrest your words : be that you are.
That is, a woman; if you be more, you 're none;
If you be one, (as you are well express'd
By all external warrants) show it now.
By putting on the destined livery.
Isa. I have no tongue but one : gentle my lord,
Let me entreat you speak the former language.
Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you.
Isa. My brother did love Juliet; and you tell me.
That he shall die for it.
Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.
Isa. I know, your virtue hath a license in't.
Which seems a little fouler than it is.
To pluck on others.
Ang. Believe me, on mine honor.
My words express my purpose.
Isa. Ha! little honor to be much believed.
And mostpernicious purpose!—Seeming,' seeming!—
I will proclaim thee, Angelo ; look for't:
Sign me a present pardon for my brother.
Or, with an outstretch'd throat, I '11 tell the world
Aloud, what man thou art.
Ang. Who will believe thee, Isabel ?
My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life.
My vouch ® against you, and my place i' the state.
Will so your accusation overweigh.
That you shall stifle in your own report.
1 Hypocrisy.
Attestation.
180 MEASURK FOR MEASURE. ACT II.
And smell of calumny, I have begun;
And now I give my sensual race the rein.
Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;
Lay by all nicety, and prolixious i blushes.
That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother
By yielding up thy body to my will;
Or else he must not only die the death.
But thy unkindness shall his death draw out
To lingering sufferance ; answer me to-morrow.
Or, by the affection that now guides me most,
I '11 prove a tyrant to him. As for you.
Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true.
{Exit.
Isa. To whom shsdl I complain ? Did I tell fhis,
Who would believe me ? O perilous mouths.
That bear in them one and the self-same tongue,
Either of condemnation or approof!
Bidding the law make courtesy to their will;
Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite.
To follow as it draws! I '11 to my brother:
Though he hath fallen by prompture ® of the blood.
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honor.
That had he twenty heads to tender down
On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up.
Before his sister should her body stoop
To such abhorr'd pollution. ^ ,
Then Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:
More than our brother is our chastity.
' Dilatory.
' Temptation, instigation.
scene iv. measure for measure.
181
I '11 tell him yet of Angelo's request.
And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest. [Exit,
ACT III.
scene i.
A room in the prison.
Enter duke, claudio, and provost.
Duke. So, then you hope of pardon from lord
Angelo ?
Clau. The miserable have no other medicine.
But only hope;
I have hope to live, and am prepared to die.
Duke. Be absolute for death; ' either death, or
life.
Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with
life
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,
(Servile to all the skiey influences)
That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st.
Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;
For him thou labor'st by thy flight to shun.
And yet run'st toward him still. Thou art not
noble;
For all the accommodations that thou bear'st.
* RelinqiiisL all hopes oi* life*
182
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT III.
Are nursed by baseness. Thou art by no means
valiant;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep.
And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not
thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not
certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,'
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots ® bows,
ITiou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey.
And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire.
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigo,® and the rheum.
For ending ihee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth
jior age;
) But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep.
Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld ; and when thou art old, and rich.
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
■ Affects, i. e. affections.
* A kind of tetter.
' Masses of metal.
* Old age.
scene I, measure for measure.
183
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this.
That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear.
That makes these odds all even.
Clau. I humbly thank you.
To sue to live, I find, I seek to die;
And, seeking death, find life. Let it come on.
Enter Isabella.
Jsa. What, ho! Peace here; grace and good
company!
Pro. Who's there ? come in; the wish desen'cs
a welcome.
Duke. Dear sir, ere long I '11 visit you again.
Clau. Most holy sir, I thank you.
/sa. My business is a word or two with Claudio.
Fro. And very welcome. Look, signior, here's
your sister.
Duke. Provost, a word with you.
Pro, As many as you please.
Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I
may be conceal'd.
Yet hear them. [Exeunt Duke and Provost.
Clau. Now, sister, what's the comfort ?
Isa. Why, as all comforts are; most good indeed:
liOrd Angelo, having affairs to heaven.
Intends you for his swift ambassador.
Where you shall be an everlasting leiger: ^
■ Resident.
#
184 MEASURE FOE MEASURE. ACT HI.
Therefore your best appointment* make with speed:
To-morrow you set on.
Clau. Is there no remedy ?
Isa. None, but such remedy, as, to save a head.
To cleave a heart in twain.
Clau. But is there any ?
Isa. Yes, brother, you may live;
There is a devilish mercy in the judge.
If you '11 -'mplore it, that will free your life.
But fettei you till death.
Clau. Perpetual durance ?
Isa. Ay, just, perpetual durance ; a restraint.
Though all the world's vastidity ® you had.
To a determined scope.*
Clau. But in what nature ?
Isa. In such a one as (you consenting to't).
Would bark* your honor from that trunk you bear,
And leave you naked.
Clau. Let me know the point.
Isa. O, I do fear thee, Claudio ; and I quake.
Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain.
And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honor. Darest thou die ?
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon.
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
' Preparation. ' Extent.
' 'J'o one painl'ul idea. i. e. to ignominy. 4 strip.
8C2NE I.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
185
Clau. "Why give you me this shame ?
Think you I can a resolution fetch
From flowery tenderness If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride.
And hug it in mine arms.
Isa. There spake my brother; there my father's
grave
Did utter forth a voice ! Yes, thou must die :
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,—
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth enmew,'^
As falcon doth the fowl,—is yet a devil:
His filth within being cast,® he would appear
A pond as deep as hell.
Clau. The princely Angelo ?
Isa. O, 'tis the cunning livery of hell.
The damned'st body to invest and cover
In princely guards! ® Dost thou think, Claudio.
If I would yield him my virginity.
Thou mightst be freed ?
Clau. O Heavens ! it cannot be.
Isa. Yes, he would give it thee, from this rank
offence.
So to offend him still. This night's the time
That I should do what I abhor to name,
i Or else thou diest to-morrow.
' Forces follies to lie in cover, without daring to show
Kniptiede ^ Lacod robes.
186 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT III.
Clau. 'ITiou shalt not do 't.
Isa. O, were it but my life,
1 'd throw it down for your deliverance
As frankly as a pin.
Clau. Thanks, dear Isabel.
Isa. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.
Clau. Yes.—Has he affections in him.
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose.
When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin.
Or of the deadly seven it is the least.
Isa. Which is the least
Clau. If it were damnable, he, being so wise.
Why, would he for the momentary trick >
Be perdurably ® fined ?—O Isabel!
Isa. What says my brother ?
Clau. Death is a fearful thing.
Isa. And shamed life a hateful.
Clau. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit'
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds.
And blown with restless violence round about
'I'he pendent world ; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
' Indulgence of a vicious appetite. ® Lastingly.
° The spirit accustomed here to ease and delights.
SCENE I.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
187
Imagine howling!—'tis too horrible !
The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
Tliat age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
Isa. Alas! alas !
Clau. Sweet sister, let me live:
What sin you do to save a brother's life.
Nature dispenses with the deed so far,
That it becomes a virtue.
Isa. O, you beast!
O, faithless coward! O, dishonest wretch!
Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ?
Is't not a kind of incest, to take life
From thine own sister's shame ? What should I think ?
Heaven shield, my nmther play'd my father fair!
For such a warped slip of wilderness '
Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance : ®
Die; perish ! might but my bending down
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed:
I '11 pray a thousand prayers for thy death.
No word to save thee.
C/au. Nay, hear me, Isabel.
Isa. O, fie, fie, fie !
Tliy sin *s not accidental, but a trade : ^
Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd :
'Tis best that thou diest quickly. [yoi'np,
Clau. O, hear me, Isabella.
' Wildness. ' Kefusal. » An establislieJ babil.
188
measure for measure*
act in.
Re-enter duke.
Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one
word.
Isa. What is your will ?
Duke. Might you dispense with your leisure, I
would by and by have some speech with you : the
satisfaction I would require is likewise your own
benefit.
Isa. I have no superfluous leisure ; my stay must
be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you
awhile.
Duke, [to Claudia, aside."] Son, I have overheard
what hath passed between you and your sister.
Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only
he hath made an essay of her virtue, to practise his
judgment with the disposition of natures: she,
having the truth of honor in her, hath made him
that gracious denial which he is most glad to re-
ceive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to
be true; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do
not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fal-
lible : to-morrow you must die; go to your knees,
and make ready.
Clau. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out
of love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it.
Duke. Hold you there:' farewell. [Exit Claudia.
' Continue in that resolution.
scene i. measure for measure.
189
Re-enter provost.
Provost, a word with you.
Pro. What's your will, father ?
Duke. That now you are come, you will be gone.
Leave me awhile with the maid; my mind promises
with my habit, no loss shall touch her by my com-
pany.
Pro. In good time.' [Exit Provost.
Duke. The hand, that hath made you fair, hatb
made you good: the goodness, that is cheap in
beauty, makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace,
being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the
body of it ever fair. The assault, that Angelo hath
made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my un-
derstanding; and, but that frailty hath examples
for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How
would you do to content this substitute, and to save
your brother ?
Isa. I am now going to resolve him. I had
rather my brother die by the law, than my son
should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is
the good duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he
return, and I can speak to him, I will open my lips
in vain, or discover his government.
Duke. That shall not be much amiss: yet, as the
matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation;
he made trial of you only.®—^Therefore fasten your
* a la bonne he'are, very well.
' That is, lie will say he made trial of you only.
190 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT III.
ear on my advisings; to the love I have in doing
good, a remedy presents itself. I do make myself
believe, that you may most uprighteously do a poor
wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your
brother from the angry law; do no stain to your
own gracious person; and much please the absent
duke, if, peradventure, he shall ever return to have
hearing of this business.
Isa. Let me hear you speak farther ; I have spirit
to do any thing that appears not foul in the truth of
my spirit.
Duke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
Have you not heard speak of Mariana the sister of
Frederic, the great soldier, who miscarried at sea ?
Isa. I have heard of the lady, and good words
went with her name.
Duke. Her should this Angelo have married; was
affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed :
between which time of the contract, and limit of the
solemnity, her brother Frederic was wrecked at
sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his
sister. But mark, how heavily this befel to the
poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and
renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most
kind and natural; with him the portion and sinew
of her fortune, her marriage-dowry ; with both, her
combinate ' husband, this well-seeming Angelo !
Isa. Can this he so ? Did Angelo so leave her;
' Betrothed.
SCKKK I. URASITRE FOR MEASURE. 191
Duke, Left her in her tears, and dried not one of
them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole,
pretending in her discoveries of dishonor: in few,^
bestowed her on her own lamentation,^ which she
yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her
tears, is washed with them, but relents not.
Isa, What a merit were it in death, to take this
poor maid from the world! What corruption in
this life, that it will let this man live !—But how
out of this can she avail ?
Duke. It is a rupture that you may easily heal;
and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but
keeps you from dishonor in doing it.
Isa. Show me how, good father.
Duke. This fore-named maid hath yet in her the
continuance of her first affection; his unjust unkind-
ness, that in all reason should have quenched her
love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made
it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo;
answer his requiring with a plausible obedience ;
agree with his demands to the point: only refer
)'our8elf^ to this advantage,—first, that your stay
with him may not be long; that the time may
have all shadow and silence in it; and the place
answer to convenience: this being granted in course,
now follows all. We shall advise this wronged
maid to stead up your appointment, go in your
' In short. ' Left her to her sorrows.
' Hare recourse.
192 measure foe measure. act iii.
place: if the encounter acknowlege itself hereafter,
it may compel him to her recompense: and here,
by this, is your brother saved, your honor untainted,
the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt
deputy scaled.' The maid will I frame, and make
fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this
as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends
the deceit from reproof. What think you of it ?
Isa. The image of it gives me content already;
and, I trust, it will grow to a most prosperous per-
fection.
Duke. It lies much in your holding up. Haste
you speedily to Angelo ; if for this night he entreat
you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. 1
will presently to St. Luke's; tliere, at the moated*
grange,® resides this dejected Mariana. At that
place call upon me; and despatch with Angelo, that
it may be quickly.
Jsa. I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well,
good father. [Exeunt severally
scene 11.
The street before the prison.
Enter dukr as a Friar; to him elbow, clown, and
Officers.
Elbow. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that
' Overreached, put to confusion.
* A grange is a solitary farm-nouse.
SCliNK II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
193
you will needs buy and sell men and women like
beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and
white bastard.i
Duke. O heavens ! what stuff is here ?
Clown. 'Twas never merry world, since, of two
usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser
allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him
warm; and furred with fox and lamb-skins too, to
signify, that craft, being richer than innocency,
stands for the facing.
Elbow. Come your way, sir.—^Bless you, good
father friar.
Duke. And you, good brother father. What of-
fence hath this man made you, sir ?
Elbow. Marry, sir, be hath offended the law; and,
sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have
found upon him, sir, a strange pick-lock, which we
have sent to the deputy.
Duke. Fie, sirrah; a bawd, a wicked bawd!
The evil that thou causest to be done.
That is thy means to live. Do thou but think
What 'tis to cram a maw, or clothe a back.
From such a filthy vice : say to thyself,—
From their abominable and beastly touches
I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.
Canst thou believe thy living is a life.
So stinkingly depending ? Go,' mend; go, mend.
• A sweet wine, much used in our authoi's lime.
SIIAK. II.
194 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT 111.
Clown. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir;
lilt yet, sir, I would prove
Duke. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for
sin»
Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer;
Correction and instruction must both work,
Er^ this rude beast will profit.
Elbow. He must before the deputy, sir; he has
given him warning: the deputy cannot abide a
whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and comes
before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.
Duke. That we were all, as some would seem
to be.
From our faults, as faults from seeming, free!
Enter Lucio.
Elbow. His neck will come to your waist, a cord,
sir.'
Clown. 1 spy comfort; I cry, bail. Here's a
gentleman, and a friend of mine.
Lttcio. How now, noble Pompey ? What, at the
heels of Caesar ? Art thou led in triumph ? What,
is there none of Pygmalion's images, newly made
woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the
pocket, and extracting it clutched ? What reply ?
Ha: What say'st thou to this tune, matter, and
' riis neck will be tied, like yonr waiat, with a rope. Some
ordtjis of friars wear a hempen cord for a girdle.
SCENE II.
MEASUllE FOR MEASURE.
195
method ? Is *t not drowned i i' the last rain ? Ha !
What say'st thou, trot ? Is the world as it was,
man ? Which is the way ? ® Is it sad, and few
words ? Or how ? 'ITie trick of it ?
Duke. Still thus, and thus! still worse!
Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress ?
Procures she still ? Ha ?
Clown. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef,
and she is herself in the tub.
Lucio. Why, 'tis good; it is the right of it; it
must be so: ever your fresh whore, and your
powdered bawd: an unshunned^ consequence; it
must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey ?
Clown. Yes, faith, sir.
Lucio. Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey : farewell:
go; say, I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey?
or how ?
Elbow. For being a bawd, for being a bawd.
Lucio. Well, then imprison him : if imprisonment
be the due of a bawd, why, 'tis his right: bawd is
he, doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd-bom.
Faiewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the
prison, Pompey : you will turn good husband now,
Pompey ; you will keep the house.
Clown. I hope, sir, your good worship wiU be my
bail.
Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not
• Meaning probably—Is not your answer drowned, &«. ia
allusion to the miserable appearance of Pompey.
* Wh'dt is the mode tiow 1 ® inevitable.
196 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT ir.
the wear.' I will pray, Pompey, to increase your
bondage : if you take it not patiently, why, your
mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.—Bless
you, friar.
Duke. And you.
Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey ? Ha ?
Elbow. Come your ways, sir ; come.
Clown. You will not bail me then, sir ?
Lucio. Then, Pompey? nor now.—What news
abroad, friar ? What news ?
Elbow. Come your ways, sir; come.
Lucio. Go,—to kennel, Pompey, go.
[^Exeunt Elbow, Clown, and Officers.
What news, friar, of the duke ?
Duke. I know none. Can you tell me of any ?
Lucio. Some say, he is with the emperor of
Russia; other some, he is in Rome. But where is
he, think you ?
Duke. I know not where: but wheresoever, I
wish him well.
Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him, to
steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was
never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in liis
absence; he puts transgression to't.
Duke. He does well in't.
Lucio. A little more lenity to lechery would do
no harm in him : something too crabbed that way,
friar.
' Fasliion.
SCENE II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
197
Duke. It is too general a vice, and severity must
cure it.
Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great
kindred; it is well allied : hut it is impossible to
extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put
down. They say, this Angelo was not made by
man and woman, after the downright way of crea-
tion. Is it true, think you ?
Duke. How should he be made then ?
Lucio. Some report, a sea-maid spawned him;—
some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes.
—But it is certain, that when he makes water, his
urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true: and
he is a motion ^ ungencrative, that's infallible.
Duke. You are pleasant, sir; and speak apace.
Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him,
for the rebellion of a cod-piece, to take away the
life of a man ? Would the duke, that is absent,
have done this ? Ere he would have hanged a man
for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have
paid for the nursing a thousand. He had some
feeling of the sport ;• he knew the service, and that
instructed him to mercy.
Duke. I never heard the absent duke much de
tected for women ; he was not inclined that way.
Lucio. O sir, you are deceived.
Duke. 'Tis not possible.
Lucio. Who ? not the duke ? yes, your beggar of
' Puppet.
198 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT III,
fifty; and his use was, to put a ducat in her clack-
dish ; 1 the duke had crotchets ® in him. He would
be drunk too; that let me inform you.
Duke. You do him wrong, surely.
Lucio. Sir, I was an inward* of his. A shy
fellow was the duke; and, I believe, I know the
cause of his withdrawing.
Duke. What, I pr'ythee, might be the cause ?
Lucio. No, — pardon; — 'tis a secret must be
locked within the teeth and the lips: but this 1 can
let you understand:—The greater file of the subject*
held the duke to be wise.
Duke. Wise ? why, no question but he was.
Lucio. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing *
fellow.
Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mis-
taking: the very stream of his life, and the business
he hath helmed,® must, upon a warranted need, give
him a better proclamation. Let him be but testi-
monied in his own bringings forth, and he shall
appear to the envious, a scholar, a statesman, and a
soldier. Therefore, you speak unskilfully; or, if
your knowlege be more, it is much darkened in your
malice.
Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him.
' The beggars used to proclaim their wants by a wooden
dish with a moveable cover, which they clacked, to show that
their vessel was empty. * Odd fancies.
® Intimate friend. < The majority of his subjects.
* Inconsiderate. ® Steered through.
SCENE II. MEASURE FOE MEASURE. 199
Duks. Love talks with better knowlege, and
knowlege with dearer love.
Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know.
Duke. I can hardly believe that, since you know
not what you speak. But, if ever the duke re-
turu, (as our prayers are he may) let me desire you
to make your answer before him. If it be honest
you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it. I
am bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, your
name ?
Lucio. Sir, my name is Lucio j well known to the
duke.
Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live
to report you.
Lucio. 1 fear you not.
Duke. O, you hope the duke will return no more,
or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite.' But,
indeed, 1 can do you little harm: you '11 forswear
this again.
Jjueio. 1 '11 he hanged first: thou art deceived in
me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell, if
Claudio die to-morrow, or no ?
Duke. Why should he die, sir ?
Lucio. Why ? for filling a bottle with a tun-dish.
1 would, the duke, we talk of, were returned again :
tliis ungenitured agent wiU unpeople the province
with continency; sparrows must not build in his
house-eaves, because they are lecherous. The duke
' Opponeot.
200 mkasube for measure. act ih.
yet would have dark deeds darkly answered; he
would never bring them to light: would he were
returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for
untrussing. Farewell, good friar; I pr'ythee, pray
for me. The duke, I say to thee again, would eat
mutton on Fridays. He's now past it; yet, and I
say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though
she smelt brown bread and garliek; say, that I said
so. Farewell. \_Ejcil.
Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality
Can censure 'scape: hack-wounding calumny
The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ?
But who comes here ?
Enter escalus, provost, bawd, and Officers.
Esc. Go, away with her to prison.
Bawd. Good, my lord, be good to me; your
honor is accounted a merciful man; good my lord.
Esc. Double and treble admonition, and still for-
feit' in the same kind ? This would make mercy
swear, and play the tyrant.
Pro. A bawd of eleven years continuance, may it
please your honor.
Bawd. My lord, this is one Lucio's information
against me: mistress Kate Keep-down was with
child by him in the duke's time; he promised her
marriage; his child is a year and a quarter old, come
» Transgress.
SCENK II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
201
Philip and Jacob. I have kept it myself; and see
how he goes about to abuse me.
Esc. That fellow is a fellow of much license:—
let him be called before us.—Away with her to
prison. Go to; no more words. \_Es;eunt Bawd
and Officers.'] Provost, my brother Angelo will not
be altered; Claudio must die to-morrow: let him
be furpished with divines, and have all charitable
preparation: if my brother wrought by my pity, it
should not be so with him.
Pro. So please you, this friar hath been with him,
and advised him for the entertainment of death.
Esc. Good even, good father.
Duke. Bliss and goodness on you!
Esc. Of whence are you ?
Duke. Not of this country, though my chance is
D.OW
To use it for my time: I am a brother
Of gracious order, late come from the see.
In special business from his holiness.
Esc. What news abroad i' the world ?
Duke. None, but that there is so great a fever on
goodness, that the dissolution of it mast cure it: no-
velty is only in request; and it is as dangerous to be
aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous to be
constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth
enough alive, to make societies secure ; but security
enough, to make fellowships accursed: much upon
this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This
news is old enough, yet it is every day's news. I
pray you. sir, of what disposition was the duke }
•
202 MEASITRB FOE MEASURE. ACT III.
Esc. One, that, above all other strifes, contended
especially to know himself.
Duke. What pleasure was he given to ?
Esc. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than
merry at any thing which professed to make him
rejoice; a gentleman of all temperance. But leave
we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove
prosperous; and let me desire to know how you find
Claudio prepared. I am made to understand, that
yon have lent him visitation.
Duke. He professes tc have received no sinister
measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles
himself to the determination of justice: yet had he
framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty,
many deceiving promises of life; which I, by my
good leisure, have discredited to him, and now is he
resolved i to die.
Esc. You have paid the heavens your function,
and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I
have labored for the poor gentleman, to the ex-
tremest shore of my modesty; but my brother justice
have I found so severe, that he hath forced me to
tell him, he is indeed—justice.
Duke. If his own life answer the straitness of his
proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he
chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.
Esc. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare
you well.
' Satisfied.
SCENE II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
•20;?
Duke. Peace be with you!
[Exeunt Escalus and Provost.
He, who the sword of Heaven will bear.
Should be as holy as severe ;
Pattern in himself to know.
Grace to stand, and virtue go;
More nor less to others paying.
Than by self-offences weighing.
Shame to him, whose cruel strildng
Kills for faults of his own liking!
Twice treble shame on Angelo,
To weed my vice, and let his grow !
0, what may man within him hide.
Though angel on the outward side !
How may likeness,' made in crimes,®
Mocking, practise on the times.
To draw with idle spiders' strings
Most ponderous and substantial things ! '
Craft against vice I must apply ;
With Angelo to-night shall lie
His old betrothed, but despised;
So disguise shall, by the disguised.
Pay with falshood, false exacting,'*
And perform an old contracting. [Exit.
* Seeming virtue, ' Trained in iniquity.
' To draw to themselves, by the flimsiest pretences, the
most solid advantages, i. e. pleasure, honor, reputation, &c.
* ' So disguise shall, by means of a person disguised, retuni
an injurious demand with a counterfeit person.'—Johnson.
204
measure for measure
ACT ir.
ACT IV.
scene i.
A room in Marianas house.
MA&iANA discovered sitting; a Boy singing.
SONG.
Tale, O, tale those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, the break of day.
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
bring again.
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
seal'd in vain.
Mar. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick
away:
Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice
Hath often still'd my brawling discontent.—
[Exit Boy.
Enter duke.
I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish
You had not found me here so musical:
Let me excuse me, and believe me so,—
My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe."
Duke. 'Tis good: though music oft hath such a
charm.
' ' Though the music soothed my sorrows, it had no ten-
dency to produce liaht merriment.'—Johnson.
SOKNK I.
measure for measure.
205
To make bad, good, and good provoke to harm.
1 pray you, tell me, hath any body inquired for me
here to-day ? much upon this time have I promised
here to meet.
Mar, You have not been inquired after: I have
sat here all day.
Enter Isabella.
Duke. I do constantly > believe you.—The time is
come, even now. I shall crave your forbearance a
little: may he, I will call upon you anon., for some
advantage to yourself.
Mar. I am always hound to you. [£■.«'/.
Duke, Very well met, and welcome.
What is the news from this good deputy ?
Isa, He hath a garden circummured ® with brick.
Whose western side is with a vineyard hack'd;
And to that vineyard is a planched gate,®
That makes his opening with this bigger key :
This other doth command a little door.
Which from the vineyard to the garden leads.
There have I made my promise to call on him.
Upon the heavy middle of the night.
Duke. But shall you on your knowlege find this
way ?
Isa. I have ta'en a due and wary note upon't;
With M hispering and most guilty diligence.
' Certainly. ' Walled round.
5 A gate made of planks.
206
MEASUUK FOB MEASURE.
act iv.
In action all of precejit, he did show me
The way twice o'er.
Jluke. Are there no other tokens
Between you 'greed, concerning her observance ?
Jsa. No, none, but only a repair i' the dark ;
And that I have pcssess'd ' him, my most stay
Can be but brief: for I have made him know,
I have a servant comes with me along,
I'hat stays upon me ; whose persuasion is,
I come about my brother.
Duke. 'Tis well borne up.
I have not yet made known to Mariana
A word of this.—What, ho ! within! come forth!
Re-enter mariana.
I pray you, be acquainted with this maid;
She comes to do you good.
Isa. I do desire the like.
Duke. Do you persuade yourself that I respect
you ?
Mar. Good friar, I know you do; and have
found it.
Duke. Take then this your companion by the
hand.
Who hath a stoiy ready for your ear:
I shall attend youi leisure; but make haste;
The vaporous night approaches.
Mar. Will't please you walk aside ?
[Exeunt Mariana and Isabella.
' Inlbrmed.
scene i.
measure for measure.
207
Dnke. O place and greatness, millions of false
eyes *
Are stuck upon thee ! volumes of report
Run with these false and most contrarious quests *
Upon thy doings! thousand 'scapes ' of wit
Make thee the father of their idle dream.
And rack thee in their fancies !—"Welcome! How
agreed ?
Re-enter mariana and Isabella. .
Isa. She '11 take the enterprise upon her, father.
If you advise it.
Duke. It is not my consent.
But my entreaty too.
Isa. Little have you to say.
When you depart from him, but, soft and low,
' Remember now my brother.'
Mar. Fear me not.
Duke. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at aU.:
He is your husband on a pre-contract:'
To bring you thus together, 'tis no sin ;
Sith^ that the justice of your title to him
Doth dorish ® the deceit. Come, let us go:
Our corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's to sow.
[^Exeunt,
' Pyes insidioi'S and traitorous. ^ Inquisitions.
' Sallies. * Since. ® Gild, or varuisli over.
208
ueasurs for measur2. act iv.
scene ii.
A room in the prison.
Enter provost and clown.
Pro. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a
man's head ?
Clown. If the man he a bachelor, sir, I can: but
if he be a married man, he is his wife's head, and I
can never cut off a woman's head.
Pro. Come, sir, leave me your snatches,^ and
yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are
to die Claudio and Bamardine. Here is in our prison
a common executioner, who in his office lacks a
helper: if you will take it on you to assist him, it
shall redeem you from your gyves;® if not, you
shall have your full time of imprisonment, and your
deliverance with an unpitied * whipping; for you
have been a notorious bawd.
Cloion. Sir, 1 have been an unla\^'ful bawd, time
out of mind; but yet 1 will be content to be a
lawful hangman. 1 would be glad to receive some
instruction from my fellow partner.
Pro. What ho, Abhorson! Where *s Abhorson,
there ?
Enter abhorson.
Ahh. Do you call, sir ?
Pro. Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-
' Shuflling answers. ' Fetters. ' Unmerciful.
MEAS0BE FOKMEASUBE
A>wrt kffouort-
.AetSX Som^lL
SCEKE II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
209
morrow in your execution. If you think it meet,
compound with him hy the year, and let him ahide
here with you; if not, use him for the present, and
dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with
you; he hafh been a hawd.
Abh. A bawd, sir ? Fie upon him! he will dis-
credit our mystery.^
Pro. Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather
will turn the scale. lExit.
Clown. Pray, sir, by your good favor, (for, surely,
sir, a good favor ^ you have, but that you have a
hanging look) do you call, sir, your occupation a
mystery ?
Abh. Ay, sir, a mystery.
Clown. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a my-
stery; and your whores, sir, being members of my
occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation
a mystery: hut what mystery there should be in
hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine.
Abh. Sir, it is a mystery.
Clown. Proof.
Abh. Every true ® man's apparel fits your thief;
if it be too little for your thief, your true man
thinks it big enough ; if it be too big for your thief,
your thief thinks it little enough: so every true
man's apparel fits your thief.
' Trade. ' Countenance. • Honest.
210
ueasvre for measure. ACT IV.
Re-enter provost.
Pro. Are you agreed ?
Clown. Sir, I will serve him ; for I do find, your
hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd;
he doth oftener ask forgiveness.
Pro. You, sirrah, provide your block and your
axe, to-morrow, four o'clock.
Abh. Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my
trade; follow.
Clown. I do desire to leam, sir; and, I hope, if
you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you
shall find me yare : * for, truly, sir, for your kind-
ness, I owe you a good turn.
Pro. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio:
[Exeunt Clown and Abhorson.
Th' one has my pity; not a jot the other.
Being a murderer, though he were my brother.
Enter claudio.
liOok, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:
Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow
Thou must be made immortal. Where's Bamar-
dine ?
Clau. As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless la-
hor.
When it lies starkly ® in the traveller's bones:
He will not wake.
' Ready. ' * Stiffly.
8CEKB II. measure for measure.
211
Pro. Who can do good on him ?
Well, go, prepare yourself. But hark, what noise ?
[knocking within.
Heaven give your spirits comfort! [Exit Claudia.
By and by :—
I hope it is some pardon or reprieve
For the most gentle Claudio.—Welcome, father.
Enter duke.
Duke. The best and wholesomest spirits of tlie
night
Envelop you, good provost! Who call'd here of
late ?
Pro. None, since the curfew rung.
, Duke. Not Isabel ?
Pro. No.
Duke. They will then, ere't be long.
Pro. What comfort is for Claudio ?
Duke. There's some in hope.
Pro. It is a bitter deputy.
Duke. Not so, not so; his life is parallel'd
Even with the stroke and line of his great justice ;
He doth with holy abstinence subdue
That in himself, which he spurs on his power
To qualify ' in others : were he meal'd ®
With that which he corrects, then were he 1311111-
nous;
< To temper, moderate. * Dc£!ed.
«
212
measure for measure. act iv.
But this being so, he's just.—^Now are they coine.—
\knocking within.—Provost goes out.
This is a gentle provost. Seldom, when
The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.—
How now ? What noise ? That spirit's possess'd
with haste,
Tliat wounds the unsistingi postern with these
strokes.
i'rovost returns, speaking to one at the door.
Pro. There he must stay, until the officer
Arise to let him in; he is call'd up.
Duke. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet.
But he must die to-morrow }
Pro. None, sir, none.
Duke. As near the dawning, provost, as it is.
You shall hear more ere morning.
Pro. Happily,
You something know; yet, I believe, there comes
No countermand; no such example have we;
Besides, upon the very siege ® cf justice.
Lord Angelo hath to the public ear
Profess'd the contrary.
Enter messenger.
DuJce. This is his lordship's man.
Pro. And here comes Claudio's pardon.
' Never at rest, al'.vay$ opening.
• Seat.
SCENE II.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
213
Mes. My lord hath sent you this note; and by
me this farther charge, that you swerve not from the
smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or
other circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take
it, it is almost day.
Pro. I shall obey him. [Exit Messenger.
Duke. This is his pardon, purchased by such sin,
[aside.
For which the pardoner himself is in:
Hence hath offence his quick celerity.
When it is home in high authority:
When vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended,
'ITiat for the fault's love is the offender friended.—
Now, sir, what news ?
Pro. I told you. Lord Angelo, belike, thinking
me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this un-
wonted putting on:' methinks, strangely; for he
hath not used it before.
Duke. Pray you, let's hear.
Pro. [reads.'] ' Whatsoever you may hear to the
contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the
clock; and, in the afternoon, Barnardine : for my
better satisfaction, let me have Claudio's head sent
me by five. Let this be duly performed; with a
thought, that more depends on it than we must yet
deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will
answer it at your peril.'
What say you to this, sir ?
Spur, inciteij^ent.
214 MEASURE EOR MEASURE. ACT IT.
Duke. What is that Barnardine, who is to he
executed in the afternoon ?
Pro. A Bohemian bom, but here nursed up and
bred: one that is a prisoner nine years old.^
Duke. How came it, that the absent duke had
not either delivered him to his liberty, or executed
him ? I have heard, it was ever his manner to
do so.
Pro. His friends still wrought reprieves for him;
and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of
lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.
Duke. Is it now apparent ?
Pro. Most manifest, and not denied by himself.
Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in pri-
son ? How seems he to he touched ?
Pro. A man that apprehends death no more
dreadfully, but as a drunken sleep; careless; reck-
less, and fearless of what's past, present, or to come,
insensible of mortality, and desperately mortal.®
Duke. He wants advice.
Pro. He will hear none: he hath evermore had
the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape
hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, it
not many days intirely drunk. We have very often
awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and
showed him a seeming warrant for it: it hath not
moved him at all.
Duke. More of him anon. ITiere is written in
> That has been confined these nine years.
® For mortally desperaH, i. e. desperate in the extreme.
SCKNJS II. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 215
your brow, provost, honesty and constancy; if 1
read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but
in the boldness of my cunning,' I will lay myself
in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have a warrant
to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than
Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you
understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but
four days respite ; for the which you are to do me
both a present and a dangerous courtesy.
Pro. Pray, sir, in what ?
Duke. In the delaying death.
Pro. Alack ! how may I do it ? having the hour
limited; and an express command, under penalty,
to deliver his head in the view of Angelo ? I may
make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in the
smallest.
Duke. By the vow of mine order, I warrant you,
if my instructions may be your guide. Let this
Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head
borne to Angelo.
Pro. Angelo hath seen them both, and will dis-
cover the favor.®
Duke. 0 death's a great disguiser; and you may
add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard ; and
say, it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared
before his death. You know, the course is common.
If any thing fall to you upon this, more than thanks
and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I
wDl plead against it with my life.
' In confidence of my sagacity ' Countenance.
216 MEASURb FOR MEASURE. ACT IV.
Pro. Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath.
Duke. Were you sworn to the duke, or to the
deputy ?
Pro. To him, and to his substitutes.
Duke. You will think you have made no offence,
if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing ?
Pro. But what likelihood is in that ?
Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet
since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, inte-
grity, nor my persuasion can with ease attempt you,
I will go farther than I meant, to pluck all fears out
of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of
the duke. You know the character, I doubt not;
and the signet is not strange to you.
Pro. I know them both.
Duke. The contents of this is the return of the
duke: you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure,
where you shall find, within these two days he will
be here. This is a tiling that Angelo knows not;
for he this very day receives letters of strange
tenor: perchance, of the duke's death; perchance,
entering into some monastery ; but, by chance, no-
thing of what is writ. lAiok, the unfolding star
calls up the shepherd.' Put not yourself into amaze-
roent, how these things should be : all difficulties are
but easy when they are known. Call your execu-
tioner, and off with Barnardine's head. I will give
' So in Milton's Comus :—
The star, that bids tlie shepherd fold,
Kow the top of heaven doth hold.
6CENR iii. mf.asuke for measure. 217
him a present shrift, and advise him for a better
place. Yet you are amazed; but this shall abso-
lutely resolve you.^ Come away ; it is almost clear
dawn. [Exeunt,
scene iii.
Another room in ike same.
Enter clown.
Clown. I am as well acquainted here, as I was in
our house of profession: one would think, it were
mistress Over-done's own house, for here be many
of her old customers. First, here's young master
Rash; he's in for a commodity of brown paper and
old ginger, ninescore and seventeen pounds, of
which he made five marks, ready money: marry,
then, ginger was not much in request, for the old
women were all dead. Then is there here one
master Caper, at the suit of master Three-pile the
mercer, for some four suits of peach-colored satin,
which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we
here young Dizy, and young master Deep-vow, and
master Copper-spur, and master Starve-lackey the
rapier and dagger-man, and young Drop-heir that
killed lusty Pudding, and master Forthright the
tilter, and brave master Shoe-tie the great traveller,
and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and, I think,
forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are
now for the Lord's sake.
' Shall intirflly convince you.
2J8
measure fob measure.
act iv.
Enter abhobson.
Abh. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.
Clown. Master Bainardine! you must rise and be
banged, master Barnardine!
Abh. What, ho, Barnardine!
Bar. \within.'\ A pox o' your throats! Who
makes that noise there ? What are you ?
Clown. Your friends, sir; the hangman. You
must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death.
Bar. [within.'] Away, you rogue, away; I am
sleepy.
Abh. Tell him, he must awake, and that quickly
too.
Clown. Pray, master Barnardine, awake till you
are executed, and sleep afterwards.
Abh. Go in to him, and fetch him out.
Clown. He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear
bis straw rustle.
Enter barnardine.
Abh. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah ?
Clown. Very ready, sir.
Bar. How now, Abhorson ? what *s the news
with you ?
Abh. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into
your prayers ; for, look you, the warrant's come.
Bar. You rogue, I have been drinking all night;
I am not fitted for't.
Clown. O, the better, sir; for be that drinks all
scekk iii. measure for measure. 219
night, and is hanged betimes in the morning, may
sleep the sounder all the next day.
Enter duke.
Ahh. Look you, sir, here comes your ghostly
father. Do we jest now, think you ?
Duke. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing
how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise
you, comfort you, and pray with you.
Bar. Friar, not I; I have been drinking hard all
night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or
they shall heat out my brains with billets. I will
not consent to die this day, that's certain.
Duke. O, sir, you must: and therefore, I beseech
you.
Look forward on the journey you shall go.
Bar. I swear, I will not die to-day for any man's
persuasion.
Duke. But hear you,
Bar. Not a word; if you have any thing to say
to me, come to my ward ; for thence will not I to-
day. [iJjJiV.
Enter provost.
Duke. Unlit to live or die. O, gravel heart!—
After him, fellows : bring him to the block.
[Exeunt Abhor son and Clo'pn.
Pro. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner ?
Duke. A creature unprepared, unmeet for death;
And, to transport him in the mind he is.
Were damnable.
S!20 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT JV.
Pro. Here in the prison, father.
There died this morning of a cruel fever
One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate,
A man of Claudio's years: his beard and head
Just of his color. What if we do omit
This reprobate, till he were well inclined;
And satisfy the deputy with the visage
Of llagozine, more like to Claudio ?
Duke. O, 'tis an accident that Heaven provides!
Despatch it presently : the hour draws on
Prefix'd by Angelo. See, this be done.
And sent according to command ; whiles I
Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die.
Pro. This shall be done, good father, presently.
But Barnardine must die this afternoon :
And how shall we continue Claudio,
To save me from the danger that might come.
If he were known alive ?
Duke. Let this be done :—Put them in secret
holds.
Both Barnardine and Claudio. Ere twice
The sun hath made his journal greeting to
The under generation,' you shall find
Your safety manifested.
Pro. I am your free dependent.
Duke. Quick, despatch.
And send the head to Angelo. [Exit Provost.
Now will I write letters to Angelo;—
I The Antipodes.
SCENE III. measure for measure. 221
The provost, he shalt bear them,—whose contents
Shall witness to him, I am near at home;
And that, by great injunctions, I am bound
To enter publicly : him I '11 desire
To meet me at the consecrated fount,
A league below the city ; and from thence,
By cold gradation and weal-balanced form.
We shall proceed with Angelo.
Re-enter provost.
Pro. Here is the head : I '11 carry it myself.
Duke. Convenient is it. Make a swift return;
For 1 would commune with you of such things,
I'hat want no ear but yours.
Pro. I '11 make all speed.
{Exit.
Isa. Peace, ho, be here !
Duke. The tongue of Isabel.—She's come to
know.
If yet her brother's pardon be come hither;
But I will keep her ignorant of her good.
To make her heavenly comforts of despair.
When it is least expected.
Enter Isabella.
Isa. Ho, by your leave.
Duke. Good morning to you, fair and gracious
daughter.
Isa. The better, given me by so holy a man.
Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's pardon ?
222 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT IV.
Duhc. He hath released hifh, Isabel, from the
world:
His head is off, and sent to Angelo.
Isa. Nay, but it is not so.
Duke. It is no other:
Show your wisdom, daughter, in your close patience.
Jsa. 0, I will to him, and pluck out his eyes.
Duke. You shall not be admitted to his sight.
Isa. Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel!
Injurious world! most damned Angelo!
Duke. This nor hurts him, nor profits you a jot:
Forbear it therefore; give your cause to Heaven.
Mark what I say; which you shall find.
By every syllable, a faithful verity:
The duke comes home to-morrow;—nay, dry your
eyes;
One of our convent, and his confessor.
Gives me this instance.^ Already he hath carried
Notice to Escalus and Angelo ;
Who do prepare to meet him at the gates.
There to give up their power. If you can, pace
your wisdom
In that good path that I would wish it go;
And you shall have your bosom ® on this wretch,
Grace of the duke, revenges to your heart.
And general honor.
Isa. I am directed by you.
Duke. This letter then to friar Peter give;
« Proof.
* Your heart's desire.
scene hi. measure for measure. 223
*Tis that he sent me of the duke's return:
Say, by this token, I desire his company
At Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and yours
I '11 perfect him withal; and he shall bring you
Before the duke, and to the head of Angelo
Accuse him home and home. For my poor self,
I am combined i by a sacred vow.
And shall be absent. Wend ® you with this letter :
Command these fretting waters from your eyes
With a light heart; trust not my holy order,
If I pervert your course.—Who's here ?
Enter lucio.
Lucio. Good even!
Friar, where is the provost ?
Duke. Not within, sir.
Lucio. O, pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart
to see thine eyes so red : thou must be patient. I
am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I
dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful
meal would set me to't. But they say the duke will
be here to-morrow.—By my troth, Isabel, I loved
thy brother : if the old fantastical duke of dark
comers had been at home, he had lived.
lExit Isabella.
Duke. Sir, the, duke is marvellous little beholden
to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in
them.
' Bouna.
» Go.
224 measure for measure. act iv.
Lucio. Friar, thou knowest not the duke so well
as I do : he's a better woodman than thou takest
him for.
Duke. Well, you '11 answer this one day. Fare
ye well.
Lucio. Nay, tarry.; I '11 go along with thee: I
can tell thee pretty tales of the duke.
Duke. You have told me too many of him already,
air, if they be true; if not true, none were enough.
Lucio. I was once before him for getting a wench
with child.
Duke. Did you such a thing ?
Lucio. Yes, marry, did I; but was fain to forswear
it: they would else have married me to the rotten
medlar.
Duke. Sir, your company is fairer than honest.
Rest you well.
Lucio. By my troth, I '11 go i^uth thee to the
lane's end. If bawdy talk offend you, we '11 have
very little of it. Nay, friar, 1 am a kind of burr; I
shall stick. [Exeunt.
scene iv.
A room in Angelo's house.
Enter axgelo and escalus.
Esc. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched'
other.
* Contradicted.
SCENE IV. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 22.5
Anff. In most uneven and distracted manner. His
actions show much like to madness: pray Heaven,
his wisdom be not tainted ! And why meet him at
the gates, and re-deliver our authorities there ?
Esc. I guess not.
Ang. And why should we proclaim it in an hour
before his entering, that, if any crave redress of •
injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the
street ?
Esc. He shows his reason for that: to have a
despatch of complaints ; and to deliver us from de-
vices hereafter, which shall then have no power to
stand against us.
Ang. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaim'd:
Betimes i' the mom, I '11 call you at your house :
Give notice to such men of sort and suit,'
As are to meet him.
Esc. I shall, sir: fare you well. [Exit.
Ang. Good night.—
This deed unshapes me quite, makes me un-
pregnant,^
And dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid !
And by an eminent body, that enforced
The law against it!—But that her tender shame
Will not proclaim against her maiden loss.
How might she tongue me ? Yet reason dares her ?®
—no:
' Figure asd rank. ® Unprepared.
' Yet does not reason cliailenge or incite her to accuse me?
SHAE. U. *.
226 measure for measure. ACT ff.
For my authority bears off a credent bulk,'
That no particular scandal once can touch.
But it confounds the breather.® He should have
lived.
Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense,
Might, in the times to come, have ta'en revenge.
By so receiving a dishonor'd life.
With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had
lived!
Alack, when once our grace we have forgot.
Nothing goes right; we would, and we would not.
[Exit
SCENE T.
Fields without the town.
Enter ntJKE in his own habit, and friar peter.
J)uke. These letters at fit time deliver me.
[giving letters.
The provost knows our purpose, and our plot.
The matter being afoot, keep your instruction.
And hold you ever to our special drift;
'Fhough sometimes you do blench ® from this to that.
As cause doth minister. Go, call at Flavins' house,
And tell him where I stay: give the like notice
To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus,
And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate ;
But send me Flavins first.
' Carries with it unquostionable credit. ' Utterer.
* Start olf.
scene vi. measure fob measure. 227
F. Peter. It shall be speeded well.
[Exit Friar.
Enter varrius.
Duke. I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made
good haste:
Come, we will walk. There's other of our friends
Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Street near the city gate.
Enter Isabella and mariana.
Isa. To speak so indirectly, I am loath:
I would say the truth; but to accuse him so.
That is your part: yet I'm advised to do it;
He says, to veil full purpose.'
Mar. Be ruled by him.
Jsa. Besides, he tells me, that, if peradventure
He speak against me on the adverse side,
I should not think it strange; for 'tis a physic.
That's bitter to sweet end.
Mar. 1 would friar Peter—
Jsa. O, peace ; the friar is come.
Enter friar peter.
F. Peter. Come, I have found you out a stand
most fit.
' To hide the whole extent of our design.
228
measure for measure.
ACT V.
Where you may have such vantage on the duke.
He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets
sounded;
The generous' and gravest citizens
Have hent ® the gates, and very near upon
The duke is entering; therefore hence, away.
[Exeunl.
ACT V.
scene i.
A public place near the city gate.
mariana (veiled), Isabella, and peter, at a distance.
Enter, at opposite doors, duke, varrius. Lords;
ANGELo, ESCALus. Lucio, PROVOST, Officcrs, and
Citizens.
Duke. My very worthy cousin, fairly met:—
Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.
Ang. and Esc. Happy return be to your royal
grace!
Duke. Many and hearty thankings to you both.
We have made inquiry of you ; and we hear
Such goodness of your justice, that our soul
Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks.
Forerunning more requital.
Ang. You make my bonds still greater.
Duke. O, your desert speaks loud; and I should
wrong it.
' Koble. ' Taken possession of.
SCENE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 229
To lock it in the wards of covert bosoin.
When it deserves with characters of brass
A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time.
And razure of oblivion Give me your hand.
And let the subject see. to make them know.
That outward courtesies would fain proclaim
Favors that keep within.—Come, Escalus ;
You must walk by us on our other hand;—
And good supporters are you.
PETER and ISABELLA come forward.
F. Peter. Now is your time; speak loud, and
kneel before him.
Isa. Justice. O royal duke ! Vail > your regard
Upon a wrong'd. I'd fain have said, a maid !
O worthy prince, dishonor not your eye
By throwing it on any other object.
Till you have heard me in my true complaint.
And given me justice, justice, justice, justice !
Duke. Relate your wrongs. In what ? By whom ?
Be brief.
Here is lord Angelo shall give you justice;
Reveal yourself to him.
Isa. O, worthy duke,
You bid me seek redemption of the devil:
Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak
Must either punish me. not being believed.
Or wring redress from you : hear me. 0, hear mo,
here.
' Lower.
230
MEASURE FOE MEASURE. ACT V.
Ang. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm:
She hath been a suitor to me for her brother.
Cut off by course of justice.
Isa. By course of justice!
Ang. And she will speak most bitterly and
strange.
Isa. Most strange, but yet most truly, will I
speak:
That Angelo'' forsworn; is it not strange ?
That Angelo's a murderer; is't not strange ?
That Angelo is an adulterous thief,
A hypocrite, a virgin-violator ;
Is it not strange, and strange ?
Duke. Nay, ten times strange.
Isa. It is not truer he is Angelo,
Than this is all as true as it is strange:
Nay, it is ten times true ; for truth is truth
To the end of reckoning.
Duke. Away with her.—Poor soul.
She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.
Isa. O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believest
There is another comfort than this world.
That thou neglect me not, with that opinion
That I am touch'd with madness : make not impos-
sible
That which but seems unlike : 'tis not impossible.
But one, the wiekedest caitiff on the ground.
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute,'
' As complete in all the round of duty.
SCENE X. ■ MEASURE FQR MEASURE.
231
As Angelo; even so may Angelo,
In all his dressings, characts.i titles, forms.
Be an arch-villain : believe it, royal prince.
If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more.
Had 1 more name for badness.
Duke. By mine honesty.
If she be mad, (as I believe no other)
Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense.
Such a dependency of thing on thing.
As e'er I heard in madness.
Isa. O, gracious duke.
Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason
For inequality: ^ but let your reason serve
To make the truth appear, where it seems hid;
And hide the false, seems true.*
Duke. Many that are not mad.
Have, sure, more lack of reason.—^What would you
say ?
Isa. I am the sister of one Claudio,
Condemn'd upon the act of fornication
To lose his head ; condemn'd by Angelo :
I, in probation of a sisterhood.
Was sent to by my brother. One Lucio
As then the messenger;—
Lucio. That's I, an't like your grace :
I came to her from Claudio, and desired her
' Habiliments and characters of office.
' Apparent inconsistency.
* And for ever hide, i. e. plunee. into eternal darkness, the
false one, i. e. .\ngelo, who now seems honest.
232 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT V.
To try her gracious fortune with lord Angelo,
For her poor brother's pardon.
Isa, That's he, indeed.
Duke. You were not bid to speak.
Ludo. No, my good lord-
Nor wish'd to hold my peace.
Duke. I wish you now then;
Pray you, take note of it: and when you have
A business for yourself, pray Heaven, you then
Be perfect.
Lucio. I warrant your honor.
Duke. The warrant's for yourself; take heed
to it.
Isa. I'his gentleman told somewhat of my taie.
Lucio. Right.
Duke. It may be right; but you are in the wrong
To speak before your time.—Proceed.
Isa. I went
To this pernicious CJutifF deputy.
Duke. That's somewhat madly spoken.
Isa. Pardon it;
The phrase is to the matter.
Duke. Mended again: the matter :—proceed.
Isa. In brief,—to set the needless process by,
How I persuaded, how I pray'd and kneel'd.
How he refcll'd i me, and how I replied;
(For this was of much length) the vile conclusion
1 now begin with grief and shame to utter:
' Refuted.
SCENE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 2-33
He would not. but by gift of my chfiste bodv
To his concupiscible intemperate lu?t.
Release my brother; and, after much debatement.
My sisterly remorse > confutes mine honor.
And I did yield to him. But the next mom betimes,
His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant
For my poor brother's head.
Duke. This is most likely !
Isa. 0, that it were as like, as it is true !
Duke. By heaven, fond® wretch, thou know'st
not what thou speak'st;
Or else thou art subora'd against his honor.
In hateful practice.® First, his integrity
Stands without blemish:—next, it imports no
reason.
That with such vehemency he should pursue
Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended.
He would have weigh'd thy brother by himself.
And not have cut him off. Some one hath set
you on ;
Confess the trath, and say by whose advice
Thou camest here to complain.
Isa. And is this all ?
Then, O, you blessed ministers above.
Keep me in patience; and, with ripen'd time.
Unfold the evil which is here wrapp'd up
In countenance ! *—Heaven shield your grace from
woe.
' Pity. ® Foolish. ' Conspiracy. * False appearance.
234 ilitAS-UKE FOE MEASURE. ACT V.
As I, thus wrong'd, hence unbelieved go !
Duke. I know, you'd fain be gone !—An oflicer I
To prison with her.—Shall we thus permit
A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall
On him so near us ? This needs must be a practice.'
—Who knew of your intent, and coming hither ?
Isa. One that I would were here, friar Lodowick.
Duke. A ghostly father, belike.—Who knows
that Lodowick ?
Lucio. My lord. I know him; 'tis a mcdling
friar;
I do not like the man: had he been la}% my lord.
For certain words he spake against your grace
In your retirement, I had swinged him soundly.
Duke. Words against me? This a good friar,
belike!
And to set on this wretched woman here
Against our substitute!—Let this friar be found.
Lucio. But yesternight, my lord, she and that
friar
I saw them at the prison : a saucy friar,
A very scurvy fellow.
F. Peter. Blessed be your royal grace !
I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard
Your royal ear abused. First, hath this woman
Most wrongfully accused your substitute;
Who is as free from touch or soil with her.
As she from one ungot.
Conspiracy.
SCKNE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
235
Duke. We did believe no less.
Know yon that friar Lodowick, that she speaks of ?
F. Peter. I know him for a man divine and holy;
Not scurvy, nor a temporary medler.
As he's reported by this gentleman ;
And, on my trust, a man that never yet
Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace.
Lucio. My lord, most villanously; believe it.
F. Peter. Well, he in time may come to clear
himself;
But at this instant he is sick, my lord.
Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request,
(Being come to knowlege that there was complaint
Intended 'gainst lord Angelo) came I hither.
To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know
Is true and false ; and what he with his oath.
And all probation, will make up full clear,
\Vhensoever he's convented.i First, for this wo-
man;
(To justify this worthy nobleman.
So vulgarly ® and personally accused)
Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes.
Till she herself confess it.
jyake. Good friar, let's hear it.
\Tsabella is carried off, guarded; and
Mariana comes forward.
Do you not smile at this, lord Angelo ?—
O heaven ! the vanity of wretched foois !—
' Convened. * Publicly.
236
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
ACT V.
Give us some seats.—Come, cousin Angelo;
In this I '11 be impartial; be you judge
Of your own cause.—Is this the witness, friar ?
First let her show her face, and after speak.
Mar. Pardon, my lord ; I will not show my face.
Until my husband bid me.
Duke. What, are you married ?
Mar. No, my lord.
Duke. Are you a maid ?
Mar. No, my lord.
Duke. A widow then ?
Mar. Neither, my lord.
Duke. Why. you
Are nothing then :—neither maid, widow, nor wife?
Lucio. My lord, she may be a punk ; for many of
them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.
Duke. Silence that fellow. I would, he had some
cause
To prattle for himself.
Lucio. Well, my lord.
Mar. My lord, I do confess I ne'er was married;
And, I confess, besides, I am no maid :
I have known my husband; yet my husband knows
not
That ever he knew me.
Lucio. He was drunk then, my lord; it can be
no better.
Duke. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert
so too!
Lucio. Well, my lord.
Duke. This is no witness for lord Angelo.
SCENE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 237
Mar. Now I come to't, my lord :
She, that accuses him of fornication.
In self-same manner doth accuse my husband;
And charges him, my lord, with such a time.
When I '11 depose I had him in mine arms.
With all the effect of love.
Ang. Charges she more than me ?
JIfar. Not that I know.
Duke. No ? you say, your husband.
Mar. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,
Who thinks, he knows, that he ne'er knew my body;
But knows, he thinks, that he knows Isabel's.
Ang. This is a strange abuse.'—Let's see thy
face.
Mar. My husband bids me ; now I will unmask.
[unveiling.
This is that face, thou cruel Angelo,
Which, once thou sworest, was worth the looking
on:
This is the hand, which, with a vow'd contract.
Was fast belock'd in thine: this is the body
That took away the match from Isabel,
And did supply thee at thy garden-house.
In her imagined person.
Duke. Know you this woman ?
Lucio. Carnally, she says.
Duke. Sirrah, no more.
Lucio. Enough, my lord.
' Deception.
238 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT V.
Ang. My lord, I must confess, I know this woman ,
And, five years since, there was some speech of
marriage
Betwixt myself and her; which was broke olF,
Partly, for that her promised proportions
Came short of composition ; * but, in chief.
For that her reputation was disvalued
In levity : since which time, of five years,
I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her.
Upon my faith and honor.
Mar. Noble prince.
As there comes light from heaven, and words from
breath.
As there is sense in truth, and truth in virtue,
1 am affianced' this man's wife, as strongly
As words could make up vows : and, my good lord.
But Tuesday night last gone, in his garden-house.
He knew me as a wife. As this is true.
Let me in safety raise me from my knees;
Or else for ever be confixed here,
A marble monument!
Ang. I did but smile till now :
Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice.
My patience here is touch'd : I do perceive,
'I'hese poor informal ' women are no more
But instruments of some more mightier member
That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord,
To find this practice ♦ out.
' Fell short of the contract.
' Crazy.
' Betrothed.
* Conspiracy.
SCENE I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 239
Duke. Ay, with my hear( ;
And punish them unto your height of pleasure.—
Thou foolish friar! aud thou pernicious woman,
Compact with her that's gone ! think'st thou, thy
oaths.
Though they would swear down each particular
saint.
Were testimonies against his worth and credit.
That's seal'd in approbation ?—You, lord Escalus,
Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains
To find out this abuse, whence 'tis derived.—
There is another friar that set them on ;
Let him be sent for.
F. Peter. Would he were here, my lord ! for he,
indeed.
Hath set the women on to this complaint:
Your provost knows the place wheie he abides.
And he may fetch him.
Duke. Go, do it instantly.— \_Exit Provost.
And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin.
Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth,"
Do with your injuries as seems you best.
In any chastisement. I for awhile
Will leave you ; but stir not you, till you have well
Determined upon these slanderers.
Esc. My lord, we'll do it thoroughly.—[Exit
Duke.'] Signior Lucio, did not you say, you knew
that friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person ?
Lucio. Cucullus nan facit monachum; « honest in
" To the end. ' A hood makes not a monk.
240
mkasure for measure.
ACT V.
nothins^, but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke
most villanous speeches of the duke.
Esc. We shall entreat you to abide here till he
come, and enforce them against him : we shall find
this friar a notable fellow.
Lucio. As any in Vienna, on my word.
Esc. Call that same Isabel here once again : \to
an Attendant."] I would speak with her. Pray you,
my lord, give me leave to question ; you shall see
how I '11 handle her.
Lucio. Not better than he, by her own report.
Esc. Say you ?
Lucio. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her
privately, she would sooner confess; perchance,
publicly she '11 be ashamed.
Re-enter Officers, with Isabella, the duke in the
friar's habit, and provost.
Esc. I will go darkly to work with her.
Lucio. That's the way; for women are light at
midnight.
Esc. Come on, mistress: [to Isabella.] here's a
gentlev.\-iman denies all that you have said.
Lucio. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of,
here with the provost.
Esc. In very good time :—speak not you to him,
till we call upon you.
Lucio. Mum.
Esc. Come, sir. Did you set these women on to
slander lord Angelo ? they have confessed you did.
Duke. 'Tis false.
SCKN£ 1. MEASURE FOE MEASURE. 211
£sc. How! know you where you are ?
Duke. Respect to your great place! and let the
devil
Be sometime honor'd for his burning throne.—
Where is the duke ? 'tis he should hear me speak.
Esc. The duke's in us, and we will hear you
speak:
Look, you speak justly.
Duke. Boldly, at least.—^But, O, poor souls,
Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox ?
Good night to your redress. Is the duke gone i
Then is your cause gone too. The duke's unjust,
Tlius to retort' your manifest appeal.
And put your trial in the villain's mouth.
Which here you come to accuse.
Lucio. This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of.
Esc. Why, thou unreverend and unhallow'd friar!
Is't not enough, thou hast subom'd these women
To accuse this worthy man ; but, in foul mouth.
And in the witness of his proper ear.
To call him villain ?
And then to glance from him to the duke himself;
To tax him with injustice P^Take him hence;
To the rack with him.—We '11 touze you joint by
joint.
But we will know this purpose.—What I unjust ?
Duke. Be not so hot: the duke
Dare no more stretch this linger of mine, than he
' To refer back to Angelo.
suaK. II. u
242 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT V.
Dare rack his own: his subject am I not,
Nor here provincial.' My business in this state
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,
Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble.
Till it o'er-run the stew : laws for all faults;
But faults so countenanced, that the strong statutes
Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop.
As much in mock as mark.
Esc. Slander to the state! Away with him to
prison.
Ang. What can you vouch against him, signior
Lucio ?
Is this the man that you did tell us of
Lucio. "Tis he. my lord. Come hither, goodman
bald-pate. Do you know mc ?
Duke. I remember you, sir, by the sound of your
voice. J met you at the prison, in the absence of
the duke.
Lucio. O, did you so? And do you remember
what you said of the duke.
Duke. Most notedly, sir.
Lucio. Do you so, sir? And was the duke a flesh-
monger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported
him to be ?
Duke. You must, sir, change persons with me,
ere you make that my report: you, indeed, spoke so
of him ; and much more, much worse.
Lurio. O thou damnable feUow! Did not I pluck
thee by the nose for thy speeches ?
' Nor of any province dependent on the duke.
BCENB I. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
243
Duke. I protest, I love the duke as I love myself.
Aug. Hark! how the villain would close now,
after his treasonable abuses.
Esc. Such a fellow is not to be talked withal.—
Away with him to prison.—Where is the provost ?
—Away with him to prison; lay bolts enough ujion
liim: let him speak no more.—Away with those
giglots» too, and with the other confederate com-
panion. \Tlie Provost lays hands on the Duke.
Duke. Stay, sir; stay awhile.
Any. What! resists he ? Help him, Lucio.
Lucio. Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; fob, sir.
Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal! you must be
hooded, must you ? Show your knave's visage, with
a pox to you ! show your sheep-biting face, and be
hanged an hour ! Will't not off ?
[Pulls off the friar's hood, and discovers the Duke.
Duke. Thou art the first knave that e'er made a
duke.—
First, provost, let me bail these gentle three
Sneak not away, sir; [/o Lucio.'] for the friar and
you
Must have a word anon:—lay hold on him.
Lucio. This may prove worse than hanging.
Duke. What you have spoke, I pardon; sit you
down. [to Escalus.
We '11 bon-ow place of him.—Sir, by your leave :
[/o Angelo.
' Wanton wenches.
244 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT V.
Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence.
That yet can do thee office ?' If thou hast.
Rely upon it till my tale be heard.
And hold no longer out.
Ang. O my dread lord,
1 should be guiltier than my guiltiness.
To think 1 can be undiscernible.
When 1 perceive, your grace, like power divine.
Hath look'd upon my passes.® Then, good prince.
No longer session hold upon my shame.
But let my trial be mine own confession;
Immediate sentence then, and sequent death.
Is all the grace 1 beg.
Duke. Come hither, Mariana.—
Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman ?
Ang. 1 was, my lord.
Duke. Go, take her hence, and marry her in-
stantly.—
Do you the office, friar; which consummate.
Return-him here again.—Go with him, provost.
[Exeunt Angela, Mariana. Peter, and Provost.
Esc. My lord, 1 am more amazed at his dis-
honor.
Than at the strangeness of it.
Duke. Come hither, Isabel:
Your friar is now your prince. As 1 was then
Advertising, and holy ® to your business.
' Service. ' Artful devices.
' Attentive and faithful.
scene i. measure for measure.
245
Not changing heart with habit. I am still
Attomey'd at your service.
Tsa. O, give me pardon.
That I, your vassal, have employ'd and pain'd
Your unknown sovereignty.
Duke. You are pardon'd, Isabel;
And now, dear maid, be you as free to us.*
Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart;
And you may marvel, why I obscured myself.
Laboring to save his life; and would not rather
Make rash remonstrance • of my hidden power.
Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid!
It was the swift celerity of his death.
Which I did think with slower foot came on.
That brain'd my purpose.® But, peace be with
him!
rhat life is better life, past fearing death.
Than that which lives to fear: make it your com-
fort.
So happy is your brother.
Re-enter angelo, mariana, peter, and provost.
Isa. I do, my lord.
Duke. For this new-married man, approaching
here.
Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd
' Pardon us as we have pardoned you.
' Premature discovery.
' Knocked my design on the head.
246
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT T.
Your well-defended honor, you must pardon
For Mariana's sake: but as he adjudged your
brother,
(Being criminal, in double violation
Of sacred chastity, and of promise-breach.
Thereon dependent, for your brother's life)
The very mercy of the law cries out
Most audible, even from his proper * tongue,
' An Angelo for Claudio, death for death.'
Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure;
Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure.
Then, Angelo, thy fault's thus manifested;
Which though thou wouldst deny, denies thee van-
tage : ®
We do condemn thee to the very block
Where Claudio stoop'd to death, and with like
haste:—
Away with him.
Mar. O, my most gracious lord,
I hope you will not mock me with a husband!
Duke. It is your husband mock'd you with a bus-
band:
Consenting to the safeguard of your honor,
I thought your marriage fit; else imputation.
For that he knew you, might reproach your life.
And choke your good to come : for his possessions.
Although by confiscation they are ours.
We do instate and widow you withal.
' Own. ' The denial of which will avail thee nothing.
SCENE I. MEASUUE FOR MEASURE. 247
To buy you a better husband.
Mar. O, my dear lord,
I crave no other, nor no better man.
Duke. Never crave him : we are definitive.
Mar. Gentle, my liege,— {kneeling.
Duke. You do but lose your labor;
Away with him tj death.—Now, sir, {to Lucio.l to
you.
Mar. O, my good lord!—Sweet Isabel, take my
part;
I^end me your knees, and all my life to come
I '11 lend you, all my life to do you service.
Duke. Against all sense * you do importune her;
Should she kneel down, in mercy of this fact.
Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break.
And take her hence in horror.
Mar. Isabel,
Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me :
Hold up your hands; say nothing; I '11 speak all.
They say, best men are moulded out of faults;
And, for the most, become much more the better
For being a little bad : so may my husband.
O Isabel! will you not lend a knee ?
Duke. He dies for Claudio's death. .
Isa. Most bounteous sir,
{kneeling.
Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd.
As if my brother lived. I partly think.
1 Beason and affection.
248 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ACT V.
A due sincerity govem'd his deeds.
Till he did look on me: since it is so.
Let him not die. My brother had but justice.
In that he did the thing for which he died;
For Angelo,
His act did not o'ertake his bad intent;
And must be buried but as an intent
That perish'd by the way : thoughts are no subjects;
Intents but merely thoughts.
Mar. Merely, my lord.
Duke. Your suit's unprofitable: stand up, 1 say.—
I have bethought me of another fault:—
Provost, how came it, Claudio was beheaded
At an unusual hour }
Pro. It was commanded so.
Duke. Had you a special warrant for the deed
Pro. No, my good lord; it was by private mes-
sage.
Duke. For which I do discharge you of your
office:
Give up your keys.
Pro. Pardon me, noble lord:
I thought it was a fault, but knew it not;
Yet did repent me, after more advice; ^
For testimony whereof, one in the prison.
That should by private order else have died,
' I have reserved alive.
Duke. What's he ?
> After more mature consideration.
scbne 1.
measure for measure.
249
Pro. His name is Barnardine.
Duke. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.—
Go, fetch him hither : let me look upon him.
[Exit Provost.
Esc. I am sorry, one so learned and so wise.
As you, lord Angelo, have still appear'd.
Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood,
And lack of temper'd judgment afterward.
Ang. I am sorry, that such sorrow I procure:
And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart.
That 1 crave death more willingly than mercy:
'Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.
Re-enter frovost, barnaroine, claudio, and
juliet.
Duke. Which is that Barnardine ?
Pro. This, my lord.
Duke. There was a friar told me of this man.—
Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul.
That apprehends no farther than this world.
And squarest thy life according. Thou 'rt con-
demn'd;
But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all;
And pray thee, take this mercy to provide
For better times to come. Friar, advise him;
I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow's
that?
Pro. This is another prisoner, that I saved.
That should have died when Claudio lost his head;
As like almost to Claudio as himself.
[unmuffles Claudio.
0
250 MEASl'EE FOE MEASUEE. ACT V.
Duke. If he he like your brother, [to Isabella.']
for his sake
Is he pardon'd; and, for your lovely sake.
Give me your hand, and say you will be mine.
He is my brother too. But fitter time for that.
By this, lord Angelo perceives he's safe;
Methinks, I see a quickening in his eye.—
Well, Angelo, your evil quits ' you well:
Look that you love your wife; her worth, worth
yours.—
I find an apt remission in myself:
And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon ;—
You, sirrah, [to Lucio.] that knew me for a fool, a
coward.
One all of luxury,® an ass, a madman;
Wherein have I so deserved of you, that you
Extol me thus ?
Lucio. 'Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to
the trick.® If you will hang me for it, you may;
but I had rather it would please you, I might be
whipped.
Duke. Whipp'd first, sir, and hang'd after.—
Proclaim it, provost, round about the city;
If any woman's wrong'd by this lewd fellow,
(As I have heard him swear himself, there's one
Whom he begot with child) let her appear.
And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish'd.
Let him be whipp'd and hang'd.
Requites. ' Incontinence.
® la joke, or thoughtlessness.
SCENE 1. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 251
Lucio, I beseech your highness, do not marry me
to a whore ! \ our highness said even now, I made
you a duke; good my lord, do not recompense me,
in making me a cuckold.
Duke. Upon mine honor, thou shalt marry her.
Thy slanders I forgive ; and therewithal
Remit thy other forfeits.*—^Take him to prison,
And see our pleasure herein executed.
Ludo. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to
death, whipping, and hanging.
Duke. Slandering a prince deserves it.—
She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restore.—
Joy to you, Mariana!—love her, Angelo!
I have confess'd her, and I know her virtue.—
I'hanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much good-
ness:
There's more behind, that is more gratulate.®—
Thanks, provost, for thy care and secresy;
We shall employ thee in a worthier place;—
Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home
The head of Ragozine for Claudio's;
The offence pardons itself.—Dear Isabel,
I have a motion much imports your good;
Whereto if you '11 a willing ear incline,
What's mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.—
So, bring us to our palace, where we '11 show
What's yet behind, that's meet you all should
know. [^Exeunt.
> Punishments. ' More acceptable than thanks.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
2oo
HISTOUTCAt NOTICE
or Tm
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
Shakspeare appears, to have taken the general plan
of this comedy from a translation of the Menmchmi of
Plautiis, by W. W. i. e. (according to Wood) William
Warner, in 1595, whose version of the argument is as
follows
Two twinne-bome sons aSicill marchant had,
Menechmus one, and Susicles the other:
The first his father lost, a little lad ;
The grandsire nanide the latter like his brother.
This, growne a man, long travel! tooke to seeke
His brother, and to Epidamnum came.
Where th' other dwelt inricht, and him so like,
'I'hat citizens there take him for the same ;
father, wife, neighbours, each mistaking either.
Much pleasant error, ere they meete togither.
Perhaps the last of these lines suggested to Shak-
sjteare the title for his piece.
' In this play,' says Mr. Steevens, ' we find more
intricacy of plot than distinction of character; and our
attention is less forcibly engaged, because we can
guess, in great measure, how the (Unouetneni will be
brought about. Yet the subject appears to have been
reluctantly dismissed, even in the last and unnecessary
scene, where the same mistakes are continued, till
they have lost the power of affording any entertain-
ment at all.'
256
HISTORICAL NOTICR.
Dr. Drake, in defending our author from the indis-
criminate censure of Steevens, observes, that ' if we
consider tiie construction of the fable, the narrowness
of its basis, and that its powers of entertainment are
almost exclusively confined to a continued deception
of the external senses, we must confess that Shak-
spcare has not only improved on the Plaiitian model,
but, making allowance for a somewhat too coarse vein
of humor, has given to his production all the interest
and variety that the nature and the limits of his subject
would permit,*
257
ARGUMENT.
A nch merchant oi Syracuse, named Xgeon, and « poor man
of the same city, become the fathers of twin sons exactly
resembling each other in feature : the children of the latter
are purchased by the citizen, who bestows them on his
sons as attendants, j^geon, with his wife and family,
shortly after visits Epidamnum; and on their return, the
ship in which they sail is split asunder by a violent storm,
which separates the husband from the wife, and each of
the twin brothers from their respective counterparts.
lEgecn, with his younger son and attendant, is rescued from
his perilous condition, and conveyed to Syracuse. Arrived
at years of maturity, the young man is anxious to procure
some intelligence of his mother and brother, and, with the
consent of his father, quits his home, and at length, in com-
pany with his servant, arrives at Ephesus, where the elder
Antipholus, who is separated from his mother, has long
resided, in high favor with the duke, at whose desire he
has united himself to a lady of fortune, who mistakes the
stranger for her husband, insisting that he shall accompany
her home to dinner: the real husband arrives during the
repast, and finds his own doors barred against his entrance
The perplexities, arising from the confusion of the masters
and their servants, induce the Syracusan youth to suppose
himself under the influence of witchcraft, and he takes
refuge in a religious house, whither his mother had retired,
and had long presided as abbess. The Ephesivm dame, sup-
posing tlie refugee to be her husband, complains to the
duke of the conduct of the abbess, who refuses to deliver
him up to the custody of his wife. The simultaneous ap»
pearance of the young men and their servants now unravels
the mystery. In the mean time, iEgeon lands at Lphesus,
and is about to lose his head for a violation of the law in
entering a liostile city, when he is ransomed by his son,
from whom he parted at Syracuse ; and recognises, in the
person of the abbess, his long-lost wife, Emilia,
511AK. II. ■
258
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
SoLiMos, duke of Ephesus.
•Sqeok, a merchant of Syracuse.
AnxiPHOLUs of Ephesus, (
Antipholos of Syracuse, j
\ known to each other.
Dbohio of Ephesus, < Twin brothers, and attendants on the
Dbohio of Syracuse, \ two Antipholuscs.
Balthazab, a merchant.
Angeix>, a goldsmith.
A MEBCBANT, Creditor to Angelo.
PixcH, a schoolmaster and conjurer.
AiiMiniA, wife to A^geon, an abbess at Ephesut.
Adriana, wife to Antipholus of Ephesus.
Luciana, her sister.
Luce, her servant.
A COUBTEZAN.
Jailer, Officers, and other Attendanta.
8cEtrE, Ephesus.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
A CT I.
SCEXK I.
A luxll in the Duke's palace.
Enter uuke, ^egeon, .Jailer, Officers, and other
Attendants,
JEgeon. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall.
And, by the doom of death, end woes and all.
Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more.
I am not partial, to infringe our laws :
The enmity and discord, which of late
Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke
To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,—
Who, wanting gilders to redeem their lives.
Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,-
Excludes all pity from our threatening looks :
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us.
It hath in solemn synods been decreed.
Both by the Syracusians and ourselves.
To admit no traffic to our adverse towns:
Nay, more ; if any, born at E))hesus, be seen
At any Syracusian marts and fairs;
Again, if any, Syracusian born
•
260
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT 1.
(i^ome to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,
His goods confiscate to the duke's dispose ;
Unless a thousand marks be levied.
To quit the penalty, and to ransom him.
Thy substance, valued at the highest rate.
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks ;
Therefore, by law thou art condemn'd to die.
JSgeon. Yet this my comfort; when your words
are done.
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
Dvke. Well, Syracusian, say, in brief, the cause
Why thou departedst from thy native home;
And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus.
Mgeon. A heavier task could not have been
imposed.
Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable :
Yet, that the world may witness, that my end
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,^
I '11 utter what my sorrow gives me leave.
In Syracusa was I bom ; and wed
Unto a woman, happy but for me,
And by me too, had not our hap been bad.
With her I lived in joy ; our wealth increased.
By prosperous voyages I often made
To Epidamnum; till my factor's death.
And the great care of goods at random left.
Drew me from kind embracements of my sj)0use.
From whom my absence was not six months old.
' Not bj aay criminal act, but by natural affection.
SCKNE I.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
261
Before herself (almost at fainting, under
The pleasing punishment that women bear)
Had made provision for her following me.
And soon, and safe, arrived where I was
There had she not been long, but she became
A joyful mother of two goodly sons;
And, which was strange, the one so like the other
As could not be distinguish'd but by names.
That very hour, and in the self-same inn,
A poor mean woman was delivered
Of such a burden, male twins, both alike:
Those, for their parents were exceeding poor,
I bought, and brought up to attend my sous.
My wife, not meanly proud of two such bo)r8.
Made daily motions for our home return :
Unwilling I agreed; alas, too soon.
We came aboard:
A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd.
Before the always-wind-obeying deep
Gave any tragic instance of our harm :
But longer did we not retain much hope ;
For what obscured light the heavens did grant,
Did but convey unto our fearful minds
A doubtful warrant of immediate death;
Which, though myself would gladly have embraced.
Yet the incessant weepings of my wife.
Weeping before for what she saw must come.
And piteous plainings of the pretty babes.
That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear.
Forced me to seek delays for them and me.
And this it was.—for other means was none.—
•
262
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT 1.
The sailors sought for safety by our boat.
And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:
My wife, more careful for the latter-bom.
Had fasten'd him unto a small spare mast.
Such as sea-faring men provide for storms;
To him one of the other twins was bound.
Whilst 1 had been like heedful of the other.
The children thus disposed, my wife and I,
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd,
Fasten'd ourselves at either end the mast;
And floating straight, obedient to the stream.
Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length, the sun, gazing upon the earth.
Dispersed those vapors that offended us;
And, by the benefit of his wish'd light.
The seas wax'd calm, and we discovered
Two ships from far making amain' to us.
Of Corinth that, of Epidaums this:
But ere they came,—O, let me say no more!
Gather the sequel by that went before.
Duke, Nay, forward, old man; do not break
off so;
For we may pity, though not pardon thee.
,£geon. O, had the gods done so, I had not now
Worthily term'd them merciless to us!
For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues.
We were encounter'd by a mighty rock ;
Which being violently borne upon.
' With vigor.
Whca-dcy dd. ^ Stiriiag ae.
COMESr OF EB&.ORS
£geon. Wife.OiUdrm.'ix.
AetiSc^fel.
SCENE I.
COMEDY OK ERRORS.
263
Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;
So that, in this unjust divorce of us.
Fortune had left to both of us alike
What to delight in, what to sorrow for.
Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened
With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,
'Was carried with more speed before the wind;
And in our sight they three were taken up
By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.
At length, another shi{> had seised on us ;
And, knowing whom it was their hap to save.
Gave helpful welcome to their shipwreck'd guests;
And would have reft > the fishers of their prey.
Had not their bark been very slow of sail,
And therefore homeward did they bend their
course.—
Thus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss;
That by misfortunes was my life prolong'd.
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.
Duke. And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest
for.
Do me the favor to dilate at full
What hath befallen of them, and thee, till now.
Mgeon. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care.
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother; and importuned me.
That his attendant (so his case was like,
Ileft of his brother, but retain'd his name)
' Deprived, bereft.
264 COMEDY OF ERRORS. ACT 1.
Might bear him company in the quest of him:
Whom whilst I labor'd of a love to see,
I hazarded the loss of whom I loved.
Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece,
Roaming clean > through the hounds of Asia,
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus ;
Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought.
Or that, or any place that harbors men.
But here must end the story of my life ;
And happy were I in my timely death.
Could all my travels warrant me they live.
Duke. Hapless ^Egeon, whom the fates have
mark'd
To hear the extremity of dire mishap !
Now, trust me, were it not against our laws.
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity.
Which princes, would they, may not disannul.
My soul should sue as advocate for thee.
But, though thou art adjudged to the death.
And passed sentence may not be recall'd.
But to our honor's great disparagement.
Yet will I favor thee in what I can :
Therefore, merchant, I '11 limit thee this day.
To seek thy help by beneficial help :
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum.
And live; if no, then thou art doom'd to die.—
Jailer, take him to thy custody.
' Quite,
scene ii. comeut of ekbors. 205
Jailer. I will, my lord,
JEgeon. Hopeless, and helpless, dctli .^gebn
wend, •
But to procrastinate his lifeless end. \Exeunt.
scene ii.
A public place.
Enter antipholus and naoMio of Syracuse, and
a merchant.
Mer. Therefore, give out, you are of Epidamnum,
Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
This very day, a Syracusian merchant
Is apprehended for arrival here;
And, not being able to buy out his life.
According to the statute of the town.
Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.
There is your money that I had to keep.
Ant. S. Go, bear it to the Centaur, where we
host.
And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.
Within this hour it will be dinner-time.
Till that, I '11 view the manners of the town.
Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,
And then return, and sleep within mine inn;
For with long travel I am stiff and weary.
Get thee away.
> Go.
♦
266
COMEDY OF ERROUS*
ACT I,
Dro. S. Many a man would take you at your
word.
And go indeed, having so good a mean.
Dromio S.
Ant. S. A trusty villain,* sir; that very oft,
"When I am dull with care and melancholy.
Lightens my humor with his merry jests.
What, will you walk with me about the town,
And then go to my inn, and dine with me ?
Mer. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants.
Of whom I hope to make much benefit.
I crave your pardon. Soon, at five o'clock.
Please you. I '11 meet with you upon the mart.
And afterwards consort you till bed-time.
My present business calls mc from you now.
Ant. S. Farewell till then. I will go lose myself.
And wander up and down, to view the city.
Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own content.
lExit Merchant.
Ant. S. He that commends me to mine own con«
tent.
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
I to the world am like a drop of water.
That in the ocean seeks another drop;
Who, falling there to find his fellow forth.
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds ® himself;
So I, to find a mother and a brother.
In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.
' Servant. * Destroys.
sckne ii.
comedy of errors.
267
Enter dromio of ephesus.
Here comes the almanac of my true date.— *
What now ? How chance, thou art return'd so soon ?
Dro. E. Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too
late:
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit;
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell.
My mistress made it one upon my cheek:
She is so hot, because the meat is cold;
The meat is cold, because you come not home ;
You come not home, because you have no stomach;
You have no stomach, having broke your fast;
But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray.
Are penitent for your default to-day.
Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir; tell me this, I
pray;
Where have you left the money that I gave you ?
Dro. E. O,—sixpence, that 1 had o' Wednesclay
last.
To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper;—
The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.
Ant. S. I am not in a sportive humor now:
I'ell me, and dally not, where is the money ?
We being strangers here, how darest thou trust
So great a charge from thine own custody ?
Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner:
I from my mistress come to you in post;
• Because tliejr were both bora in the same hour.
268 COMEDr OF FRUOKg. ACT I.
If I return, I shall be post indeed ;
For she will score your fault upon my pate.
Methinks, your maw, like mine, should be your
clock.
And strike you home without a messenger.
Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out
of season:
Reserve them for a merrier hour than this.
Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee ?
Dro. E. To me sir? why, you gave no gold
to me.
Ant. S. Come on, sir knave, have done your
foolishness.
And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge.
Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you from
the mart
Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner:
My mistress and her sister stay for you.
Ant. S. Now, as I am a christian, answer me.
In what safe place you have bestow'd my money;
Or I shall break that merry sconce ' of yours.
That stands on tricks when I am undisposed.
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me ?
Dro, E. I have some marks of yours upon my
pate.
Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders,
But not a thousand marks between you both.—
If I should pay your worship those again.
' Head.
SCENE II. COMLDY OF EKKOKS. 269
Perchance, you will not bear them patiently.
Ant. S. Thy mistress' marks! what mistress,
slave, hast thou ?
Dro. E. Your worship's wi^e, my mistress at the
Phoenix;
She that doth fast till you come home to dinner.
And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.
Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my
face.
Being forbid ? There, take you that, sir knave.
[strikes Dromio E.
Dro. E. What mean you, sir ? ftr God's sake,
hold your hands:
Nay, an you will not, sir, I '11 take my heels.
[Exit Dromio E.
Ant. S. Upon my life, by some device or other.
The villain is o'er-raught' of all my money.
They say, this town is full of cozenage;
As, nimble jugglers, that deceive the eye ;
Dark-working sorcerers, that change the mind ;
Soul-killing witches, that deform the body ;
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks.
And many such like liberties of sin : '
If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.
I '11 to the Centaur, to go seek this slave;
1 greatly fear, my money is not safe. [E'xtt,
' O^er-reaclied. * Licensed sins
270
COMEDT OF ERROllS.
ACT II.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A public place.
Enter adriana and luciina.
Adr. Neither my husband, nor the slave returu'd,
'I hat in such haste I sent to seek his master!
.Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock.
Luc. Perhaps, some merchant hath invited him.
And from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner.
Good sister, let us dine, and never fret:
A man is master of his liberty :
Time is their master; and, when they see time.
They '11 go, or come : if so, be patient, sister.
Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be more ?
Luc. Because their business still lies out o' door.
Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.
Luc. O, know, he is the bridle of your will.
Adr. There's none, but asses, will be bridled so.
Luc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.
There's nothing, situate under heaven's eye.
But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls.
Are their males' subjects, and at their controls .
Men, more divine, the masters of all these.
Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas.
Endued with intellectual sense and souls.
Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls.
SCENE 1. comedy of errors.
271
Are masters to their females, arid their lords;
Then let your will attend on their accords.
Adr. This servitude makes you to keep unwed.
Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage bed.
Adr. But, were you wedded, you would bear some
sway.
Luc. Ere I leam love, I '11 practise to obey.
Adr. How if your husband start some other
where ?
Luc. Till he come home again, I would forbear.
Adr. Patience, unmoved, no marvel though she
pause; '
They can be meek, that have no other cause.
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity.
We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry ;
But were we burden'd with like weight of pain.
As much, or more, we should ourselves complain:
So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee.
With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve mc :
But, if thou live to see like right bereft.
This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.
Luc. Well, I will marry one day, but to try.—
Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh.
Enter dromio of ephesus.
Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand ?
Dro. E. Nay, he is at two hands with me, and
that my two ears can witness.
' Js quiet.
272
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
Atrr II.
Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him? know'st
thou his mind ?
Dro. E. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear.
Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.
Luc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not
feel his meaning ?
Dro. E. Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too
well feel his blows ; and withal so doubtfully, that I
could scarce understand them.^
Adr. But say, I pr'ythee, is he coming home ?
It seems, he hath great care to please his wife.
Dro. E. Why, mistress, sure my master is hom-
mad.
Adr. Hom-rnad, thou villain ?
Dro. E. I mean not cuckold-mad; but, sure, he
is stark mad.
When 1 desired him to come home to dinner.
He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold :
' 'Tis dinner time,' quoth I; ' My gold,' quoth he;
' Your meat doth burn,' quoth I; ' My gold,' quoth
he:
' Will you come home ?' quoth I; ' My gold,'
quoth he :
* Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain ?'
'The pig,' quoth I, 'isbum'd;' 'My gold,' quoth he:
' My mistress, sir,' quoth I; ' Hang up thy mistress:
I know not thy mistress ; out on thy mistress!'
Luc. Quoth who ?
Dro. E. Quoth my master:
■ 1 could scarce stand under tliem.
SCENE I. COMEDY OP ERRORS.
273
' I know,' quoth he, ' no house, no wife, no mis-
tress:—'
So that my errand, due unto my tongue,
I thank him, I bear home upon my shoulders;
For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.
Adr. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him
home.
Dro. E. Go back again, and be new beaten home ?
For God's sake, send some other messenger.
Adr. Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.
Dro. E. And he will bless that cross witlvother
beating:
Between you I shall have a holy head.
Adr. Hence, prating peasant; fetch thy master
home.
Dro. E. Am I so round with you, as you with me.
That like a football you do spurn me thus ?
You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:
If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.
{Exit.
Due. Fie, how impatience lowereth in your face !
Adr. His company must do his minions grace.
Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.
Hath homely age the alluring beauty took
From my poor cheek ? then he hath wasted it:
Are my discourses dull ? barren my wit ?
If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd.
Unkindness blunts it, more than marble hard.
Do their gay vestments his affections bait ?
That's not my fault; he's master of my state.
What ruins are in me, that can be found
6HAK. II* S
274
comedy of errors.
act ii.
By him not ruin'd ? then is he the ground
Of my defeatures.! My decayed fair®
A sunny look of his would soon repair :
But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale.
And feeds from home: poor I am but his stale,^
Luc. Self-harming jealousy !—fie, beat it hence.
Adr. Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dis-
pense.
I know his eye doth homage otherwhere;
Or else, what lets * it but he would be here ?
Sister* you know, he promised me a chain ;—
Would that alone alone he would detmn.
So he would keep fair quarter with his bed !
I see, the jewel, best enamelled.
Will lose his beauty; and though gold 'bides still
That others touch, yet often touching will
Wear gold : and no man, that hath a name.
But falshood and corruption doth it shame.
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
111 weep what's left away, and weeping die.
Luc. How many fond fools serve mad jealousy !
[Exeunt.
SCENE IT.
The same.
Enter antipholus of Syracuse.
Ant. S. The gold, I gave to Dromio, is laid up
Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave
' Alteration of features.
* Stalking-horse.
® Fair, for fairness.
* Hinders.
scene xi. comedy of errors. 275
Is wander'd forth, in care to seek nie out.
By computation, and mine host's report,
I could not speak .with Dromio. since at firf.t
I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.
Enter dr' mio of Syracuse.
How now, sir ? is your merry humor alter'd ?
As you love strokes, so jest with me again.
You know no Centaur ? you received no gold.'
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner ?
My house was at the Phoenix ? Wast thou mad,
That thus so madly thou didst answer me ?
Dro. S. What answer, sir ? when spake I such a
word ?
Ant. S. Even now, even here, not half an hour
since.
Dro. S. I did not see you since you sent me
hence.
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.
Ant. S. Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt;
And told'st me of a mistress, and a dinner;
For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased.
Dro. S. I am glad to see you in this merry vein.
What means this jest ? I pray you, master, tell me.
Ant. S. Yea, dost thou jeer, and flout me in the
teeth ?
Think'st thou, I jest ? Hold, take thou that, and
that. [beatinff Mm.
Dro. S. Hold, sir, for God's sake: now yotu- jest
is earnest:
Upon what bargain do you give it me ?
«
276
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT II.
Ant. S. Because that I familiarly sometimes
Do use you for my fool, and chat with you.
Your sauciness'will jest upon my Icve,
And make a common of my serious hours.*
When the sun shines, let foolish gnats make
sport.
But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
If you will jest with me, know my aspect,®
And fashion your demeanor to my looks.
Or I will beat this method in your sconce,
Dro. S. Sconce, call you it ? so you would leave
battering, I had rather have it a head : an you use
these biows long, I must get a sconce for my head,
and ensconce it too; ® or else I shall seek my wit in
my shoulders. But, I pray, sir, why am I beaten ?
Ant. S. Dost thou not know
Dro. S. Nothing, sir; but that I am beaten.
Ant. S. Shall I tell you why ?
Dro. S. Ay, sir, and wherefore; for, they say,
every why hath a wherefore.
Ant. S. Why, first,—for flouting me; and then,
wherefore,—for urging it the second time to me.
Dro. S. Was there ever any man thus beaten out
of season ?
When, in the why and the wherefore is neither
rhyme nor reason ?—
Well, sir, I thank you.
■ Intrude on them when you please.
2 Study my countenance.
* A sconce was a petty fortification.
SCENK II. COMEDY OF ERRORS.
277
Ant. S. Thank nu;, sir ? for what ?
Dro. S. Marryj sir, for this something that yon
gave me for nothing.
Ant. S. I '11 make you amends next, to give you
nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-
time?
Dro. S. No, sir; I think, the meat wants that I
have.
Ant. S. In good time, sir, what's that ?
Dro. S. Basting.
Ant. S. Well, sir, then 'twill be dry.
Dro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it.
Ant. S. Your reason ?
Dro. S. Lest it make you choleric, and purchase
me another dry basting.
Ant. S. Well, sir, leam to jest in good time.
There's a time for all things.
Dro. S. I durst have denied that, before you were
so choleric.
Ant. S. By what rule, sir ?
Dro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain
bald pate of father Time himself.
Ant. S. Let's hear it.
Dro. S. There's no time for a! man to recover his
hidr, that grows bald by nature.
Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and recovery ?
Dro. S. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and re-
cover the lost hair of another man.
Ant. S. Why is Time such a niggard of hair,
being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement ?
278
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT II.
Dro. S. Because it is a bles^ng that he bestows
on beasts: and what he hath scanted men in hair,
he hath given them in wit.
Ant. S. Why, but there's many a man hath more
hair than wit.
Dro. S. Not a man of those, but he hath the wit
to lose his hair.
Ant. S. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men
plain dealers without wit.
Dro. S. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet
he loseth it in a kind of jollity.
Ant. S. For what reason ?
Dro. S. For two ; and sound ones too.
Ant. S. Nay, not sound, I pray you.
Dro. S. Sure ones then.
Ant. S. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.
Dro. S. Certain ones then.
Ant. S. Name them.
Dro. S. The one, to save the money that he
spends in tiring; the other, that at dinner they
should not drop in his porridge.
Ant. S. You would all this time have proved,
there is no time for all things.
Dro. S. Marry, and did, sir; namely, ev'n no
time to recover hair lost by nature.
Ant. S. But your reason was not substantial, why
there is no time to recover.
Dro. S. 'I'hus 1 mend it: Time himself is bald,
and therefore, to the world's end, will have bald
followers.
scene ii. comedy of errors. 279
Ant. S. I knew, 'twould be a bald conclusion:
But soft! who wafts' us yonder ?
Enter adriana and lcciana.
Adr. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange, and frown;
Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects :
I am not Adriana, nor thy wife.
The time was once, when thou unurged wouldst vow.
That never words were music to thine ear.
That never object pleasing in thine eye.
That never touch well-welcome to thy hand.
That never meat sweet-savor'd in thy taste.
Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carved to
thee.
How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,
That thou art then estranged from thyself ?
Thyself I call it, being strange to me.
That, undividable, incorporate.
Am better than thy dear self's better part.
Ah, do not tear away thyself from me ;
For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulph.
And take unmingled thence that drop agmn.
Without addition or diminishing.
As take from me thyself, and not me too.
How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious;
And that this body, consecrate to thee.
' Beckons.
280
COMEDY OF ERROBS.
ACT II.
By ruffian lust should be contaminate !
Wouldst thou not spit at me, and spurn at me,
And hurl the name of husband in my face.
And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot brow.
And from my false hand cut the wedding ring.
And break it with a deep-divoreing vow ?
I know thou eanst; and therefore, see, thou do it.
I am possess'd with an adulterate blot;
My blood is mingled with the crime of lust:
For, if we two be one, and thou play false,
I do digest the poison of thy flesh.
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
Keep then fair league and truce with thy true
bed;
I live dis-stain'd, thou undishonored.
Awt. S, Plead you to me, fair dame ? I know yon
not:
In Ephesus I am but two hours old.
As strange unto your town as to your talk;
Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd.
Want wit in all one word to understand.
Luc. Fie, brother! how the world is changed
with you!
When were you wont to use my sister thus ?
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.
Ant. S. By Dromio ?
Dro. S., By me ?
Adr. By thee: and this thou didst return fhim
him ;—
Tliat he did buffet thee, and, in his blows.
Denied my house for his, ine for his wife.
SCENU II. COMEDY OF ERRORS. 281
ylni. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gentle-
woman ?
What is the course and drift of your compact ?
Dro. S. I, sir ? I never saw her till this time.
Ant. S. Villain, thou liest; for even her very
words
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.
Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life.
Ant. S. How can she thus then call us by our
names.
Unless it be by inspiration ?
Adr. How ill agrees it Mrith your-gravity.
To counterfeit thus grossly liidth your slave.
Abetting him to thwart me in my mood ?
Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt.
But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.
Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine :
Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine ;
Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state.
Makes me with thy strength to communicate;
If aught possess thee from me, it is dross.
Usurping ivy, brier, or idle * moss ;
Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion
Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion.
Ant. S. To me she speaks; she moves me for her
theme:
What, was I married to her in my dream.
' Unfruitful.
282
COMEDT OF ERRORS.
ACT II.
Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this ?
What error drives our eyes and ears amiss ?
Until I know this sure uncertainty,
I '11 entertain the ofFer'd fallacy.
Luc. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for
dinner.
Dro. S. O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.
This is the fairy land;—O, spite of spites !—
We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites :
If we obey them not, this will ensue ;
They '11 suck our bieath, or pinch us black and blue.
Luc. Why pputest thou to thyself, and answer'st
not.'
Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!
Dro. S. I am transformed, master; am not I
Ant. S. I think thou art in mind, and so am I.
Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my
shape.
Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form.
Dro. S. No, I am an ape.
Luc. If thou art changed to aught, 'tis to an ass.
Dro. S. 'Tis true; she rides me, and I long for
grass,
'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be.
But 1 should know her as well as she knows me.
Adr. Come, come, no longer will I be a fool.
To put the finger in the eye and weep.
Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.—
Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.—
Husband, I '11 dine above with you to-day.
scene ii. comedy oe errors. 2s3
And shrive you i of a thousand idle pranks.
Sirrah, if any ask you fot your master.
Say, he dines forth, and let no creature enter.—
Come, sister;—Dromio, play the porter well.
Ant. S. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell
Sleeping or waking, mad or well-advised ?
Known unto these, and to myself disguised ?
I '11 say as they say, and persever so.
And in this mist at all adventures go.
Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at the gate ?
Adr. Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your
pate.
Luc. Come, come, Antipholus ; we dine too late.
[Ejceunt.
ACT III.
scene i.
Th.e same.
Enter antipholus of ephesus, dromio of ephesu.*:,
angelo, and balthazar.
Ant. E. Good signior Angelo, you must excuse
us all;
My wife is shrewish, when I keep not hours.
Say, that I linger'd with you at your shop.
To see the making of her carkanet,®
' Call you to confession.
1 A necklace strung aritb pearls.
284
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT III.
And that to-morrow you will bring it home.
But here's a villain, that would face me down
He met me on the mart; and that I beat him.
And charged him with a thousand marks in gold ;
And that I did deny my wife and house.—
Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by
this ?
Dro. E. Say what you will, sir, but I know what
I know;
That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to
show:
If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave
were ink.
Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
Ant. E. I think, thou art an ass.
Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear
By the wrongs I suffer, and the blows I bear.
I should kick, being kick'd; and, being at that
pass^
You would keep from my heels, and beware of an
ass.
Ant. E. You are sad, signior Balthazar. Pray
God, our cheer
May answer my good will, and your good welcome
here.
Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your
welcome dear.
Ant. E. O signior Balthazar, either at flesh or
fish,
A table fuU of welcome makes scarce one dainty
dish.
8CKNK I. COMEDY OF ERRORS. 285
Bal. Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl
affords.
Ant. E. And welcome more common; for that's
nothing but words.
B(d. Small cheer, and great welcome, makes a
merry feast.
Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host, and more spa-
ring guest;
But though my cates be mean, take them in good
part;
Better cheer may you have, but not with better
heart.
But, soft; my door is lock'd; go, bid them let
US in.
Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian,
Jen'!
Dro. S. {within.'] Mome,' malt-horse, capon, cox-
comb, idiot, patch! ®
Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the
hatch :
Dost thou conjure for wenches, thot thou call'st for
such store,
When one is one too many ? Go, get thee from the
door.
Dro. E. What patch is made our porter? My
master stays in the street.
Dro. S. Let him walk from whence he came, lest
be catch cold on's feet.
> Blockhead. * Fool.
2S6
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT III.
Ant. E. Who talks within there ? ho, open the
door.
Dro. S. Right, sir, I '11 tell you when, and you '11
tell me wherefore.
Ant. E. Wherefore ' for my dinner ; I have not
dined to-day.
Dro. S. Nor to-day here you must not; come
again, when you may.
Ant. E. What art thou, that keep'st me out from
the house I owe ? >
Dro. S. The porter for this time, sir, and my
name is Dromio.
Dro. E. O villain, thou hast stolen both mine
office and my name ;
The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.
If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place.
Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name, or
thy name for an ass.
Luce, \within.'] What a coil ® is there! Dromio,
who are those at the gate ?
Dro. E. Let my master in. Luce.
Luce. Faith, no ; he comes too late;
And so tell your master.
Dro. E. O Lord, I must laugh:—
Have at you with a proverb.—Shall I set in my staff.?
Luce. Have at you with another; that *s,—
When ? can you tell ?
Dro. S. If thy name be call'd Luce, Luce, thou
hast answer'd him well.
' I own, am mastor of. * Tnmult.
SCEXE I.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
287
Ant. E. Do you hear, you minion ? you '11 let us
in, I hope ?
Tmcc. I thought to have iisk'd you.
Dro. S. And you said. no.
Dro. E. So, come, help ; well struck ; there was
blow for blow.
Ant. E. Thou baggage, let me in.
Luce. Can you tell for whose sake ?
Dro. E. Master, knock the door hard.
Luce. Let him knock till it ake.
Ant. E. You '11 cry for this, minion, if I beat the
door down.
Luce. What needs all that, and a pmr of stocks in
the town ?
Adr. [within.'] Who is that at the door, that
keeps all this noise ?
Dro. S. By my troth, yoiu: town is troubled with
unruly boys.
Ant. E. Are you there, wife ? you might have
come before.
Adr. Your wife, sir knave! go, get you from
the door.
Dro. E. If you went in pain, master, this knave
would go sore.
Ang. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome; we
would fain have either.
Bal. In debating which was best, we shall part ^
with neither.
Have part
288 COMEDY OF ERRORS. ACT III.
Dro. E. lliey stand at the door, master; bid
them welcome hither.
Ant. E. There is something in the wind, that we
cannot get in.
Dro. E. You would say so, master, if your gar-
ments were thin.
Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in
the cold:
It would make a man mad as a buck, to he so bought
and sold.'
Ant. E. Go, fetch me something; I '11 break ope
the gate.
Dro. S. Break any breaking here, and I '11 break
your knave's pate.
Dro. E. A man may break a word with you, sir;
and words are but wind ;
Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not
behind.
Dro. S. It seems, thou wantest breaking! Out
upon thee, hind!
Dro. E. Here's too much, out upon thee! I pray
thee, let me in.
Dro. S. Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and
fish have no fin.
Ant. E. Well, I '11 break in. Go, borrow me a
crow.
Dro. E. A crow without feather; master, mean
you so ?
' Over-reached by foul and secret practices. A proverbial
exprersion.
SCENB I. COMEDY OF EIRRORS. 289
For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a
feather;
If a crow help us in, sirrah, we '11 pluck a crow to-
gether.
Ant. E. Go, get thee gone : fetch me an iron
ClOW.
Bal. Have patience, sir: O, let it not he so;
Herein you war against your reputation.
And draw within the compass of suspect
The unviolated honor of your wife.
Once 1 this :—Your long experience of her wisdom.
Her sober virtue, years, and modesty.
Plead on her part some cause to you_ unknown;
And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse
Why at this time the doors are made ^ against you.
Be ruled by me; depart in patience.
And let us to the Tiger all to dinner;
And, about evening, come yourself alone.
To know the reason of this strange restraint.
If by strong hand you oflfer to break in.
Now in the stirring passage of the day,
A vulgar comment will be made of it;
And that supposed by the common rout
Against your yet ungaUed estimation.
That may with foul intrusion enter in.
And dwell upon your grave when you are dead :
For slander lives upon succession;
For ever housed where it gets possession.
' Once for all.
SUAK.
* Made fast, barred,
II. T
290
comedy of errors.
ACT III.
Ant. E. You have prevail'd; I will depart in
quiet.
And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.
1 know a wench of excellent discourse,—
Pretty and witty; wild, and, yet too, gentle ;—
There will we dine : this woman that I mean.
My wife (but, I protest, without desert)
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:
To her will we to dinner.—Get you home.
And fetch the chain ; by this, I know, 'tis made ;
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine ;
For there's the house : that chain will I bestow
(Be it for nothing but to spite my wife)
Upon mine hostess there : good sir, make haste.
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me,
I '11 knock elsewhere, to see if they '11 disdain me.
Ang. I '11 meet you at that place some hour
hence.
Ant. E. Do so; this jest shall cost me some ex-
pense. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The same.
Enter luciana and antipholus of Syracuse.
Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot
A husband's office ? shall, Antipholus,
Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs' rot ?
Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous ?
' 'Voung plauts or shoots of love.
SCFNE II.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
291
If j-ou did wed my sister for her wealth,
Then, for her wealth's sake, use her with more
kindness:
Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
Muffle your false love with some show of blind-
ness :
Let not my sister read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;
Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;
Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger:
Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
Be secret-false. What need she be acquainted ?
What simple thief brags of his own attaint ?
'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed.
And let her read it in thy looks at board:
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;
111 deeds are doubled with an evil word.
Alas, poor women! make us but believe.
Being compact of credit,' that you love us i
Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;
We in vour motion turn, and you may move us.
I'hen, gentle brother, get you in again;
Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife ;
'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain,®
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.
Ant. S. Sweet mistress, (what your name is else,
I know not.
' Uuing made altOKctUei-of credulity. Light of tongue.
2.92
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT III.
Nor by what wonder you do hit on mine)
Less, in your knowlege and your grace, you show
not.
Than our earth's wonder; more than earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak ;
Lay open to my earthy gross conceit,
Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak.
The folded meaning of your words' deceit.
Against my soul's pure truth why labor you.
To make it wander in an unknown field ?
Are you a god ? would you create me new }
Transform me then, and to your power I '11
yield.
But if that I am I, then well I know.
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine.
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe;
Far more, far more, to you do I decline.
O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note.
To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears :
Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote :
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs.
And as a bed I '11 take thee, and there lie;
And, in that glorious supposition, think
He gains by death, that hath such means to die
Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink!
Lnc. What, are you mad, that you do reason so ?
Ant. S. Not mad, but mated; ' how, I do not
know.
' Confounded.
SCENE tl.
comedy op errors.
293
Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your eye.
Ant. S. For gazing on your beams, fair sun,
being by.
Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear
your sight.
Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look ou
night.
Luc. Why call you me love ? call my sister so.
Ant. S. Thy sister's sister.
Luc. That's my sister.
Ant. S. No;
It is thyself, mine own self s better part;
Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer hear.:,
My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim.
My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.i
Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be.
Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for 1 aim thee ;
Thee will 1 love, and with thee lead my life:
Thou hast no husband yet, nor 1 no wife :
Give me thy hand.
Luc. O, soft, sir, hold you still;
I '11 fetch my sister, to get her good will.
lExit Luc.
Enter, from the house of antipholus op epiiesus,
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.
Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio ? where run'st
thou so fast ?
' All the happiness that I wish for on earth, and all that I
claim from he.iven hereatter.
294
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT IIK
Dro. S. Do you know me, sir ? am I Dromio ? am
I your man ? am I myself }
Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou
art thyself.
Dro. S. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and
besides myself.
Ant. S. What woman's man ? and how besides
thyself }
Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to
a woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me,
one that will have me.
Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee ?
Dro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay
to your horse; and she would have me as a beast;
not that, I being a beast, she would have me ; but
that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to
me.
Ant. S. What is she ?
Dro. S. A very reverend body; ay, such a one as
a man may not speak of, without he say, sir-re-
verence: I have but lean luck in the match, and yet
is she a wondrous fat marriage.
Ant. S. How dost thou mean, a fat marriage ?
Dro. S. Marry, sir, she's the kitchen-wench, and
all grease; and I know not what use to put her
to. but to make a lamp of her, and run from her by
her own light. I warrant, her rags, and the tallow
in them, will burn a Poland winter : if she lives till
doomsday, she '11 burn a week longer than the whole
world.
Ant. S. What complexion is she of ?
SCENE II. COMEDT OF ERRORS. 295
Dro. S. Swart, like my shoe, but her face no-
thing like so clean kept; for why ? she sweats: a
man may go over shoes in the grime of it.
yint. S. That's a fault that water will mend.
Dro. S. No, sir. 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could
not do it.
Ant. S. What's her name ?
Dro. S. Nell, sir;—but her name and three
quarters, that is, an ell and three quarters, will not
measure her from hip to hip.
Ant. S. Then she hears some breadth ?
Dro. S. No longer from head to foot, than from
hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe: 1 could
find out countries in her.
Ant. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland ?
Dro. S. Marry, sir, in her buttocks; I found it
out by the bogs.
Ant. S. Where Scotland?
Dro. S. I found it by the barrenness; hard, in
the palm of the hand.
Ant. S. Where France ?
Dro. S. In her forehead; armed and reverted,
making war against her heir.
Ant. S. Where England ?
Dro. S. I looked for the chalky cliffs, hut I could
find no whiteness in them: but I guess, it stood in
her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France
and it.
Ant. S. Where Spain ?
Dro. S. Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in
her breath.
296 COMEDY OF ERKOKS. ACT III.
Ant. S. Where America, the Indies ?
Dro. S. O, sir, upon her nose, all o'er embel-
lished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining
their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who
sent whole armadoes of carracks ^ to be ballast at
her nose.
Ant. S. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands ?
Dro. S. O, sir, I did not look so low. To con-
dude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me;
called me Dromio; swore I was assured® to her;
told me what privy marks I had about me, as the
mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the
great wart on my left arm, tliat 1, amazed, ran from
her as a witch : and, 1 think, if my breast had not
been made of faith, and my heart of steel, she had
transformed me to a curtail-dog,® and made me turn
i' the wheel.
Ant. S. Go, hie thee presently post to the road ;
And if the wind blow any way from shore,
1 will not harbor in this town to-night.
If any bark put forth, come to the mart.
Where 1 will walk till thou return to me.
If every one knows us, and we know none,
'Tis time, 1 think, to trudge, pack, and be gone.
Dro. S. As from a bear a man would nm for life.
So fly 1 from her that would be my wife. [_Exit.
' Large ships of burden, the same as those called galleons.
' Affianced.
' A dog that misses his game; and, being of small value, is
used as a turn-spit.
scenb ii.
comedy of ekrors.
297
Ant. S. There's none but ■witches do inhabit
here;
And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence.
She, that doth call me husband, even my soul
Doth for a wife abhor : but her fair sister,
Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace.
Of such enchanting presence and discourse.
Hath almost made me traitor to myself;
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,
1 '11 stop mine ears against the mermaid's song.
Enter angelo.
Aug. Master Antiphclus ?
Ant. S. Ay, that's my name.
Ang. I know it well, sir. Lo, here is the chain:
I thought to have ta'en you at the Porcupine ;
The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.
Ant. S. What is your will, that I shall do with
this ?
Ang. What please yourself, sir; I have made it
for you.
Ant. S. Made it for me, sir ? I bespoke it not.
Ang. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you
have :
Go home with it, and please your wife withal;
And soon at supper-time I '11 visit you.
And then receive my money for the chain.
Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now.
For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more.
Ang. You are a merry man, sir; fare you well.
298
comedt of errors.
act iv-
Ant. S. What I should think of this, I cannot
tell;
But this I think, there's no man is so vain.
That would refuse so fair an oflFer'd chain.
I see, a man here needs not live by shifts.
When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.
I '11 to the mart, and there for Dromio stay,
If any ship put out, then straight away. [Exit.
ACT IV.
scene i.
Tlie same.
Enter a merchant, angelo, and an officer.
Mer. You know, since Pentecost the sum is due.
And since I have not much importuned you ;
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound
To Persia, and want gilders for my voyage :
Therefore make present satisfaction.
Or I '11 attach you by this officer.
Ang. Even just the sum, that I do owe to you.
Is growing' to me by Antipholus :
And, in the instant that I met with you.
He had of me a chain ; at five o'clock,
I shall receive the money for the same.
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,
I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.
' Accruiug.
SCENE I.
comedy of errors.
29y
Enter antipholxjs of ephesus and dromio of
EPHESus, yrom the Courtezan's.
Off. That labor may you save : see where he
comes.
Ant. E. While I go to the goldsmith's house, go
thou.
And buy a rope's end ; that will I bestow
Among my wife and her confederates.
For locking me out of my doors by day.—
But soft, I see the goldsmith:—get thee gone ;
Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me.
Dro. E. I buy a thousand pound a year! I buy a
rope ! [Exit Dromio E.
Ant. E. A man is well holp up, that trusts to
yon :
I promised your presence, and the chain ;
But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me :
Belike, you thought our love would last too long.
If it were chain'd together ; and therefore came not.
Ang. Saving your merry humor, here's the note.
How much your chain weighs to the utmost carract;
The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion ;
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more
Than I stand debted to this gentleman:
I pray you, see him presently discharged.
For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it.
Ant. E. I am not furnish'd with the present
money;
Besides, I have some business in the town.
Good signior, take the stranger to my house.
coo
COMEDY OK ERRORS.
ACT IV.
And with you take the chain, and bid my wife
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof.
Perchance, I will be there as soon as you.
Ang. Then you will bring the chain to her your-
self ?
Ant. E. No; bear it with you, lest I come not
time enough.
Ang. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about
you ?
Ant. E. An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;
Or else you may return without your money.
Ang. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the
chain;
Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman.
And I, to blame, have held him here too long.
Ant. E. Good lord, you use this dalliance, to
excuse
Your breach of promise to the Porcupine:
I should have chid you for not bringing it.
But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.
Mer. The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, des-
patch.
Ang. You hear, bow he importunes me; the
chain—
Ant. E. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your
money.
Ang. Come, come, you know, I gave it you even
now;
Either send the chain, or send me by some token.
Ant. E. Fie! now you run this humor out of
breath.
SCKNE 1. COMEDY OF ERRORS.
301
Come, where's the chain ? I pray you, let me
see it.
Mer. My business cannot brook this dalliance :
Good sir, say, whe'r' you '11 answer me, or no ;
If not, I '11 leave him to the officer.
Ant. E. I answer you ! What should I answer
you ?
Ang. The money, that you owe me for the chain.
Ant. E. I owe you none, till I receive the chain.
Ang. You know, I gave it you half an hour since.
Ant. E. You gave me none; you wrong me much
to say so.
Ang. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:
Consider, how it stands upon my credit.
Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.
Off. I do;
And charge you in the duke's name to obey me.
Ang. This touches me in reputation:—
Either consent to pay this sum for me.
Or I attach you by this officer.
Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had !
Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest.
Ang. Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer :
I would not spare my brother in this case.
If he should scorn me so apparently.
Off. I do arrest you, sir; you hear the suit.
Ant. E. I do obey thee, till I give thee baU:
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear
' Whether.
0
302
comedy of errors.
act iv.
As all the metal in your shop will answer.
Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,
To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.
Enter sromio of Syracuse.
Ero. S. Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum,
That stays but till her owner comes aboard.
And then, sir, she bears away: our fraughtage,^ sir,
I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought
The oil, the balsamum, and aqua vitae.
The ship is in her trim ; the merry wind
Blows fair from land : they stay for naught at all.
But for their owner, master, and yourself.
Ant. E. How now! a madman! Why, thou
peevish sheep.
What ship of Epidamnum stays for me ?
Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftagc.'
Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a
rope.
And told thee to what purpose and what end.
Dro. S. You sent me for a rope's end as soon :
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.
Ant. E. I will debate this matter at more leisure,
And teach your ears to list me with more heed.
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:
Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk
That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry.
There is a purse of ducats: let her send it.
' l.'idiiig, cargo.
" Silly.
' Carriage.
scene h. comedy of errors.
303
Tell her, I am arrested in the street,
And that shall bail me : hie thee, slave; be gone.
On, officer, to prison till it come.
{Exevnt Merchant, Angela, Officer, and Ant. E.
Dro. S. To Adriana! that is where we dined.
Where Dowsahel did claim me for her husband:
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
Thither I must, although against my will;
For servants must their masters' minds fulfil. [Exit.
scene ii.
TTie same.
Enter adriana and ldciana.
Adr. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so ?
Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye
ITiat he did plead in earnest, yea or no ?
Look'd he or red, or pale ; or sad, or merrily ?
What observation madest thou in this case.
Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face ? ^
Luc. First, he denied you had in him no right.
Adr. He meant, he did me none ; the more my
spite.
Luc. Then swore he, that he was a stranger here.
Adr. And true he swore, though yet forsworn he
were.
Luc. Then pleaded I for you.
' In allusion to the northern lights, which hare the ap-
peuTance ot' annies meeting in iLc sliock.
304
COMKDY OF ERRORS.
ACT IV.
Adr. And what said he ?
Luc. That love I begg'd for you, he begg'd of me.
Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy
love ?
Luc, With words, that in an honest suit might
move.
First, he did praise my beauty; then, my speech.
Adr. Didst speak him fair ?
Luc, Have patience, I beseech.
Adr, I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still:
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his
will.
He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,'
Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless every where;
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;
Stigmatical in making,® worse in mind.
Luc, Who would be jealous then of such a one ?
No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.
Adr, Ah! but I think him better than I say.
And yet would herein others' eyes were worse.
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away : ®
My heart prays for him, though my tongue do
curse.
Enter dromio of Syracuse.
Eto. S. Here, go; the desk, tlie purse ; sweet
now, make haste.
^ Dr3',>%j*\jered. ® Stigmatised by nature with deformity.
® 1 he lajvwings fly, with seeming fright, fur from their nests,
to deceive those Tfho' their young.
,8CEXE II. COMEDY OF ERRORS. 303
Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ?
Dro. S. By running fast.
Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio ? is he weU ?
Dro. S. No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than
hell:
A devil in an everlasting garment' hath him.
One, whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;
A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough;
A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff;
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that coun-
termands
The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands;
A hound that runs counter,® and yet draws dry-foot'
well:
One that, before the judgment, carries poor souls to
hell."
Adr. Why, man, what is the matter ?
Dro. S. I do not know the matter; he is 'rested
on the case.®
Adr. What, is he arrested ? tell me, at whose suit.
Dro. S. I know not at whose suit he is arrested,
well;
But is in a suit of buff, which 'rested him; that I
can tell.
' Officers of justice were formerly clad in buff, which is
also a cant term for a man's skin.
* Quibble on the word ' counter,' which means the wrong
way in the chase, and a well-known prison in London.
3 Follows men by the scent. * A cant term for a prison.
• A general action for the redress of a wrong not especially
provided for by law.
306
comedy of errors.
ACT nr.
"Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money
in his desk ?
Adr. Go fetch it, sister.—^This I wonder at;
[Exit Luciana.
That he, unknown to me, should he in debt.—
Tell me, was he arrested on a hand ? >
Dro. S. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;
A chain, a chain; do you not hear it ring ?
Adr. What, the chain ?
Dro. S. No, no, the hell: 'tis time, that I were
gone.
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes
one.
Adr. The hours come back! that did I never hear.
Dro. S. O yes, if any hour meet a seijeant, a'
turns back for very fear.
Adr. As if time were in debt! how fondly dost
thou reason!
Dro. S. Time is a very hankrout, and owes more
than he's worth to season.
Nay, he's a thief too. Have you not heard men say,
That time comes stealing on by night and day ?
If he be in debt, and theft, and a serjeant in the
way.
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day ?
Enter luciana.
Adr. Go, Dromio ; there's the money: bear it
straight.
And bring thy master home immediately.—
bcskb iii. comedy of errors.
307
Come, sister; I am press'd down with conceit;'
Conceit, my comfort, and my injury. [Eieunt.
scexe iii.
The same.
Enter antipholus of Syracuse.
Ant. S. There's not a man I meet, but doth
salute me
As if I were their well-acquainted friend ;
And every one doth call me by my name.
Some tender money to me, some invite me;
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;
Some offer me commodities to buy.
Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop,
And show'd me silks that he had bought for me,
And, therewithal, took measure of my body.
Sure, these are but imaginary wiles.
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.
Enter dromio of Syracuse.
Dro. S. Master, here's the gold you sent me for.
What, have you got rid of the picture of old Adam
new aj)pareled ?
Ant. S. What gold is this ? what Adam dost thou
mean ?
' Fanciful conceptions.
308
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT IV.
Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the paradise,
but that Adam that keeps the prison : he that goes
in the calf s skin that was killed for the prodigal:
he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and
bid you forsake your liberty.
Ant. S. I understand thee not.
Dro. S. No ? why. 'tis a plain case : he that
went like a bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man,
sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a
fob, and 'rests them ; he, sir, that takes pity on
decayed men, and gives them suits of durance; he
that sets up his rest' to do more exploits with his
mace, than a morris-pike.®
Ant. S. What! thou meanest an officer ?
Dro. S. Ay, sir, the seijeant of the band; he,
that brings any man to answer it, that breaks his
band; one that thinks a man always going to bed,
and says, ' God give you good rest.'
Ant. S. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is
there any ship puts forth to-night ? may we be
gone ?
Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour
since, that the bark Expedition put forth to-night;
and then were you hindered by the serjeant, to tarry
for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you
sent for, to deliver you.
' 'Is firmly resolved: a phrase taken from military exercise.'
—Malone.
' • A morris-pike was a pike used in a morris, or military
dance.'—Johnson.
scene ixi.
comedy of errors.
309
j4ttt. S. The fellow is distract, and so am I;
And here we wander in illusions.
Some hlessed power deliver us from hence !
Enter courtezan.
Cour. Well met, well met, master Antipholus.
I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now.
Is that the chain, you promised me to-day ?
Ant. S. Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me
not!
Dro. S. Master, is this mistress Satan ?
Ant. S. It is the devil.
Dro. S. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam;
and here she comes in the habit of a light wench;
and thereof comes, that the wenches say, ' God
damn me,' that's as much as to say, ' God make me
a light wench.* It is written, they appear to men
like angels of light: light is an eifect of lire, and
fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come
not near her.
Cour. Your man and you are marvellous merry,
sir.
Will you go with me ? We '11 mend our dinner
here.
Dro. S. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat, or
bespeak a long spoon.
Ant. S. Why, Dromio ?
Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon, that
must eat with the devil.
Ant. S. Avoid then, fiend! What tell'st thou me
of supping ?
#
310 COMEDY OF ERRORS. ACT IT.
Thou art, as you all are, a sorceress ;
I conjure thee to leave me, and be gone.
Cour. Give me the ring of mine you had at
dinner.
Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised ;
And I '11 be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
Dro. S. Some devils ask but the parings of one's
nail,
A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,
A nut, a cherry-stone; but she, more covetous.
Would have a chain.
Master, be wise ; and if you give it her.
The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it.
Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain.
I hope, you do not mean to cheat me so.
Ant. S. Avaunt, thou witch ! Come, Dromio, let
US go.
Dro. S. Fly, pride, says the peacock. Mistress,
that you know.
lEseunt Ant. S. and Dro. S.
Cour. Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad.
Else would he never so demean himself.
A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats.
And for the same he promised me a chain :
Both one and other he denies me now.
The reason that I gather he is mad,
(Besides this present instance of his rage)
Is a mad tale, he told to-day at dinner.
Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.
Belike, his wife, acquainted with his fits.
On purpose shut the doors against his way.
scene iv.
comedy of errors.
311
My way is now, to hie home to his house.
And tell his wife, that, being lunatic.
He rush'd into my house, and took perforce
My ring away. This course I fittest choose;
For forty ducats is too much to lose. "^Exit.
scene iv.
The same.
Enter antifholus of efhesus and an officer.
Ant. E. Fear me not, man; I will not break
away;
1 '11 give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money.
To warrant thee, as I am 'rested for.
My wife is in a wayward mood to-day.
And will not lightly trust the messenger.
That I should be attach'd in Ephesus.
I tell you, 'twill sound harshly in her ears.—
Enter oromio of efhesus with a rope's end.
Here comes my man: I think, he brings the money.
How now, sir ? have you that I sent you for ?
Dro. E. Here's that, I warrant you, will pay them
all.!
Ant. E. But where's the money
Dro. E. Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.
Ant. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?
• Correct them all.
312
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT IV.
Dro. E. I '11 serve you, sir, five hundred at the
rate.
Ant. E. To what end did 1 hid thee hie thee
home ?
Dro. E. To a rope's end, sir; and to that end am
I returned.
Ant. E. And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.
{beating him.
Off. Good sir, be patient.
Dro. E. Nay, 'tis for me to be patient; I am in
adversity.
Off. Good now, hold thy tongue.
Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his
hands.
Ant. E. Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
Dro. E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I
might not feel your blows.
Ant. E. Thou art sensible in nothing but blows,
and so is an ass.
Dro. E. I am an ass, indeed; you may prove it
by my long ears.* I have served him from the hour
of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at
his hands for my service, but blows : when I am
cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm,
he cools me with beating: I am waked with it when
I sleep, raised with it when I sit, driven out of doors
' with it when I go from home, welcomed home with
it when I return : nay, I bear it on my shoulders.
' Whioli his master had lengthened hy freqnently pulling.
COlEElVr OV EBROKS
.Jniifhe1iiJOf'fy)ueu*.J>romiff. Cnatatm tae.
^etjy. Seem IT.
SCKNB ir.
comedy of errors.
313
as a beggar wont her brat; and, I think, when he
bath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to
door.
Enter adbiana, luciana, and the courtezan, with
pinch, and others.
Ant. E. Come, go along; my wife is coming
yonder.
Era. E. Afistress, respice finem, respect your end;
or rather the prophecy, like the parrot, ' Beware the
rope's end.'
Ant. E. WUt thou still talk ? [beats him.
Cour. How say you now? is not your husband
mad ?
Adr. His incivility confirms no less.—
Good doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;
Establish him in his true sense again.
And I will please you what you will demand.
Luc. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks !
Cour. Mark, how he trembles in his ecstasy!
Pinch. Give me your hand, and let me feel your
pulse.
Ant. E. There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.
Pinch. 1 charge thee, Satan, housed within this
man.
To yield possession to my holy prayers.
And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight;
I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.
Ant. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace; I am not
mad.
314 COMEDY OF ERRORS. ACT lY.
Air. 0, that thou wert not, poor distressed .«ouI I
Art. E. You minion, you, are these your cus-
tomers ?
Did this companion ^ with the saffron face
Revel and feast it at my house to-day,
"ViTiilst upon me the guilty doors were shut.
And I denied to enter in my house ?
Air. O, husband, God doth know, you dined at
home.
Where would you had remain'd until this time.
Free from these slanders and this open shame !
Ant. E. Dined at home! Thou villain, what
say'st thou ?
Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at
home.
Ant. E. Were not my doors lock'd up, and I shut
out ?
Dro. E. Perdy,' your doors were lock'd, and you
shut out.
Ant. E. And did not she herself revile me there ?
Dro. E. Sans fable,'' she herself reviled you there.
Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and
scorn me ?
Dio. E. Certes,^ she did; the kitchen-vestal
scorn'd you.
Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart from
thence ? '
' Fellow. • A corruption of the French oath, par Dim.
' "Without a fable. * Certainly.
1
SC£NE IV. COMEDT OF ERRORS.
315
Dro. E. la verity, you did:—my bones bear wit-
ness.
That since have felt the vigor of his rage.
Adr. Is't good to soothe him in these contraries ?
Pinch. It is no shame; the fellow finds his
vein.
And, yielding to him, humors well his frenzy.
Ant. E. Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to
arrest me.
Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you.
By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.
Dro. E. Money by me ? heart and good-will you
might.
But, surely, master, not a rag of money.
Ant. E. Went'st not thou to her for a purse of
ducats ?
Adr. He came to me, and I deliver'd it.
Luc. And I am witness with her, that she did.
Dro. E. God and the rope-maker, bear me wit-
ness.
That I was sent for nothing but a rope !
Pinch. Mistress, both man and master is pos-
sess'd;
I know it by their pale and deadly looks :
They must be bound, and laid in some dark room.
Ant. E. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth
to-day.
And why dost thou deny the bag of gold ?
Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth!
Dro. E. And, gentle master, I received no gold;
But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out.
*
316
COMEDY OF EURORS.
ACT IV.
Adr. Dissembling villain, thou speak'st false in
both.
Avt. E. Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all;
And art confederate with a damned pack,
To make a loathsome, abject scorn of me:
But with these nails I '11 pluck out these false eyes.
That would heboid in me this shameful sport.
[Pinch and his assistants bind Ant. E. and Dro. E.
Adr. O, bind him, bind him; let him not come
near me.
Pinch. More company;—the fiend is strong within
him.
Luc. Ah me, poor man, how pale and wan he
looks!
Ant. E. What, will you murder me ? ITiou jailer,
thou,
I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them
To make a rescue ?
Off. Masters, let him go;
He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.
Pinch. Go, bind this man, for he is frantic too.
Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish ^ officer ?
Hast thou delight to see a wretched man
Do outrage and displeasure to himself ?
Off. He is my prisoner; if I let him go,
ITie deht he owes will be required of me.
Adr. I will discharge thee, ere I go from thee:
Bear me forthwith unto his creditor;
Foolish.
8CKNE ly. COMEDY OF ERRORS. 317
And, knowing how the debt grows,* I will pay it.
Good master doctor, see him safe convey'd
Home to my house.—O most unhappy day!
Ant. E. O most unhappy ® strumpet!
Dro. E. Master, I am here enter'd in bond for
you.
Ant. E. Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou
mad me ?
Dro. E. Will you be hound for nothing ? be mad.
Good master; cry, the devil.—
Luc. God help, poor souls, how idly do they
talk!
Adr. Go, hear him hence.—Sister, go you with
me.—
{Exeunt Pinch and Ass. with Ant. E. and Dro. E.
Say now, whose suit is he arrested at ?
Off. One Angelo, a goldsmith: do you know
him ?
Adr. I know the man. What is the sum he
owes ?
Off. Two hundred ducats.
Adr. Say, how grows ® it due ?
Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him.
Adr. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it
not.
Cour. When as your husband, all in rage, to-day
Came to my house, and took away my ring,
(The ring I saw upon his finger now)
> Has accrued. ' For unlucky, i. e. mischievous.
' Becomes
318 comedy of errors. act IT.
Straight after did I meet him with a chiun.
Adr. It may he so, but I did never see it.—
Come, jailer, bring me where the goldsmith is ;
I long to know the truth hereof at large.
Enter antipholus of Syracuse, with his rapier
drawn, and dromio of Syracuse.
Luc. God, for thy mercy ! they are loose agsdn.
Adr. And come with naked swords: let's call
more help.
To have them bound again.
Off. Away; they '11 kill us.
{Exeunt Officer, Adr. and Luc.
Ant. S. 1 see, these.witches are afraid of swords.
Dro. S. She, that would be your wife, now ran
from you.
Ant. S. Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff*
from thence:
I long, that we were safe and sound aboard.
Dro. S. Faith, stay here this night: they will
surely do us no harm; you saw, they speak us fair,
give us gold: methinks, they are such a gentle
nation, that but for the mountain of mad flesh that
chdms marriage of me, 1 could find in my heart to
stay here still, and turn witch.
Ant. S. 1 will not stay to-night for all the town;
Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. {Exeunt,
' Baggage.
ACT V.
comedy of errors.
319
A C T V.
SCENE I.
The same. Before an abbey.
Enter merchant and angelo.
Ang. I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder'd yon;
But, I protest, he had the chain of me, *
Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.
Mer. How is the man esteem'd here in the city
Ang. Of very reverent reputation, sir;
Of credit infinite ; highly beloved;
Second to none that lives here in the city.
His word might bear my wealth at any time.
Mer. Speak softly : yonder, as I think, he walks.
Enter antipholus and drcmio of Syracuse.
Ang. 'Tis so; and that self chain about his neck,
Which he forswore, most monstrously, to have.
Good sir, draw near to me, I '11 speak to him.
Signior Antipholus, I wonder much
That you would put me to this shame and trouble;
And, not without some scandal to yourself.
With circumstance, and oaths, so to deny
This chain, which now you wear so openly :
Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment.
You have done wrong to this my honest Mend;
Who, but for staying on our controversy.
Had hoisted sail, and put to sea to-day.
#
320
comedt of erb0r8.
act v.
This chain you had of me; can you deny it ?
Ant. S. I think, I had; I never did deny it.
Mer. Yes, that you did, sir; and forswore it too.
Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it, or forswear it ?
Mer. These ears of mine, thou knowest, did hear
thee.
Fie on thee, Avretch ! 'tis pity, that thou livest
To walk where any honest men resort.
Ant. S. Thou art a villain, to impeach me thus :
I '11 prove mine honor and mine honesty
Against thee presently, if thou darest stand.
Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.
{they draw.
Enter adriana, luciana, courtezak, and others.
Adr. Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake; he is
mad:—
Some get within him,i take his sword away ;
Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.
Dro. S. Run, master, run; for God's sake, take
a house.2
This is some priory.—In, or we are spoil'd.
{Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. to the abbey.
Enter abbess.
Ahh, Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you
hither ?
' Close, grapple vilh liiiu. * Go into a house.
SCKKE I.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
32.1
Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.
Let us come in, that we may bind him fast.
And bear him home for his reeovery.
Ang. I knew, he was not in his perfect wits.
Afer. I am sorry now that I did draw on him.
Abb. How long hath this possession held the
man ?
Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad.
And much different from the man he was;
But, till this afternoon, his passion
Ne'er brake into extremity of rage.
Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of
sea?
Buried some dear friend ? Hath not else his eye
Stray'd his affection in unlawful love ?
A sin prevailing much in youthful men.
Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.
Which of these sorrows is he subject to ?
Adr. To none of these, except it be the last;
Namely, some love, that drew him oft from home.
Abb. You should for that have reprehended him.
Adr. Why, so 1 did.
Abb. Ay, but not rough enough.
Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me.
Abb. Haply, in private.
Adr. And in assemblies too.
Abb. Ay, hut not enough.
Adr. It was the copy * of our conference :
6HAE.
• Theme.
tl.
322
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT T.
In bed, be slept not for my urging it;
At board, he fed not for my urging it;
Alone, it was the subject of my theme;
In company, I often glanced it;
Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.
Abb. And thereof came it that the man was mad.
The venom clamors of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.
It seems, his sleeps were hinder'd by thy railing ;
And thereof comes it that his head is light.
Thou say'st, his meat was sauced with thy up-
braidings :
Unquiet meals make ill digestions.
Thereof the raging fire of fever bred ;
And what's a fever but a fit of madness ?
Thou say'st, his sports were hinder'd by thy brawls :
Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue.
But moody and dull melancholy,
Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair;
And, at their heels, a huge infectious troop
Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life ?
In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest
To be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast:
The consequence is then, thy jealous fits
Have scared thy husband from tbe use of wits.
Luc. She never reprehended him but mildly.
"When he demean'd himself rough, rude, and
wildly.—
Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not ?
Adr. She did betray me to my own reproof.—
Good people, enter, and lay hold on him.
SCENE I. COMEDY OF ERRORS. 323
Abb. No, not a creature enters in my house.
Adr. Then let your servants bring my husband
forth.
Abb. Neither: he took this place for sanctuary.
And it shall privilege him from your hands.
Till I have brought him to his wits again.
Or lose my labor in assaying it.
Adr. I will attend my husband, be his nurse.
Diet his sickness, for it is my office.
And will have no attorney but myself;
And therefore let me have him home with me.
Abb. Be patient; for I will not let him stir.
Till I have used the approved means I have.
With wholesome sirups, drugs, and holy prayers.
To make of him a formal man agsun:'
It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,
A charitable duty of my order:
Therefore depart, and leave him here with me.
Adr. I will not hence, and leave my husband
here;
And ill it doth beseem your holiness.
To separate the husband and the wife.
Abb. Be quiet, and depart; thou shalt not have
him. [£a77 Abbess.
Luc. Complain unto the duke of this indignity.
Adr. Come, go; I will fall prostrate at his feet.
And never rise until my tears and prayers
Have won his grace to come in person hither.
' To bring hira back to his senses.
324
comedy of errors.
act v.
And take perforce n>y husband from the abbess.
Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five;
Anon, I am sure, the duke himself in person
Comes this way to the melancholy vale;
The place of death and sorry • execution.
Behind the ditches of the abbey here.
Ang. Upon what cause ?
Mer. To see a reverend Syracusian merchant.
Who put unluckily into this bay
Against the laws and statutes of this town.
Beheaded publicly for his offence.
Ang. See, where they come; we >*411 behold his
death.
Luc. Kneel to the duke, before he pass the abbey.
Enter duke attended; £geon bare-headed; with the
Headsman and other officers.
Duke. Yet once again proclaim it publicly.
If any friend will pay the sum for him.
He shall not die, so much we tender him.
Adr. Justice, most sacred duke, against the
abbess!
Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady :
It cannot be, that she hath done thee wrong.
Adr. May it please your grace, Antipholus, my
husband,—
Whom I made lord of me and all I had.
At your important ® letters,—this ill day
' Sad. ' Importunate.
SCKNR 1.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
325
A most outrageous fit of madness took him;
That desperately he hurried through the street,
(With him his bondman, all as mad as he)
Doing displeasure to the citizens
By rushing in their houses, bearing thence
Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like,
Once did I get him bound, and sent him home.
Whilst to take order ' for the wrongs I went,
That here and there his fury had committed.
Anon, I wot not by what strong escape.
He broke from those that had the guard of him ;
And, with his mad attendant and himself.
Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords.
Met us again, and, madly bent on us.
Chased us away; till, raising of more aid.
We came again to bind them : then they fled
Into this abbey, whither we pursued them ;
And here the abbess shuts the gates on us.
And will not suffer us to fetch him out.
Nor send him forth, that we may bear him hence.
Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command.
Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help,
Duke. Long since, thy husband served mc in my
■wars;
And I to thee engaged a prince's word.
When thou didst make him master of thy bed.
To do him all the grace and good I could.—
Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate.
' Measures.
326
COMEOT OF EBROBS.
ACT T.
And bid the lady abbess come to me.
I will determine this before I stir.
Enter a seevant.
Ser. O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself!
My master and his man are both broke loose.
Beaten the maids a-row,^ and bound the doctor.
Whose beard they have singed off with brands of
fire ;
And, ever as it blazed, they threw on him
Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair.
My master preaches patience to him, and the while
His man with scissors nicks him « like a fool :
, And, sure, unless you send some present help.
Between them they will kill the conjurer.
Adr. Peace, fool, thy master and his man are
here;
And that is false thou dost report to us.
Ser. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;
I have not breathed almost, since I did see it.
He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you.
To scorch your face, and to disfigure you.
[cry within.
Hark, hark, I hear him, mistress: f y, be gone.
Duke. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard
with halberds.
Adr. Ah me, it is my husband! Witness you.
> Successively, one after another.
* Cuts his hair close.
scene i.
c0med7 of f.rrors.
327
That he is borne about invisible.
Even now we housed him in the abbey here;
And now he's there, past thought of human reason.
Enter antipbolus and dromio of ephesus.
Ant. E. Justice, most gracious duke, O, grant me
justice!
Even for the service that long since I did thee.
When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took
Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood
Tliat then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.
Mgeon. Unless the fear of death doth make me
dote,
I see my son Antipbolus, and Dromio. [aside.
Ant. E. Justice, sweet prince, against that woman
there;
She whom thou gavest to me to be my wife.
That hath abused and dishonor'd me.
Even in the strength and height of injury !
Beyond imagination is the wrong.
That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.
Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.
Ant. E. lliis day, great duke, she shut the doors
Upon me,
"NVliile she with harlots * feasted in my house.
Duke. A grievous fault. Say, woman, didst thou
so ?
< Harlot was a term of reproach, applied to cheats among
men, as well as to wantons among women.
*
328
COMHDY OF ERRORS.
ACT T.
Adr, No, my good lord;—myself, he, and my
sister.
To-day did dine together. So befal my soul.
As this is false, he burdens me withal!
Luc. Ne'er may I look on day, nor sleep on night.
But she tells to your highness simple truth!
Aug. O perjured woman! They are both for-
8wom:
In this the madman justly chargeth them.
Ant. E. My liege, I am advised what I say;
Neither disturbed with the eflFect of wine.
Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire.
Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.
This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner:
That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her,
Could witness it, for he was with me then.
Who parted with me to go fetch a chain.
Promising to bring it to the Porcupine,
Where Balthazar and I did dine together.
Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,
I went to seek him : in the street I met him ;
And in his company, that gentleman.
There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down.
That I this day of him received the chain.
Which, God he knows, 1 saw not; for the which.
He did arrest me with an officer.
I did obey; and sent my peasant home
For certain ducats : he with none return'd.
Then fairly I bespoke the officer.
To go in person with me to my house.
By the way we met
SCKNE I. COMEDY OF ERBOBS. 329
My wife, her sister, and a rabble more
Of vile confederates ; along with tbem
Tbey brought one Pinch, a hungry, lean>faced
villain,
A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune-teller;
A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch,
A living dead man: this pernicious slave.
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer;
And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse.
And with no face, as 'twere, outfacing me.
Cries out, I was possess'd : then altogether
They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence;
^ And in a dark and daukish vault at home
There left me and my man, both bound together;
Till gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,
I gain'd my freedom, and immediately
Ran hither to your grace, whom I beseech
To give me ample satisfaction
For these deep shames and great indignities.
Ang. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with
him;
That he dined not at home, but was lock'd out.
Duke. But had he such a chain of thee, or no ?
Ang. He had, my lord ; and when he ran in here.
These people saw the chain about his neck.
Mer. Besides, I will be sworn, these ears of mjne
Heard you confess you had the chain of him.
After you first forswore it on the mart;
And, thereupon, I drew my sword on you;
And then you fled into this abbey here,
0
330 COMEDY OF ERRORS. •ACT T.
From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.
Ant. E. I never came within these abbey walls
Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me :
1 never saw the chain, so help me. Heaven!
And this is false, you burden me withal.
Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is this!
1 think, you all have drunk of Circe's cup.*
If here you housed him, here he would have been ■,
If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly.—
You say, he dined at home ; the goldsmith here
Denies that saying.—Sirrah, what say you ?
Dro. E. Sir, he dined with her there, at the Pot-
cupine.
Cour. He did ; and from my finger snatch'd that
ring.
Ant. E. 'Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of
her.
Duke. Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here ?
Cour. As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace.
Duke. Why, this is strange.—Go, call the abbess
hither:
I think you are all mated,® or stark mad.
[^Exit an Attendant.
JEgeon. Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a
word:
Haply I see a friend will save my life.
And pay the sum that may deliver me.
Duke. Speak freely, S}Tacusian, what thou wilt.
* Which is said to have transformed the companions of
Ulysses into swine. ' Confounded.
SCENE I.
COMKDY OF KliUORS.
331
^geon. Is not your name, sir/call'd Antipholus ?
And is not that your bondman Dromio ?
Dro. E. Within this hour I- was his bondman,
sir,
But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords:
Now am I Dromio, and his man, unbound.
uEgeon. I am sure, you both of you remember
me.
Dro. E. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;
For lately we were bound as you are now.
You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir?
Mgeon. Why look you strange on me r you know
me well.
Ant. E. I never saw you in my life till now.
Mgeon. O ! grief hath changed me since you saw
me last;
And careful hours,' with Time's deformed - hand.
Have written strange defeatures in my face.
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice ?
Ant. E. Neither.
jEgeon. Dromio, nor thou ?
Dro. E. No, trust me, sir, nor I.
.Mgeon. I am sure, thou dost.
Dro. E. Ay, sir ? but I am sure 1 do not; and
whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to be-
lieve him.
Mgeon. Not know my voice! O, time's extre-
mity !
' Hours of distress and sorrow. » Deforming,
s Alteration of features.
m
332
comedy of errors.
act v.
Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue.
In seven short years, that here my only son
Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares ? *
Though now this grained^ face of mine be hid
In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow.
And all the conduits of my blood froze up;
Yet hath my night of life some memory.
My wasting lamp some fading glimmer left.
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear :
All these old witnesses (I cannot err)
Tell me, thou art my son Antipholus.
Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life.
jEgeon. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy.
Thou know'st, we parted : but, perhaps, my son,
Thou shamest to acknowlege me in misery.
Ant. E. The duke, and all that know me in the
city.
Can witness with me that it is not so:
I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life.
Duke. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years
Have I been patron to Antipholus,
During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa.
I see, thy age and dangers make thee dote.
Enter abbess, with antipholvs and oromio o*
syracuse.
Abb. Most mighty duke, behold a man much
wrong'd. [all gather to see him.
> The weak and discordant tone of my roice, thai is clianged
hy grief. « Furrowed.
SCENE I.
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
333
Air.\ see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.
Duke. One of these men is Genius to tlie other;
And so of these. Which is the natural man,
And which the spirit ? Who deciphers them ?
Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio; command him away.
Dro. E. I, S'r, am Dromio; pray, let me stay.
Ant. S. iEgeon, art thou not, or else his ghost ?
Dro. S. O, my old master! who hath bound him
here ?
Abb. Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,
And gain a husband by his liberty.
Speak, old JBgeon, if thou be'st the man
That hadst a wife once call'd i£milia.
That bore thee at a burden two fair sons.
0, if thou be'st the same iEgeon, speak.
And speak unto the same ./Smilia !
Mgeon. If I dream not, thou art .Emilia
If thou art she, tell me, where is that son
That floated with thee on the fatal raft ?
Abb. By men of Epidamnum, he, and I,
And the twin Dromio, all were taken up;
But, by and by, rude fishermen of Corinth
By force took Dromio and my son from them.
And me they left with those of Epidamnum;
What then became of them I cannot tell;
1, to this fortune that you see me in.
Duke. Why, here begins his morning story
right: '■
' The morning story is what .^geon tells the Duk? in the
first scene of this play.
334
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
ACT V.
Thes3 two Antipholuses, these two so like.
And these two Dromios, one in semblance,—
Besides her urging of her wreck at sea,—
These are the parents to these children.
Which accidentally are met together.
Antipholus, thou camest from Corinth first.
Ant. S. No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.
Duke. Stay, stand apart; I know not which is
V hich.
Ant E. 1 came from Corinth, my most gracious
lord.
Dro. E. And I with him.
Ant. E. Brought to this town by that most
famous warrior,
Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.
Adr. Which of you two did dine with me to-day ?
Ant. S. I, gentle mistress.
Adr. And are not you my husband ?
Ant. E. No, 1 say nay to that.
Ant. S. And so do I: yet did she call me so;
And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here.
Did call me brother.—What I told you then,
1 hope, I shall have leisure to make good.
If this be not a dream I see and hear.
Any. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.
Ant. S. I think it be, sir; I deny it not.
Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.
Any. I think I did, sir; I deny it not.
Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,
By Dromio; but I think he broiight it not.
Dro. E. No, none by me.
BCEKK I.
COMF.DT OF ERRORS.
Ant. S. Tliis purse of ducats I received from rou.
And Dromio my man did brin£r them me.
I see, we still did meet each other's man.
And I was ta'en for him, and he for me;
And thereupon these errors are arose.
Ant. £. These ducats jtawn I for my father here.
Dvkn. It shall not need ; thy father hath his life.
Cour. Sir, I must have tlrat diamond from you.
Ant. E. Tliere, take it; and much thanks for my
good cheer.
Abb. Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains
To go with us into the ahhey here,
And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes;—
And aQ that are assembled in this place.
That by this sympathised one day's error
Have suffer'd wrong, go, keep us company.
And we shall make full satisfaction.—
Twenty-five years have I hut gone in travail
Of you, my sons ; until this present hour.
My hca\y burden not delivered.—
Tl»e duke, my husband, and my children both.
And you, the calendars of their nativity,*
(to to a gossip's feast, and go with me;
After so long grief such natirity !
Duke. With all my heart. I '11 gossip at this feast.
[£xe«n/ Duke, Abbess, jEgeon, Courtezax,
Merchant, Angela, and Attendants.
' Addressing the two Dromios, who were horn on the some
day with their masters.
COMEDY OF ERRORF. ACT T.
Dro. S. ^^aste^, shall I fetch your stuff' from
ship-board ?
Ant. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou
embark'd ?
Dro. S. \ our goods, that lay at host, sir, in the
Centaur.
Ant. S. He speaks to me. I am your master,
Dromio.
Come, go with us; we '11 look to that anon :
Kmbrace thy i)rothcr there ; rejoice with him.
\_Exrunt Ant. S. and E. Adr. and Luc.
.Dro. S. There is a fat friend at your master's
house,
Tliat kitchen'd me for you fo-day at dinner :
She now shall be my sister, not my wife.
Dro. E. Methinks, you are my glass, and not my
brother.
I see by you, I am a sweet-faced youth.
Will you walk in to see their gossiping ?
Dro. S. Not I, sir ; you are my elder.
Dro. E. That's a question: how shall we try it ?
Dro. S. We '11 draw cuts for the senior ; till then,
lead thou first.
Dro. E. Nay, then thus :
We came into the world like brother and brother;
And now let "s go hand in hand, not one before an-
other. [ExeurU.
1 Bagisag*.
END OF VOL. II.
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