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THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
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117
Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day,
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchased right,
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate,
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your wakened hate:
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
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ACT II
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And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!
Enter Oberon at one door, with his Train, and Titania at another, with
hers.
OBERON.
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
TITANIA.
What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence;
I have forsworn his bed and company.
OBERON.
Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord?
TITANIA.
Then I must be thy lady; but I know
When thou hast stol’n away from fairyland,
And in the shape of Corin sat all day
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest steep of India,
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love,
To Theseus must be wedded; and you come
To give their bed joy and prosperity?
OBERON.
How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?
Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night
From Perigenia, whom he ravished?
And make him with fair Aegles break his faith,
With Ariadne and Antiopa?
TITANIA.
These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer’s spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook,
Or on the beachèd margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,
Hath every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents.
The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard.
The fold stands empty in the drownèd field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine-men’s-morris is fill’d up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable.
The human mortals want their winter here.
No night is now with hymn or carol blest.
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound.
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;
And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which.
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.
OBERON.
Do you amend it, then. It lies in you.
Why should Titania cross her Oberon?
I do but beg a little changeling boy
To be my henchman.
TITANIA.
Set your heart at rest;
The fairyland buys not the child of me.
His mother was a vot’ress of my order,
And in the spicèd Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip’d by my side;
And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands,
Marking th’ embarkèd traders on the flood,
When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive,
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;
Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait
Following (her womb then rich with my young squire),
Would imitate, and sail upon the land,
To fetch me trifles, and return again,
As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;
And for her sake do I rear up her boy,
And for her sake I will not part with him.
OBERON.
How long within this wood intend you stay?
TITANIA.
Perchance till after Theseus’ wedding-day.
If you will patiently dance in our round,
And see our moonlight revels, go with us;
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.
OBERON.
Give me that boy and I will go with thee.
TITANIA.
Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away.
We shall chide downright if I longer stay.
[_Exit Titania with her Train._]
OBERON.
Well, go thy way. Thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.—
My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb’rest
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid’s music.
PUCK.
I remember.
OBERON.
That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not),
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, thronèd by the west,
And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft
Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon;
And the imperial votress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.
PUCK.
I’ll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.
[_Exit Puck._]
OBERON.
Having once this juice,
I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep,
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:
The next thing then she waking looks upon
(Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape)
She shall pursue it with the soul of love.
And ere I take this charm from off her sight
(As I can take it with another herb)
I’ll make her render up her page to me.
But who comes here? I am invisible;
And I will overhear their conference.
Enter Demetrius, Helena following him.
DEMETRIUS.
I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.
Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?
The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me.
Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood,
And here am I, and wode within this wood
Because I cannot meet with Hermia.
Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.
HELENA.
You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant,
But yet you draw not iron, for my heart
Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw,
And I shall have no power to follow you.
DEMETRIUS.
Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?
Or rather do I not in plainest truth
Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you?
HELENA.
And even for that do I love you the more.
I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you.
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you.
What worser place can I beg in your love,
(And yet a place of high respect with me)
Than to be usèd as you use your dog?
DEMETRIUS.
Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit;
For I am sick when I do look on thee.
HELENA.
And I am sick when I look not on you.
DEMETRIUS.
You do impeach your modesty too much
To leave the city and commit yourself
Into the hands of one that loves you not,
To trust the opportunity of night.
And the ill counsel of a desert place,
With the rich worth of your virginity.
HELENA.
Your virtue is my privilege: for that.
It is not night when I do see your face,
Therefore I think I am not in the night;
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,
For you, in my respect, are all the world.
Then how can it be said I am alone
When all the world is here to look on me?
DEMETRIUS.
I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.
HELENA.
The wildest hath not such a heart as you.
Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d;
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;
The dove pursues the griffin, the mild hind
Makes speed to catch the tiger. Bootless speed,
When cowardice pursues and valour flies!
DEMETRIUS.
I will not stay thy questions. Let me go,
Or if thou follow me, do not believe
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.
HELENA.
Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex.
We cannot fight for love as men may do.
We should be woo’d, and were not made to woo.
[_Exit Demetrius._]
I’ll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell,
To die upon the hand I love so well.
[_Exit Helena._]
OBERON.
Fare thee well, nymph. Ere he do leave this grove,
Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.
Enter Puck.
Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.
PUCK.
Ay, there it is.
OBERON.
I pray thee give it me.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.
And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:
A sweet Athenian lady is in love
With a disdainful youth. Anoint his eyes;
But do it when the next thing he espies
May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on.
Effect it with some care, that he may prove
More fond on her than she upon her love:
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.
PUCK.
Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.
[_Exeunt._]
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ACT IV
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URSULA.
Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it
is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the Prince and
Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who
is fled and gone. Will you come presently?
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THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
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37
As a decrepit father takes delight,
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
And by a part of all thy glory live:
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,
This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
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ACT IV
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DON PEDRO.
Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the
fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
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THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
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129
Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action, and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Mad in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme,
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before a joy proposed behind a dream.
All this the world well knows yet none knows well,
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
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TWO GAOLERS
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QUEEN, wife to Cymbeline
IMOGEN, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen
HELEN, a lady attending on Imogen
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ACT IV
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BENEDICK.
If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he
that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam.
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ACT IV
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FRIAR.
Hear me a little;
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady: I have mark’d
A thousand blushing apparitions
To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes;
And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire,
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;
Trust not my reading nor my observations,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenure of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.
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ACT IV
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Dramatis Personæ
KING HENRY V.
DUKE OF CLARENCE, brother to the King.
DUKE OF BEDFORD, brother to the King.
DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, brother to the King.
DUKE OF EXETER, uncle to the King.
DUKE OF YORK, cousin to the King.
EARL OF SALISBURY.
EARL OF HUNTINGDON.
EARL OF WESTMORLAND.
EARL OF WARWICK.
ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY.
BISHOP OF ELY.
EARL OF CAMBRIDGE.
LORD SCROOP.
SIR THOMAS GREY.
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, officer in King Henry’s army.
GOWER, officer in King Henry’s army.
FLUELLEN, officer in King Henry’s army.
MACMORRIS, officer in King Henry’s army.
JAMY, officer in King Henry’s army.
BATES, soldier in the same.
COURT, soldier in the same.
WILLIAMS, soldier in the same.
PISTOL.
NYM.
BARDOLPH.
BOY.
A Herald.
CHARLES VI, king of France.
LEWIS, the Dauphin.
DUKE OF BERRY.
DUKE OF BRITTANY.
DUKE OF BURGUNDY.
DUKE OF ORLEANS.
DUKE OF BOURBON.
The Constable of France.
RAMBURES, French Lord.
GRANDPRÉ, French Lord.
Governor of Harfleur
MONTJOY, a French herald.
Ambassadors to the King of England.
ISABEL, queen of France.
KATHARINE, daughter to Charles and Isabel.
ALICE, a lady attending on her.
HOSTESS of a tavern in Eastcheap, formerly Mistress Nell Quickly, and
now married to Pistol.
CHORUS.
Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, and
Attendants.
SCENE: England; afterwards France.
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LORD SCALES
LORD SAYE
MATTHEW GOUGH
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Alexander IDEN, a Kentish gentleman
Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Herald, a
Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers, Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards,
Soldiers, Messengers, &c.
A Spirit
SCENE: England.
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ACT IV
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Scene I. The plains of Philippi.
Scene II. The same. The field of battle.
Scene III. Another part of the field.
Scene IV. Another part of the field.
Scene V. Another part of the field.
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ACT IV
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Re-enter Curtis.
GRUMIO.
Where is he?
CURTIS.
In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;
And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,
And sits as one new risen from a dream.
Away, away! for he is coming hither.
[_Exeunt._]
Re-enter Petruchio.
PETRUCHIO.
Thus have I politicly begun my reign,
And ’tis my hope to end successfully.
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty.
And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d,
For then she never looks upon her lure.
Another way I have to man my haggard,
To make her come, and know her keeper’s call,
That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites
That bate and beat, and will not be obedient.
She eat no meat today, nor none shall eat;
Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not;
As with the meat, some undeserved fault
I’ll find about the making of the bed;
And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets;
Ay, and amid this hurly I intend
That all is done in reverend care of her;
And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night:
And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl,
And with the clamour keep her still awake.
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;
And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour.
He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him speak; ’tis charity to show.
[_Exit._]
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THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
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39
O how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring:
And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give:
That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone:
O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive.
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.
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INDUCTION
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SCENE I. The same.
Enter Lord Bardolph.
LORD BARDOLPH.
Who keeps the gate here, ho?
The Porter opens the gate.
Where is the Earl?
PORTER.
What shall I say you are?
LORD BARDOLPH.
Tell thou the Earl
That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.
PORTER.
His lordship is walk’d forth into the orchard.
Please it your honour knock but at the gate,
And he himself will answer.
Enter Northumberland.
LORD BARDOLPH.
Here comes the Earl.
[_Exit Porter._]
NORTHUMBERLAND.
What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now
Should be the father of some stratagem.
The times are wild; contention, like a horse
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose
And bears down all before him.
LORD BARDOLPH.
Noble earl,
I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Good, an God will!
LORD BARDOLPH.
As good as heart can wish.
The King is almost wounded to the death;
And, in the fortune of my lord your son,
Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts
Kill’d by the hand of Douglas; young Prince John
And Westmoreland and Stafford fled the field;
And Harry Monmouth’s brawn, the hulk Sir John,
Is prisoner to your son. O, such a day,
So fought, so follow’d and so fairly won,
Came not till now to dignify the times
Since Caesar’s fortunes!
NORTHUMBERLAND.
How is this derived?
Saw you the field? Came you from Shrewsbury?
LORD BARDOLPH.
I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence,
A gentleman well bred and of good name,
That freely render’d me these news for true.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent
On Tuesday last to listen after news.
Enter Travers.
LORD BARDOLPH.
My lord, I over-rode him on the way,
And he is furnish’d with no certainties
More than he haply may retail from me.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?
TRAVERS.
My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back
With joyful tidings, and, being better horsed,
Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard
A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,
That stopp’d by me to breathe his bloodied horse.
He ask’d the way to Chester, and of him
I did demand what news from Shrewsbury.
He told me that rebellion had bad luck
And that young Harry Percy’s spur was cold.
With that he gave his able horse the head,
And bending forward struck his armed heels
Against the panting sides of his poor jade
Up to the rowel-head, and starting so
He seem’d in running to devour the way,
Staying no longer question.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Ha? Again:
Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold?
Of Hotspur, Coldspur? That rebellion
Had met ill luck?
LORD BARDOLPH.
My lord, I’ll tell you what:
If my young lord your son have not the day,
Upon mine honour, for a silken point
I’ll give my barony, never talk of it.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers
Give then such instances of loss?
LORD BARDOLPH.
Who, he?
He was some hilding fellow that had stolen
The horse he rode on, and, upon my life,
Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news.
Enter Morton.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood
Hath left a witness’d usurpation.
Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?
MORTON.
I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord,
Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask
To fright our party.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
How doth my son and brother?
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,
And would have told him half his Troy was burnt;
But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue,
And I my Percy’s death ere thou report’st it.
This thou wouldst say: “Your son did thus and thus;
Your brother thus; so fought the noble Douglas”
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:
But in the end, to stop my ear indeed,
Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,
Ending with “Brother, son, and all are dead.”
MORTON.
Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;
But, for my lord your son—
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Why, he is dead.
See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
He that but fears the thing he would not know
Hath by instinct knowledge from others’ eyes
That what he fear’d is chanced. Yet speak, Morton;
Tell thou an earl his divination lies,
And I will take it as a sweet disgrace
And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.
MORTON.
You are too great to be by me gainsaid,
Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead.
I see a strange confession in thine eye.
Thou shakest thy head and hold’st it fear or sin
To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so.
The tongue offends not that reports his death;
And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,
Not he which says the dead is not alive.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office, and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
Remember’d tolling a departing friend.
LORD BARDOLPH.
I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
MORTON.
I am sorry I should force you to believe
That which I would to God I had not seen;
But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,
Rend’ring faint quittance, wearied and outbreathed,
To Harry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down
The never-daunted Percy to the earth,
From whence with life he never more sprung up.
In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,
Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
From the best-temper’d courage in his troops;
For from his metal was his party steel’d,
Which once in him abated, all the rest
Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.
And as the thing that’s heavy in itself
Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed,
So did our men, heavy in Hotspur’s loss,
Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear
That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim
Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,
Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester
Too soon ta’en prisoner; and that furious Scot,
The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword
Had three times slain th’ appearance of the King,
Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame
Of those that turn’d their backs, and in his flight,
Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all
Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out
A speedy power to encounter you, my lord,
Under the conduct of young Lancaster
And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
For this I shall have time enough to mourn.
In poison there is physic; and these news,
Having been well, that would have made me sick,
Being sick, have in some measure made me well.
And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints,
Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire
Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs,
Weaken’d with grief, being now enraged with grief,
Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch!
A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel
Must glove this hand. And hence, thou sickly coif!
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head
Which princes, flesh’d with conquest, aim to hit.
Now bind my brows with iron, and approach
The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring
To frown upon th’ enraged Northumberland!
Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature’s hand
Keep the wild flood confined! Let order die!
And let this world no longer be a stage
To feed contention in a lingering act;
But let one spirit of the first-born Cain
Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set
On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead!
LORD BARDOLPH.
This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.
MORTON.
Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.
The lives of all your loving complices
Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er
To stormy passion, must perforce decay.
You cast th’ event of war, my noble lord,
And summ’d the account of chance, before you said
“Let us make head.” It was your presurmise
That in the dole of blows your son might drop.
You knew he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge,
More likely to fall in than to get o’er.
You were advised his flesh was capable
Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit
Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged.
Yet did you say “Go forth;” and none of this,
Though strongly apprehended, could restrain
The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall’n,
Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth,
More than that being which was like to be?
LORD BARDOLPH.
We all that are engaged to this loss
Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas
That if we wrought out life ’twas ten to one;
And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed
Choked the respect of likely peril fear’d;
And since we are o’erset, venture again.
Come, we will put forth, body and goods.
MORTON.
’Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord,
I hear for certain, and dare speak the truth:
The gentle Archbishop of York is up
With well-appointed powers. He is a man
Who with a double surety binds his followers.
My lord your son had only but the corpse,
But shadows and the shows of men, to fight;
For that same word, “rebellion” did divide
The action of their bodies from their souls,
And they did fight with queasiness, constrain’d,
As men drink potions, that their weapons only
Seem’d on our side; but, for their spirits and souls,
This word, “rebellion,” it had froze them up,
As fish are in a pond. But now the bishop
Turns insurrection to religion.
Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts,
He’s follow’d both with body and with mind,
And doth enlarge his rising with the blood
Of fair King Richard, scraped from Pomfret stones;
Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause;
Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land,
Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke;
And more and less do flock to follow him.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,
This present grief had wiped it from my mind.
Go in with me, and counsel every man
The aptest way for safety and revenge.
Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed.
Never so few, and never yet more need.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. London. A street.
Enter Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler.
FALSTAFF.
Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?
PAGE.
He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but, for the
party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he knew for.
FALSTAFF.
Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this
foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything that tends
to laughter more than I invent, or is invented on me. I am not only
witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk
before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. If
the Prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me
off, why then I have no judgement. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art
fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never
manned with an agate till now, but I will inset you neither in gold nor
silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master,
for a jewel,—the juvenal, the Prince your master, whose chin is not yet
fledge. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he
shall get one off his cheek; and yet he will not stick to say his face
is a face-royal. God may finish it when He will, ’tis not a hair amiss
yet. He may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never
earn sixpence out of it. And yet he’ll be crowing as if he had writ man
ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but
he’s almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dommelton
about the satin for my short cloak and my slops?
PAGE.
He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph. He
would not take his band and yours, he liked not the security.
FALSTAFF.
Let him be damned like the glutton! Pray God his tongue be hotter! A
whoreson Achitophel! A rascally yea-forsooth knave, to bear a gentleman
in hand, and then stand upon security! The whoreson smooth-pates do now
wear nothing but high shoes and bunches of keys at their girdles; and
if a man is through with them in honest taking up, then they must stand
upon security. I had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as
offer to stop it with security. I looked he should have sent me two and
twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me
“security”. Well, he may sleep in security, for he hath the horn of
abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it; and yet
cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him. Where’s
Bardolph?
PAGE.
He’s gone into Smithfield to buy your worship a horse.
FALSTAFF.
I bought him in Paul’s, and he’ll buy me a horse in Smithfield. An I
could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived.
Enter the Lord Chief Justice and Servant.
PAGE.
Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed the Prince for striking him
about Bardolph.
FALSTAFF.
Wait close, I will not see him.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
What’s he that goes there?
SERVANT.
Falstaff, an ’t please your lordship.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
He that was in question for the robbery?
SERVANT.
He, my lord; but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury, and, as
I hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
What, to York? Call him back again.
SERVANT.
Sir John Falstaff!
FALSTAFF.
Boy, tell him I am deaf.
PAGE.
You must speak louder, my master is deaf.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
I am sure he is, to the hearing of anything good.
Go pluck him by the elbow, I must speak with him.
SERVANT.
Sir John!
FALSTAFF.
What! A young knave, and begging! Is there not wars? Is there not
employment? Doth not the King lack subjects? Do not the rebels need
soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is worse
shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse than the name
of rebellion can tell how to make it.
SERVANT.
You mistake me, sir.
FALSTAFF.
Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? Setting my knighthood and
my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat if I had said so.
SERVANT.
I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and your soldiership aside,
and give me leave to tell you, you lie in your throat, if you say I am
any other than an honest man.
FALSTAFF.
I give thee leave to tell me so? I lay aside that which grows to me? If
thou get’st any leave of me, hang me; if thou tak’st leave, thou wert
better be hanged. You hunt counter. Hence! Avaunt!
SERVANT.
Sir, my lord would speak with you.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.
FALSTAFF.
My good lord! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad to see
your lordship abroad. I heard say your lordship was sick. I hope your
lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past
your youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the
saltness of time; and I most humbly beseech your lordship to have a
reverend care of your health.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to Shrewsbury.
FALSTAFF.
An ’t please your lordship, I hear his Majesty is returned with some
discomfort from Wales.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
I talk not of his Majesty. You would not come when I sent for you.
FALSTAFF.
And I hear, moreover, his Highness is fallen into this same whoreson
apoplexy.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Well, God mend him! I pray you let me speak with you.
FALSTAFF.
This apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy, an ’t please your
lordship, a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
What tell you me of it? Be it as it is.
FALSTAFF.
It hath it original from much grief, from study and perturbation of the
brain. I have read the cause of his effects in Galen. It is a kind of
deafness.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
I think you are fallen into the disease, for you hear not what I say to
you.
FALSTAFF.
Very well, my lord, very well. Rather, an ’t please you, it is the
disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled
withal.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears, and
I care not if I do become your physician.
FALSTAFF.
I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient. Your lordship may
minister the potion of imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; but
how I should be your patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may
make some dram of a scruple, or indeed a scruple itself.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
I sent for you, when there were matters against you for your life, to
come speak with me.
FALSTAFF.
As I was then advised by my learned counsel in the laws of this
land-service, I did not come.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy.
FALSTAFF.
He that buckles himself in my belt cannot live in less.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Your means are very slender, and your waste is great.
FALSTAFF.
I would it were otherwise, I would my means were greater and my waist
slenderer.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
You have misled the youthful prince.
FALSTAFF.
The young prince hath misled me. I am the fellow with the great belly,
and he my dog.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed wound. Your day’s service at
Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night’s exploit on Gad’s
Hill. You may thank th’ unquiet time for your quiet o’er-posting that
action.
FALSTAFF.
My lord!
CHIEF JUSTICE.
But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a sleeping wolf.
FALSTAFF.
To wake a wolf is as bad as smell a fox.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
What! You are as a candle, the better part burnt out.
FALSTAFF.
A wassail candle, my lord, all tallow. If I did say of wax, my growth
would approve the truth.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
There is not a white hair in your face but should have his effect of
gravity.
FALSTAFF.
His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel.
FALSTAFF.
Not so, my lord, your ill angel is light, but I hope he that looks upon
me will take me without weighing. And yet in some respects, I grant, I
cannot go. I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these
costermongers’ times that true valour is turned bearherd; pregnancy is
made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings. All
the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes
them, are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the
capacities of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers
with the bitterness of your galls, and we that are in the vaward of our
youth, I must confess, are wags too.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down
old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye, a dry
hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing
belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double,
your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity? And
will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!
FALSTAFF.
My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with a
white head and something a round belly. For my voice, I have lost it
with halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I
will not. The truth is, I am only old in judgement and understanding;
and he that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me
the money, and have at him! For the box of the ear that the Prince gave
you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible
lord. I have checked him for it, and the young lion repents. Marry, not
in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Well, God send the Prince a better companion!
FALSTAFF.
God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands of him.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Well, the King hath severed you and Prince Harry. I hear you are going
with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of
Northumberland.
FALSTAFF.
Yea, I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you pray, all you
that kiss my lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in a hot day;
for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to
sweat extraordinarily. If it be a hot day, and I brandish anything but
a bottle, I would I might never spit white again. There is not a
dangerous action can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it. Well, I
cannot last ever. But it was alway yet the trick of our English nation,
if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs say
I am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my name were
not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were better to be eaten to
death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Well, be honest, be honest, and God bless your expedition!
FALSTAFF.
Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth?
CHIEF JUSTICE.
Not a penny, not a penny; you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare
you well: commend me to my cousin Westmoreland.
[_Exeunt Chief Justice and Servant._]
FALSTAFF.
If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate
age and covetousness than he can part young limbs and lechery: but the
gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the other; and so both the
degrees prevent my curses. Boy!
PAGE.
Sir?
FALSTAFF.
What money is in my purse?
PAGE.
Seven groats and two pence.
FALSTAFF.
I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse. Borrowing
only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear
this letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this to the Prince; this to the
Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have
weekly sworn to marry since I perceived the first white hair of my
chin. About it. You know where to find me. [_Exit Page_.] A pox of this
gout! or a gout of this pox! for the one or the other plays the rogue
with my great toe. ’Tis no matter if I do halt; I have the wars for my
colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will
make use of anything. I will turn diseases to commodity.
[_Exit._]
SCENE III. York. The Archbishop’s palace.
Enter the Archbishop, the Lords Hastings, Mowbray and Bardolph.
ARCHBISHOP.
Thus have you heard our cause and known our means,
And, my most noble friends, I pray you all
Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes.
And first, Lord Marshal, what say you to it?
MOWBRAY.
I well allow the occasion of our arms,
But gladly would be better satisfied
How in our means we should advance ourselves
To look with forehead bold and big enough
Upon the power and puissance of the King.
HASTINGS.
Our present musters grow upon the file
To five and twenty thousand men of choice;
And our supplies live largely in the hope
Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns
With an incensed fire of injuries.
LORD BARDOLPH.
The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus:
Whether our present five and twenty thousand
May hold up head without Northumberland.
HASTINGS.
With him we may.
LORD BARDOLPH.
Yea, marry, there’s the point:
But if without him we be thought too feeble,
My judgement is, we should not step too far
Till we had his assistance by the hand;
For in a theme so bloody-faced as this
Conjecture, expectation, and surmise
Of aids incertain should not be admitted.
ARCHBISHOP.
’Tis very true, Lord Bardolph, for indeed
It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury.
LORD BARDOLPH.
It was, my lord; who lined himself with hope,
Eating the air on promise of supply,
Flatt’ring himself in project of a power
Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts,
And so, with great imagination
Proper to madmen, led his powers to death
And winking leap’d into destruction.
HASTINGS.
But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt
To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope.
LORD BARDOLPH.
Yes, if this present quality of war—
Indeed the instant action, a cause on foot—
Lives so in hope, as in an early spring
We see th’ appearing buds; which to prove fruit
Hope gives not so much warrant as despair
That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,
We first survey the plot, then draw the model,
And when we see the figure of the house,
Then we must rate the cost of the erection,
Which if we find outweighs ability,
What do we then but draw anew the model
In fewer offices, or at least desist
To build at all? Much more, in this great work,
Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down
And set another up, should we survey
The plot of situation and the model,
Consent upon a sure foundation,
Question surveyors, know our own estate,
How able such a work to undergo,
To weigh against his opposite; or else
We fortify in paper and in figures,
Using the names of men instead of men,
Like one that draws the model of a house
Beyond his power to build it, who, half through,
Gives o’er and leaves his part-created cost
A naked subject to the weeping clouds
And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny.
HASTINGS.
Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,
Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d
The utmost man of expectation,
I think we are a body strong enough,
Even as we are, to equal with the King.
LORD BARDOLPH.
What, is the King but five and twenty thousand?
HASTINGS.
To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph;
For his divisions, as the times do brawl,
Are in three heads: one power against the French,
And one against Glendower; perforce a third
Must take up us. So is the unfirm king
In three divided, and his coffers sound
With hollow poverty and emptiness.
ARCHBISHOP.
That he should draw his several strengths together
And come against us in full puissance
Need not be dreaded.
HASTINGS.
If he should do so,
He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh
Baying him at the heels: never fear that.
LORD BARDOLPH.
Who is it like should lead his forces hither?
HASTINGS.
The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth;
But who is substituted ’gainst the French
I have no certain notice.
ARCHBISHOP.
Let us on,
And publish the occasion of our arms.
The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;
Their over-greedy love hath surfeited.
An habitation giddy and unsure
Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
O thou fond many, with what loud applause
Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,
Before he was what thou wouldst have him be!
And being now trimm’d in thine own desires,
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him
That thou provok’st thyself to cast him up.
So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge
Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard;
And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,
And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these times?
They that, when Richard lived, would have him die
Are now become enamour’d on his grave.
Thou that threw’st dust upon his goodly head
When through proud London he came sighing on
After th’ admired heels of Bolingbroke,
Criest now “O earth, yield us that king again,
And take thou this!” O thoughts of men accursed!
Past and to come seems best; things present, worst.
MOWBRAY.
Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on?
HASTINGS.
We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 14
|
A SOOTHSAYER
A CLOWN
| null |
SCENE I. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
Enter Demetrius and Philo.
PHILO.
Nay, but this dotage of our general’s
O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes,
That o’er the files and musters of the war
Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn
The office and devotion of their view
Upon a tawny front. His captain’s heart,
Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst
The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper
And is become the bellows and the fan
To cool a gipsy’s lust.
Flourish. Enter Antony and Cleopatra, her Ladies, the Train, with
Eunuchs fanning her.
Look where they come:
Take but good note, and you shall see in him
The triple pillar of the world transform’d
Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see.
CLEOPATRA.
If it be love indeed, tell me how much.
ANTONY.
There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.
CLEOPATRA.
I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.
ANTONY.
Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
News, my good lord, from Rome.
ANTONY.
Grates me, the sum.
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, hear them, Antony.
Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows
If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent
His powerful mandate to you: “Do this or this;
Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that.
Perform’t, or else we damn thee.”
ANTONY.
How, my love?
CLEOPATRA.
Perchance! Nay, and most like.
You must not stay here longer; your dismission
Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.
Where’s Fulvia’s process?—Caesar’s I would say? Both?
Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen,
Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine
Is Caesar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame
When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!
ANTONY.
Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch
Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.
Kingdoms are clay. Our dungy earth alike
Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life
Is to do thus [_Embracing_]; when such a mutual pair
And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind,
On pain of punishment, the world to weet
We stand up peerless.
CLEOPATRA.
Excellent falsehood!
Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?
I’ll seem the fool I am not. Antony
Will be himself.
ANTONY.
But stirred by Cleopatra.
Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours,
Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh.
There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?
CLEOPATRA.
Hear the ambassadors.
ANTONY.
Fie, wrangling queen!
Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh,
To weep; whose every passion fully strives
To make itself, in thee fair and admired!
No messenger but thine, and all alone
Tonight we’ll wander through the streets and note
The qualities of people. Come, my queen,
Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.
[_Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra with the Train._]
DEMETRIUS.
Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?
PHILO.
Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony,
He comes too short of that great property
Which still should go with Antony.
DEMETRIUS.
I am full sorry
That he approves the common liar who
Thus speaks of him at Rome, but I will hope
Of better deeds tomorrow. Rest you happy!
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
Enter Enobarbus, a Soothsayer, Charmian, Iras, Mardian and Alexas.
CHARMIAN.
Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute
Alexas, where’s the soothsayer that you praised so to th’ queen? O,
that I knew this husband which you say must charge his horns with
garlands!
ALEXAS.
Soothsayer!
SOOTHSAYER.
Your will?
CHARMIAN.
Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know things?
SOOTHSAYER.
In nature’s infinite book of secrecy
A little I can read.
ALEXAS.
Show him your hand.
ENOBARBUS.
Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough
Cleopatra’s health to drink.
CHARMIAN.
Good, sir, give me good fortune.
SOOTHSAYER.
I make not, but foresee.
CHARMIAN.
Pray, then, foresee me one.
SOOTHSAYER.
You shall be yet far fairer than you are.
CHARMIAN.
He means in flesh.
IRAS.
No, you shall paint when you are old.
CHARMIAN.
Wrinkles forbid!
ALEXAS.
Vex not his prescience. Be attentive.
CHARMIAN.
Hush!
SOOTHSAYER.
You shall be more beloving than beloved.
CHARMIAN.
I had rather heat my liver with drinking.
ALEXAS.
Nay, hear him.
CHARMIAN.
Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a
forenoon and widow them all. Let me have a child at fifty, to whom
Herod of Jewry may do homage. Find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar,
and companion me with my mistress.
SOOTHSAYER.
You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.
CHARMIAN.
O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.
SOOTHSAYER.
You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune
Than that which is to approach.
CHARMIAN.
Then belike my children shall have no names. Prithee, how many boys and
wenches must I have?
SOOTHSAYER.
If every of your wishes had a womb,
And fertile every wish, a million.
CHARMIAN.
Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.
ALEXAS.
You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.
CHARMIAN.
Nay, come, tell Iras hers.
ALEXAS.
We’ll know all our fortunes.
ENOBARBUS.
Mine, and most of our fortunes tonight, shall be drunk to bed.
IRAS.
There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.
CHARMIAN.
E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth famine.
IRAS.
Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.
CHARMIAN.
Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot
scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell her but workaday fortune.
SOOTHSAYER.
Your fortunes are alike.
IRAS.
But how, but how? give me particulars.
SOOTHSAYER.
I have said.
IRAS.
Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?
CHARMIAN.
Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you
choose it?
IRAS.
Not in my husband’s nose.
CHARMIAN.
Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas—come, his fortune! his
fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech
thee, and let her die too, and give him a worse, and let worse follow
worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave,
fiftyfold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny
me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!
IRAS.
Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! For, as it is a
heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly
sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded. Therefore, dear Isis, keep
decorum and fortune him accordingly!
CHARMIAN.
Amen.
ALEXAS.
Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make
themselves whores but they’d do’t!
Enter Cleopatra.
ENOBARBUS.
Hush, Here comes Antony.
CHARMIAN.
Not he, the queen.
CLEOPATRA.
Saw you my lord?
ENOBARBUS.
No, lady.
CLEOPATRA.
Was he not here?
CHARMIAN.
No, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
He was disposed to mirth; but on the sudden
A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!
ENOBARBUS.
Madam?
CLEOPATRA.
Seek him and bring him hither. Where’s Alexas?
ALEXAS.
Here, at your service. My lord approaches.
Enter Antony with a Messenger.
CLEOPATRA.
We will not look upon him. Go with us.
[_Exeunt Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas and
Soothsayer._]
MESSENGER.
Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.
ANTONY.
Against my brother Lucius.
MESSENGER.
Ay.
But soon that war had end, and the time’s state
Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst Caesar,
Whose better issue in the war from Italy
Upon the first encounter drave them.
ANTONY.
Well, what worst?
MESSENGER.
The nature of bad news infects the teller.
ANTONY.
When it concerns the fool or coward. On.
Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus:
Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,
I hear him as he flattered.
MESSENGER.
Labienus—
This is stiff news—hath with his Parthian force
Extended Asia from Euphrates
His conquering banner shook from Syria
To Lydia and to Ionia,
Whilst—
ANTONY.
“Antony”, thou wouldst say—
MESSENGER.
O, my lord!
ANTONY.
Speak to me home; mince not the general tongue.
Name Cleopatra as she is called in Rome;
Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase, and taunt my faults
With such full licence as both truth and malice
Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds
When our quick minds lie still, and our ills told us
Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.
MESSENGER.
At your noble pleasure.
[_Exit Messenger._]
Enter another Messenger.
ANTONY.
From Sicyon, ho, the news? Speak there!
SECOND MESSENGER.
The man from Sicyon—
ANTONY.
Is there such a one?
SECOND MESSENGER.
He stays upon your will.
ANTONY.
Let him appear.
[_Exit second Messenger._]
These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,
Or lose myself in dotage.
Enter another Messenger with a letter.
What are you?
THIRD MESSENGER.
Fulvia thy wife is dead.
ANTONY.
Where died she?
THIRD MESSENGER.
In Sicyon:
Her length of sickness, with what else more serious
Importeth thee to know, this bears.
[_Gives a letter._]
ANTONY.
Forbear me.
[_Exit third Messenger._]
There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it.
What our contempts doth often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again. The present pleasure,
By revolution lowering, does become
The opposite of itself. She’s good, being gone.
The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.
I must from this enchanting queen break off.
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,
My idleness doth hatch. How now, Enobarbus!
Enter Enobarbus.
ENOBARBUS.
What’s your pleasure, sir?
ANTONY.
I must with haste from hence.
ENOBARBUS.
Why then we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to
them. If they suffer our departure, death’s the word.
ANTONY.
I must be gone.
ENOBARBUS.
Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity to cast them
away for nothing, though, between them and a great cause they should be
esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies
instantly. I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I
do think there is mettle in death which commits some loving act upon
her, she hath such a celerity in dying.
ANTONY.
She is cunning past man’s thought.
ENOBARBUS.
Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of
pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they
are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report. This cannot
be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as
Jove.
ANTONY.
Would I had never seen her!
ENOBARBUS.
O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work, which not
to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel.
ANTONY.
Fulvia is dead.
ENOBARBUS.
Sir?
ANTONY.
Fulvia is dead.
ENOBARBUS.
Fulvia?
ANTONY.
Dead.
ENOBARBUS.
Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their
deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors
of the earth; comforting therein that when old robes are worn out,
there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia,
then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented. This grief is
crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat:
and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
ANTONY.
The business she hath broached in the state
Cannot endure my absence.
ENOBARBUS.
And the business you have broached here cannot be without you,
especially that of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your abode.
ANTONY.
No more light answers. Let our officers
Have notice what we purpose. I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the Queen,
And get her leave to part. For not alone
The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,
Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too
Of many our contriving friends in Rome
Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius
Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands
The empire of the sea. Our slippery people,
Whose love is never linked to the deserver
Till his deserts are past, begin to throw
Pompey the Great and all his dignities
Upon his son, who, high in name and power,
Higher than both in blood and life, stands up
For the main soldier; whose quality, going on,
The sides o’ th’ world may danger. Much is breeding
Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life
And not a serpent’s poison. Say our pleasure
To such whose place is under us, requires
Our quick remove from hence.
ENOBARBUS.
I shall do’t.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Alexas and Iras.
CLEOPATRA.
Where is he?
CHARMIAN.
I did not see him since.
CLEOPATRA.
See where he is, who’s with him, what he does.
I did not send you. If you find him sad,
Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report
That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return.
[_Exit Alexas._]
CHARMIAN.
Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like from him.
CLEOPATRA.
What should I do I do not?
CHARMIAN.
In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.
CLEOPATRA.
Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.
CHARMIAN.
Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
But here comes Antony.
Enter Antony.
CLEOPATRA.
I am sick and sullen.
ANTONY.
I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—
CLEOPATRA.
Help me away, dear Charmian! I shall fall.
It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature
Will not sustain it.
ANTONY.
Now, my dearest queen—
CLEOPATRA.
Pray you, stand farther from me.
ANTONY.
What’s the matter?
CLEOPATRA.
I know by that same eye there’s some good news.
What, says the married woman you may go?
Would she had never given you leave to come!
Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here.
I have no power upon you; hers you are.
ANTONY.
The gods best know—
CLEOPATRA.
O, never was there queen
So mightily betrayed! Yet at the first
I saw the treasons planted.
ANTONY.
Cleopatra—
CLEOPATRA.
Why should I think you can be mine and true,
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows
Which break themselves in swearing!
ANTONY.
Most sweet queen—
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going,
But bid farewell and go. When you sued staying,
Then was the time for words. No going then,
Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor
But was a race of heaven. They are so still,
Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,
Art turned the greatest liar.
ANTONY.
How now, lady!
CLEOPATRA.
I would I had thy inches, thou shouldst know
There were a heart in Egypt.
ANTONY.
Hear me, queen:
The strong necessity of time commands
Our services awhile, but my full heart
Remains in use with you. Our Italy
Shines o’er with civil swords; Sextus Pompeius
Makes his approaches to the port of Rome;
Equality of two domestic powers
Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength,
Are newly grown to love; the condemned Pompey,
Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace
Into the hearts of such as have not thrived
Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;
And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge
By any desperate change. My more particular,
And that which most with you should safe my going,
Is Fulvia’s death.
CLEOPATRA.
Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?
ANTONY.
She’s dead, my queen.
Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read
The garboils she awaked; at the last, best,
See when and where she died.
CLEOPATRA.
O most false love!
Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill
With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,
In Fulvia’s death how mine received shall be.
ANTONY.
Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know
The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,
As you shall give th’ advice. By the fire
That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence
Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war
As thou affects.
CLEOPATRA.
Cut my lace, Charmian, come!
But let it be; I am quickly ill and well,
So Antony loves.
ANTONY.
My precious queen, forbear,
And give true evidence to his love, which stands
An honourable trial.
CLEOPATRA.
So Fulvia told me.
I prithee, turn aside and weep for her,
Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears
Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene
Of excellent dissembling, and let it look
Like perfect honour.
ANTONY.
You’ll heat my blood. No more.
CLEOPATRA.
You can do better yet, but this is meetly.
ANTONY.
Now, by my sword—
CLEOPATRA.
And target. Still he mends.
But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe.
ANTONY.
I’ll leave you, lady.
CLEOPATRA.
Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it;
Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it;
That you know well. Something it is I would—
O, my oblivion is a very Antony,
And I am all forgotten.
ANTONY.
But that your royalty
Holds idleness your subject, I should take you
For idleness itself.
CLEOPATRA.
’Tis sweating labour
To bear such idleness so near the heart
As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me,
Since my becomings kill me when they do not
Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence;
Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,
And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword
Sit laurel victory, and smooth success
Be strewed before your feet!
ANTONY.
Let us go. Come.
Our separation so abides and flies
That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,
And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
Away!
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House.
Enter Octavius [Caesar], Lepidus and their train.
CAESAR.
You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,
It is not Caesar’s natural vice to hate
Our great competitor. From Alexandria
This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes
The lamps of night in revel: is not more manlike
Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy
More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or
Vouchsafed to think he had partners. You shall find there
A man who is the abstract of all faults
That all men follow.
LEPIDUS.
I must not think there are
Evils enough to darken all his goodness.
His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven,
More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary
Rather than purchased; what he cannot change
Than what he chooses.
CAESAR.
You are too indulgent. Let’s grant it is not
Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy,
To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit
And keep the turn of tippling with a slave,
To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet
With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him—
As his composure must be rare indeed
Whom these things cannot blemish—yet must Antony
No way excuse his foils when we do bear
So great weight in his lightness. If he filled
His vacancy with his voluptuousness,
Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones
Call on him for’t. But to confound such time
That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud
As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid
As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge,
Pawn their experience to their present pleasure
And so rebel to judgment.
Enter a Messenger.
LEPIDUS.
Here’s more news.
MESSENGER.
Thy biddings have been done, and every hour,
Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report
How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea,
And it appears he is beloved of those
That only have feared Caesar. To the ports
The discontents repair, and men’s reports
Give him much wronged.
CAESAR.
I should have known no less.
It hath been taught us from the primal state
That he which is was wished until he were,
And the ebbed man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth love,
Comes deared by being lacked. This common body,
Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,
Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,
To rot itself with motion.
Enter a second Messenger.
SECOND MESSENGER.
Caesar, I bring thee word
Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,
Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound
With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads
They make in Italy—the borders maritime
Lack blood to think on’t—and flush youth revolt.
No vessel can peep forth but ’tis as soon
Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more
Than could his war resisted.
CAESAR.
Antony,
Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once
Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st
Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
Did famine follow, whom thou fought’st against,
Though daintily brought up, with patience more
Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink
The stale of horses and the gilded puddle
Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign
The roughest berry on the rudest hedge.
Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets,
The barks of trees thou browsed. On the Alps
It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh
Which some did die to look on. And all this—
It wounds thine honour that I speak it now—
Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek
So much as lanked not.
LEPIDUS.
’Tis pity of him.
CAESAR.
Let his shames quickly
Drive him to Rome. ’Tis time we twain
Did show ourselves i’ th’ field, and to that end
Assemble we immediate council. Pompey
Thrives in our idleness.
LEPIDUS.
Tomorrow, Caesar,
I shall be furnished to inform you rightly
Both what by sea and land I can be able
To front this present time.
CAESAR.
Till which encounter
It is my business too. Farewell.
LEPIDUS.
Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime
Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,
To let me be partaker.
CAESAR.
Doubt not, sir.
I knew it for my bond.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.
CLEOPATRA.
Charmian!
CHARMIAN.
Madam?
CLEOPATRA.
Ha, ha!
Give me to drink mandragora.
CHARMIAN.
Why, madam?
CLEOPATRA.
That I might sleep out this great gap of time
My Antony is away.
CHARMIAN.
You think of him too much.
CLEOPATRA.
O, ’tis treason!
CHARMIAN.
Madam, I trust not so.
CLEOPATRA.
Thou, eunuch Mardian!
MARDIAN.
What’s your highness’ pleasure?
CLEOPATRA.
Not now to hear thee sing. I take no pleasure
In aught an eunuch has. ’Tis well for thee
That, being unseminared, thy freer thoughts
May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?
MARDIAN.
Yes, gracious madam.
CLEOPATRA.
Indeed?
MARDIAN.
Not in deed, madam, for I can do nothing
But what indeed is honest to be done.
Yet have I fierce affections, and think
What Venus did with Mars.
CLEOPATRA.
O, Charmian,
Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?
Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse?
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse, for wot’st thou whom thou mov’st?
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now,
Or murmuring “Where’s my serpent of old Nile?”
For so he calls me. Now I feed myself
With most delicious poison. Think on me
That am with Phœbus’ amorous pinches black,
And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,
When thou wast here above the ground, I was
A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;
There would he anchor his aspect, and die
With looking on his life.
Enter Alexas.
ALEXAS.
Sovereign of Egypt, hail!
CLEOPATRA.
How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!
Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath
With his tinct gilded thee.
How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?
ALEXAS.
Last thing he did, dear queen,
He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses—
This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.
CLEOPATRA.
Mine ear must pluck it thence.
ALEXAS.
“Good friend,” quoth he,
“Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends
This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,
To mend the petty present, I will piece
Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the east,
Say thou, shall call her mistress.” So he nodded
And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,
Who neighed so high that what I would have spoke
Was beastly dumbed by him.
CLEOPATRA.
What, was he sad or merry?
ALEXAS.
Like to the time o’ th’ year between the extremes
Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.
CLEOPATRA.
O well-divided disposition!—Note him,
Note him, good Charmian, ’tis the man; but note him:
He was not sad, for he would shine on those
That make their looks by his; he was not merry,
Which seemed to tell them his remembrance lay
In Egypt with his joy; but between both.
O heavenly mingle!—Be’st thou sad or merry,
The violence of either thee becomes,
So does it no man else.—Met’st thou my posts?
ALEXAS.
Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.
Why do you send so thick?
CLEOPATRA.
Who’s born that day
When I forget to send to Antony
Shall die a beggar.—Ink and paper, Charmian.—
Welcome, my good Alexas.—Did I, Charmian,
Ever love Caesar so?
CHARMIAN.
O that brave Caesar!
CLEOPATRA.
Be choked with such another emphasis!
Say “the brave Antony.”
CHARMIAN.
The valiant Caesar!
CLEOPATRA.
By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth
If thou with Caesar paragon again
My man of men.
CHARMIAN.
By your most gracious pardon,
I sing but after you.
CLEOPATRA.
My salad days,
When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,
To say as I said then. But come, away,
Get me ink and paper.
He shall have every day a several greeting,
Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 15
|
ACT III
| null |
HERO.
Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, go in:
I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel
Which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.
|
poem
| 16
|
LUCIUS
LUCULLUS
SEMPRONIUS
| null |
flattering lords
VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's false friends
ALCIBIADES, an Athenian captain
APEMANTUS, a churlish philosopher
FLAVIUS, steward to Timon
|
poem
| 17
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
152
In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing:
But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most,
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee:
And all my honest faith in thee is lost.
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness:
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see.
For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie.
|
poem
| 18
|
DUKE OF VENICE
| null |
SCENE I. Venice. A street.
Enter Roderigo and Iago.
RODERIGO.
Tush, never tell me, I take it much unkindly
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse,
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.
IAGO.
’Sblood, but you will not hear me.
If ever I did dream of such a matter,
Abhor me.
RODERIGO.
Thou told’st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate.
IAGO.
Despise me if I do not. Three great ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Off-capp’d to him; and by the faith of man,
I know my price, I am worth no worse a place.
But he, as loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them, with a bombast circumstance,
Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war:
And in conclusion,
Nonsuits my mediators: for “Certes,” says he,
“I have already chose my officer.”
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife,
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster, unless the bookish theoric,
Wherein the toged consuls can propose
As masterly as he: mere prattle without practice
Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election,
And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds,
Christian and heathen, must be belee’d and calm’d
By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster,
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
And I, God bless the mark, his Moorship’s ancient.
RODERIGO.
By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.
IAGO.
Why, there’s no remedy. ’Tis the curse of service,
Preferment goes by letter and affection,
And not by old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first. Now sir, be judge yourself
Whether I in any just term am affin’d
To love the Moor.
RODERIGO.
I would not follow him, then.
IAGO.
O, sir, content you.
I follow him to serve my turn upon him:
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass,
For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d.
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are
Who, trimm’d in forms, and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,
And throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them, and when they have lin’d their coats,
Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul,
And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself.
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so for my peculiar end.
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In complement extern, ’tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
RODERIGO.
What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe,
If he can carry’t thus!
IAGO.
Call up her father,
Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight,
Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen,
And though he in a fertile climate dwell,
Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,
Yet throw such changes of vexation on’t,
As it may lose some color.
RODERIGO.
Here is her father’s house, I’ll call aloud.
IAGO.
Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell
As when, by night and negligence, the fire
Is spied in populous cities.
RODERIGO.
What ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!
IAGO.
Awake! what ho, Brabantio! Thieves, thieves!
Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags!
Thieves, thieves!
Brabantio appears above at a window.
BRABANTIO.
What is the reason of this terrible summons?
What is the matter there?
RODERIGO.
Signior, is all your family within?
IAGO.
Are your doors locked?
BRABANTIO.
Why, wherefore ask you this?
IAGO.
Zounds, sir, you’re robb’d, for shame put on your gown,
Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;
Even now, now, very now, an old black ram
Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise,
Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,
Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you:
Arise, I say.
BRABANTIO.
What, have you lost your wits?
RODERIGO.
Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?
BRABANTIO.
Not I. What are you?
RODERIGO.
My name is Roderigo.
BRABANTIO.
The worser welcome.
I have charg’d thee not to haunt about my doors;
In honest plainness thou hast heard me say
My daughter is not for thee; and now in madness,
Being full of supper and distempering draughts,
Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come
To start my quiet.
RODERIGO.
Sir, sir, sir,—
BRABANTIO.
But thou must needs be sure
My spirit and my place have in them power
To make this bitter to thee.
RODERIGO.
Patience, good sir.
BRABANTIO.
What tell’st thou me of robbing?
This is Venice. My house is not a grange.
RODERIGO.
Most grave Brabantio,
In simple and pure soul I come to you.
IAGO.
Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil
bid you. Because we come to do you service, and you think we are
ruffians, you’ll have your daughter cover’d with a Barbary horse;
you’ll have your nephews neigh to you; you’ll have coursers for cousins
and gennets for germans.
BRABANTIO.
What profane wretch art thou?
IAGO.
I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are
now making the beast with two backs.
BRABANTIO.
Thou art a villain.
IAGO.
You are a senator.
BRABANTIO.
This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Roderigo.
RODERIGO.
Sir, I will answer anything. But I beseech you,
If ’t be your pleasure, and most wise consent,
(As partly I find it is) that your fair daughter,
At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night,
Transported with no worse nor better guard,
But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,
To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor:
If this be known to you, and your allowance,
We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs.
But if you know not this, my manners tell me,
We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe
That from the sense of all civility,
I thus would play and trifle with your reverence.
Your daughter (if you have not given her leave)
I say again, hath made a gross revolt,
Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger
Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself:
If she be in her chamber or your house,
Let loose on me the justice of the state
For thus deluding you.
BRABANTIO.
Strike on the tinder, ho!
Give me a taper! Call up all my people!
This accident is not unlike my dream,
Belief of it oppresses me already.
Light, I say, light!
[_Exit from above._]
IAGO.
Farewell; for I must leave you:
It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place
To be produc’d, as if I stay I shall,
Against the Moor. For I do know the state,
However this may gall him with some check,
Cannot with safety cast him, for he’s embark’d
With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,
Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls,
Another of his fathom they have none
To lead their business. In which regard,
Though I do hate him as I do hell pains,
Yet, for necessity of present life,
I must show out a flag and sign of love,
Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,
Lead to the Sagittary the raised search,
And there will I be with him. So, farewell.
[_Exit._]
Enter Brabantio with Servants and torches.
BRABANTIO.
It is too true an evil. Gone she is,
And what’s to come of my despised time,
Is naught but bitterness. Now Roderigo,
Where didst thou see her? (O unhappy girl!)
With the Moor, say’st thou? (Who would be a father!)
How didst thou know ’twas she? (O, she deceives me
Past thought.) What said she to you? Get more tapers,
Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you?
RODERIGO.
Truly I think they are.
BRABANTIO.
O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood!
Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds
By what you see them act. Is there not charms
By which the property of youth and maidhood
May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,
Of some such thing?
RODERIGO.
Yes, sir, I have indeed.
BRABANTIO.
Call up my brother. O, would you had had her!
Some one way, some another. Do you know
Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?
RODERIGO.
I think I can discover him, if you please
To get good guard, and go along with me.
BRABANTIO.
Pray you lead on. At every house I’ll call,
I may command at most. Get weapons, ho!
And raise some special officers of night.
On, good Roderigo. I will deserve your pains.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Venice. Another street.
Enter Othello, Iago and Attendants with torches.
IAGO.
Though in the trade of war I have slain men,
Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ the conscience
To do no contriv’d murder; I lack iniquity
Sometimes to do me service: nine or ten times
I had thought to have yerk’d him here under the ribs.
OTHELLO.
’Tis better as it is.
IAGO.
Nay, but he prated,
And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms
Against your honour,
That with the little godliness I have,
I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir,
Are you fast married? Be assur’d of this,
That the magnifico is much belov’d
And hath in his effect a voice potential
As double as the duke’s; he will divorce you,
Or put upon you what restraint and grievance
The law (with all his might to enforce it on)
Will give him cable.
OTHELLO.
Let him do his spite;
My services, which I have done the signiory,
Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to know,—
Which, when I know that boasting is an honour,
I shall promulgate,—I fetch my life and being
From men of royal siege. And my demerits
May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune
As this that I have reach’d. For know, Iago,
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine
For the sea’s worth. But look, what lights come yond?
IAGO.
Those are the raised father and his friends:
You were best go in.
OTHELLO.
Not I; I must be found.
My parts, my title, and my perfect soul
Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they?
IAGO.
By Janus, I think no.
Enter Cassio and Officers with torches.
OTHELLO.
The servants of the duke and my lieutenant.
The goodness of the night upon you, friends!
What is the news?
CASSIO.
The duke does greet you, general,
And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance
Even on the instant.
OTHELLO.
What is the matter, think you?
CASSIO.
Something from Cyprus, as I may divine.
It is a business of some heat. The galleys
Have sent a dozen sequent messengers
This very night at one another’s heels;
And many of the consuls, rais’d and met,
Are at the duke’s already. You have been hotly call’d for,
When, being not at your lodging to be found,
The senate hath sent about three several quests
To search you out.
OTHELLO.
’Tis well I am found by you.
I will but spend a word here in the house,
And go with you.
[_Exit._]
CASSIO.
Ancient, what makes he here?
IAGO.
Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carrack:
If it prove lawful prize, he’s made forever.
CASSIO.
I do not understand.
IAGO.
He’s married.
CASSIO.
To who?
Enter Othello.
IAGO.
Marry to—Come, captain, will you go?
OTHELLO.
Have with you.
CASSIO.
Here comes another troop to seek for you.
Enter Brabantio, Roderigo and Officers with torches and weapons.
IAGO.
It is Brabantio. General, be advis’d,
He comes to bad intent.
OTHELLO.
Holla, stand there!
RODERIGO.
Signior, it is the Moor.
BRABANTIO.
Down with him, thief!
[_They draw on both sides._]
IAGO.
You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you.
OTHELLO.
Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
Good signior, you shall more command with years
Than with your weapons.
BRABANTIO.
O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow’d my daughter?
Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her,
For I’ll refer me to all things of sense,
(If she in chains of magic were not bound)
Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,
So opposite to marriage, that she shunn’d
The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,
Would ever have, to incur a general mock,
Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as thou—to fear, not to delight.
Judge me the world, if ’tis not gross in sense,
That thou hast practis’d on her with foul charms,
Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs or minerals
That weakens motion. I’ll have’t disputed on;
’Tis probable, and palpable to thinking.
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee
For an abuser of the world, a practiser
Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.—
Lay hold upon him, if he do resist,
Subdue him at his peril.
OTHELLO.
Hold your hands,
Both you of my inclining and the rest:
Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it
Without a prompter. Where will you that I go
To answer this your charge?
BRABANTIO.
To prison, till fit time
Of law and course of direct session
Call thee to answer.
OTHELLO.
What if I do obey?
How may the duke be therewith satisfied,
Whose messengers are here about my side,
Upon some present business of the state,
To bring me to him?
OFFICER.
’Tis true, most worthy signior,
The duke’s in council, and your noble self,
I am sure is sent for.
BRABANTIO.
How? The duke in council?
In this time of the night? Bring him away;
Mine’s not an idle cause. The duke himself,
Or any of my brothers of the state,
Cannot but feel this wrong as ’twere their own.
For if such actions may have passage free,
Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Venice. A council chamber.
The Duke and Senators sitting at a table; Officers attending.
DUKE.
There is no composition in these news
That gives them credit.
FIRST SENATOR.
Indeed, they are disproportion’d;
My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.
DUKE.
And mine a hundred and forty.
|
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| 19
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ACT III
| null |
DOGBERRY.
Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring
his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these
men.
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| 20
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
84
Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise: that you alone are you,
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory,
But he that writes of you, if he can tell,
That you are you, so dignifies his story.
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
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| 21
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ACT IV
| null |
Re-enter Biondello.
How now! what news?
BIONDELLO.
Sir, my mistress sends you word
That she is busy and she cannot come.
PETRUCHIO.
How! She’s busy, and she cannot come!
Is that an answer?
GREMIO.
Ay, and a kind one too:
Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.
PETRUCHIO.
I hope better.
HORTENSIO.
Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife
To come to me forthwith.
[_Exit Biondello._]
PETRUCHIO.
O, ho! entreat her!
Nay, then she must needs come.
HORTENSIO.
I am afraid, sir,
Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.
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| 22
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ACT III
| null |
Enter Gower.
GOWER.
Now sleep yslaked hath the rouse;
No din but snores about the house,
Made louder by the o’erfed breast
Of this most pompous marriage feast.
The cat, with eyne of burning coal,
Now couches fore the mouse’s hole;
And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth,
Are the blither for their drouth.
Hymen hath brought the bride to bed,
Where, by the loss of maidenhead,
A babe is moulded. Be attent,
And time that is so briefly spent
With your fine fancies quaintly eche:
What’s dumb in show I’ll plain with speech.
Dumb-show. Enter, Pericles and Simonides at one door with Attendants;
a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Pericles a letter: Pericles
shows it Simonides; the Lords kneel to him. Then enter Thaisa with
child, with Lychorida, a nurse. The King shows her the letter; she
rejoices: she and Pericles take leave of her father, and depart, with
Lychorida and their Attendants. Then exeunt Simonides and the rest.
By many a dern and painful perch
Of Pericles the careful search,
By the four opposing coigns
Which the world together joins,
Is made with all due diligence
That horse and sail and high expense
Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre,
Fame answering the most strange enquire,
To th’ court of King Simonides
Are letters brought, the tenour these:
Antiochus and his daughter dead;
The men of Tyrus on the head
Of Helicanus would set on
The crown of Tyre, but he will none:
The mutiny he there hastes t’oppress;
Says to ’em, if King Pericles
Come not home in twice six moons,
He, obedient to their dooms,
Will take the crown. The sum of this,
Brought hither to Pentapolis
Y-ravished the regions round,
And everyone with claps can sound,
‘Our heir apparent is a king!
Who dreamt, who thought of such a thing?’
Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre:
His queen with child makes her desire —
Which who shall cross? — along to go:
Omit we all their dole and woe:
Lychorida, her nurse, she takes,
And so to sea. Their vessel shakes
On Neptune’s billow; half the flood
Hath their keel cut: but fortune’s mood
Varies again; the grisled north
Disgorges such a tempest forth,
That, as a duck for life that dives,
So up and down the poor ship drives:
The lady shrieks, and well-a-near
Does fall in travail with her fear:
And what ensues in this fell storm
Shall for itself itself perform.
I nill relate, action may
Conveniently the rest convey;
Which might not what by me is told.
In your imagination hold
This stage the ship, upon whose deck
The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak.
[_Exit._]
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ACT IV
| null |
Enter Chorus.
CHORUS.
Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
From camp to camp through the foul womb of night
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix’d sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch;
Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face;
Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and inly ruminate
The morning’s danger; and their gesture sad,
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,
Presented them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin’d band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry, “Praise and glory on his head!”
For forth he goes and visits all his host,
Bids them good morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him;
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night,
But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
That every wretch, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal like the sun
His liberal eye doth give to everyone,
Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all
Behold, as may unworthiness define,
A little touch of Harry in the night.
And so our scene must to the battle fly,
Where—O for pity!—we shall much disgrace
With four or five most vile and ragged foils,
Right ill-dispos’d in brawl ridiculous,
The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,
Minding true things by what their mock’ries be.
[_Exit._]
SCENE I. The English camp at Agincourt.
Enter King Henry, Bedford and Gloucester.
KING HENRY.
Gloucester, ’tis true that we are in great danger;
The greater therefore should our courage be.
Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty!
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out;
For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
Which is both healthful and good husbandry.
Besides, they are our outward consciences,
And preachers to us all, admonishing
That we should dress us fairly for our end.
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself.
Enter Erpingham.
Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham:
A good soft pillow for that good white head
Were better than a churlish turf of France.
ERPINGHAM.
Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me better,
Since I may say, “Now lie I like a king.”
KING HENRY.
’Tis good for men to love their present pains
Upon example; so the spirit is eased;
And when the mind is quick’ned, out of doubt,
The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowsy grave and newly move,
With casted slough and fresh legerity.
Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both,
Commend me to the princes in our camp;
Do my good morrow to them, and anon
Desire them all to my pavilion.
GLOUCESTER.
We shall, my liege.
ERPINGHAM.
Shall I attend your Grace?
KING HENRY.
No, my good knight;
Go with my brothers to my lords of England.
I and my bosom must debate a while,
And then I would no other company.
ERPINGHAM.
The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!
[_Exeunt all but King._]
KING HENRY.
God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st cheerfully.
Enter Pistol.
PISTOL.
_Qui vous là?_
KING HENRY.
A friend.
PISTOL.
Discuss unto me; art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common, and popular?
KING HENRY.
I am a gentleman of a company.
PISTOL.
Trail’st thou the puissant pike?
KING HENRY.
Even so. What are you?
PISTOL.
As good a gentleman as the Emperor.
KING HENRY.
Then you are a better than the King.
PISTOL.
The King’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame;
Of parents good, of fist most valiant.
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string
I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?
KING HENRY.
Harry le Roy.
PISTOL.
Le Roy! a Cornish name. Art thou of Cornish crew?
KING HENRY.
No, I am a Welshman.
PISTOL.
Know’st thou Fluellen?
KING HENRY.
Yes.
PISTOL.
Tell him I’ll knock his leek about his pate
Upon Saint Davy’s day.
KING HENRY.
Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that
about yours.
PISTOL.
Art thou his friend?
KING HENRY.
And his kinsman too.
PISTOL.
The _fico_ for thee, then!
KING HENRY.
I thank you. God be with you!
PISTOL.
My name is Pistol call’d.
[_Exit._]
KING HENRY.
It sorts well with your fierceness.
Enter Fluellen and Gower.
GOWER.
Captain Fluellen!
FLUELLEN.
So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest
admiration in the universal world, when the true and anchient
prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept. If you would take the
pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I
warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor pibble pabble in
Pompey’s camp. I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the
wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it,
and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.
GOWER.
Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night.
FLUELLEN.
If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet,
think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a
prating coxcomb? In your own conscience, now?
GOWER.
I will speak lower.
FLUELLEN.
I pray you and beseech you that you will.
[_Exeunt Gower and Fluellen._]
KING HENRY.
Though it appear a little out of fashion,
There is much care and valour in this Welshman.
Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander Court and Michael
Williams.
COURT.
Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?
BATES.
I think it be; but we have no great cause to desire the approach of
day.
WILLIAMS.
We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see
the end of it. Who goes there?
KING HENRY.
A friend.
WILLIAMS.
Under what captain serve you?
KING HENRY.
Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.
WILLIAMS.
A good old commander and a most kind gentleman. I pray you, what thinks
he of our estate?
KING HENRY.
Even as men wreck’d upon a sand, that look to be wash’d off the next
tide.
BATES.
He hath not told his thought to the King?
KING HENRY.
No; nor it is not meet he should. For though I speak it to you, I think
the King is but a man as I am. The violet smells to him as it doth to
me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but
human conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears
but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet,
when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore, when he sees
reason of fears as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same
relish as ours are; yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any
appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.
BATES.
He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a
night as ’tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I
would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.
KING HENRY.
By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the King: I think he would
not wish himself anywhere but where he is.
BATES.
Then I would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed,
and a many poor men’s lives saved.
KING HENRY.
I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever
you speak this to feel other men’s minds. Methinks I could not die
anywhere so contented as in the King’s company, his cause being just
and his quarrel honourable.
WILLIAMS.
That’s more than we know.
BATES.
Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know
we are the King’s subjects. If his cause be wrong, our obedience to the
King wipes the crime of it out of us.
WILLIAMS.
But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning
to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopp’d off in a
battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all, “We died at
such a place”; some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon
their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some
upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that
die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of anything, when
blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be
a black matter for the King that led them to it; who to disobey were
against all proportion of subjection.
KING HENRY.
So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully
miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule,
should be imposed upon his father that sent him; or if a servant, under
his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by
robbers and die in many irreconcil’d iniquities, you may call the
business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation. But this
is not so. The King is not bound to answer the particular endings of
his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for
they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services.
Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come
to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted
soldiers. Some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and
contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of
perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored
the gentle bosom of Peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men
have defeated the law and outrun native punishment, though they can
outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God. War is his beadle,
war is his vengeance; so that here men are punish’d for before-breach
of the King’s laws in now the King’s quarrel. Where they feared the
death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they
perish. Then if they die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of
their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the
which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the King’s; but
every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the
wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his
conscience; and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the
time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained; and in him
that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an
offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach
others how they should prepare.
WILLIAMS.
’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the
King is not to answer for it.
BATES.
I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight
lustily for him.
KING HENRY.
I myself heard the King say he would not be ransom’d.
WILLIAMS.
Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats are
cut, he may be ransom’d, and we ne’er the wiser.
KING HENRY.
If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.
WILLIAMS.
You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a
poor and a private displeasure can do against a monarch! You may as
well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a
peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his word after! Come, ’tis a
foolish saying.
KING HENRY.
Your reproof is something too round. I should be angry with you, if the
time were convenient.
WILLIAMS.
Let it be a quarrel between us if you live.
KING HENRY.
I embrace it.
WILLIAMS.
How shall I know thee again?
KING HENRY.
Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet; then, if
ever thou dar’st acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.
WILLIAMS.
Here’s my glove; give me another of thine.
KING HENRY.
There.
WILLIAMS.
This will I also wear in my cap. If ever thou come to me and say, after
tomorrow, “This is my glove,” by this hand I will take thee a box on
the ear.
KING HENRY.
If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.
WILLIAMS.
Thou dar’st as well be hang’d.
KING HENRY.
Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King’s company.
WILLIAMS.
Keep thy word; fare thee well.
BATES.
Be friends, you English fools, be friends. We have French quarrels
enough, if you could tell how to reckon.
KING HENRY.
Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat
us, for they bear them on their shoulders; but it is no English treason
to cut French crowns, and tomorrow the King himself will be a clipper.
[_Exeunt soldiers._]
Upon the King! Let us our lives, our souls,
Our debts, our careful wives,
Our children, and our sins lay on the King!
We must bear all. O hard condition,
Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath
Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel
But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s ease
Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!
And what have kings, that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony?
What kind of god art thou, that suffer’st more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents? What are thy comings in?
O Ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is thy soul of adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy being fear’d
Than they in fearing.
What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison’d flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy Ceremony give thee cure!
Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?
Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Canst thou, when thou command’st the beggar’s knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play’st so subtly with a king’s repose;
I am a king that find thee, and I know
’Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running ’fore the King,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremony,—
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind
Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread,
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,
But, like a lackey, from the rise to set
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,
Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse,
And follows so the ever-running year,
With profitable labour, to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,
Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.
The slave, a member of the country’s peace,
Enjoys it, but in gross brain little wots
What watch the King keeps to maintain the peace,
Whose hours the peasant best advantages.
Enter Erpingham.
ERPINGHAM.
My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,
Seek through your camp to find you.
KING HENRY.
Good old knight,
Collect them all together at my tent.
I’ll be before thee.
ERPINGHAM.
I shall do’t, my lord.
[_Exit._]
KING HENRY.
O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts.
Possess them not with fear. Take from them now
The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers
Pluck their hearts from them. Not today, O Lord,
O, not today, think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown!
I Richard’s body have interred new,
And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears
Than from it issued forced drops of blood.
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a day their wither’d hands hold up
Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built
Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests
Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do;
Though all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.
Enter Gloucester.
GLOUCESTER.
My liege!
KING HENRY.
My brother Gloucester’s voice? Ay;
I know thy errand, I will go with thee.
The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. The French camp.
Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and others.
ORLEANS.
The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!
DAUPHIN.
_Monte à cheval!_ My horse, _varlet! laquais_, ha!
ORLEANS.
O brave spirit!
DAUPHIN.
_Via, les eaux et terre!_
ORLEANS.
_Rien puis? L’air et feu?_
DAUPHIN.
_Cieux_, cousin Orleans.
Enter Constable.
Now, my Lord Constable!
CONSTABLE.
Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!
DAUPHIN.
Mount them, and make incision in their hides,
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,
And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!
RAMBURES.
What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood?
How shall we, then, behold their natural tears?
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
The English are embattl’d, you French peers.
CONSTABLE.
To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!
Do but behold yon poor and starved band,
And your fair show shall suck away their souls,
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.
There is not work enough for all our hands;
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins
To give each naked curtle-axe a stain,
That our French gallants shall today draw out,
And sheathe for lack of sport. Let us but blow on them,
The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them.
’Tis positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords,
That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,
Who in unnecessary action swarm
About our squares of battle, were enough
To purge this field of such a hilding foe,
Though we upon this mountain’s basis by
Took stand for idle speculation,
But that our honours must not. What’s to say?
A very little little let us do,
And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound
The tucket sonance and the note to mount;
For our approach shall so much dare the field
That England shall crouch down in fear and yield.
Enter Grandpré.
GRANDPRÉ.
Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?
Yond island carrions, desperate of their bones,
Ill-favouredly become the morning field.
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air shakes them passing scornfully.
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host,
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps;
The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks
With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, drooping the hides and hips,
The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes,
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit
Lies foul with chew’d grass, still, and motionless;
And their executors, the knavish crows,
Fly o’er them, all impatient for their hour.
Description cannot suit itself in words
To demonstrate the life of such a battle,
In life so lifeless as it shows itself.
CONSTABLE.
They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.
DAUPHIN.
Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits
And give their fasting horses provender,
And after fight with them?
CONSTABLE.
I stay but for my guard; on to the field!
I will the banner from a trumpet take,
And use it for my haste. Come, come, away!
The sun is high, and we outwear the day.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. The English camp.
Enter Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host:
Salisbury and Westmorland.
GLOUCESTER.
Where is the King?
BEDFORD.
The King himself is rode to view their battle.
WESTMORLAND.
Of fighting men they have full three-score thousand.
EXETER.
There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh.
SALISBURY.
God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds.
God be wi’ you, princes all; I’ll to my charge.
If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,
Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford,
My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,
And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!
BEDFORD.
Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!
EXETER.
Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly today!
And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,
For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour.
[_Exit Salisbury._]
BEDFORD.
He is as full of valour as of kindness,
Princely in both.
Enter the King.
WESTMORLAND.
O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work today!
KING.
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin.
If we are mark’d to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, “These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
Enter Salisbury.
SALISBURY.
My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.
The French are bravely in their battles set,
And will with all expedience charge on us.
KING HENRY.
All things are ready, if our minds be so.
WESTMORLAND.
Perish the man whose mind is backward now!
KING HENRY.
Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?
WESTMORLAND.
God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone,
Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
KING HENRY.
Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men,
Which likes me better than to wish us one.
You know your places. God be with you all!
Tucket. Enter Montjoy.
MONTJOY.
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assured overthrow;
For certainly thou art so near the gulf,
Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,
The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind
Thy followers of repentance; that their souls
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire
From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies
Must lie and fester.
KING HENRY.
Who hath sent thee now?
MONTJOY.
The Constable of France.
KING HENRY.
I pray thee, bear my former answer back:
Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?
The man that once did sell the lion’s skin
While the beast liv’d, was kill’d with hunting him.
A many of our bodies shall no doubt
Find native graves, upon the which, I trust,
Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work;
And those that leave their valiant bones in France,
Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,
They shall be fam’d; for there the sun shall greet them,
And draw their honours reeking up to heaven;
Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,
The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.
Mark then abounding valour in our English,
That being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing,
Break out into a second course of mischief,
Killing in relapse of mortality.
Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable
We are but warriors for the working-day.
Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d
With rainy marching in the painful field;
There’s not a piece of feather in our host—
Good argument, I hope, we will not fly—
And time hath worn us into slovenry;
But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;
And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night
They’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck
The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads
And turn them out of service. If they do this—
As, if God please, they shall,—my ransom then
Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour.
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald.
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;
Which if they have as I will leave ’em them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.
MONTJOY.
I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well;
Thou never shalt hear herald any more.
[_Exit._]
KING HENRY.
I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom.
Enter York.
YORK.
My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg
The leading of the vaward.
KING HENRY.
Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away;
And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. The field of battle.
Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier and Boy.
PISTOL.
Yield, cur!
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_Je pense que vous êtes le gentilhomme de bonne qualité._
PISTOL.
_Qualité? Caleno custore me!_
Art thou a gentleman?
What is thy name? Discuss.
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_O Seigneur Dieu!_
PISTOL.
O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman.
Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark:
O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,
Except, O signieur, thou do give to me
Egregious ransom.
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_O, prenez miséricorde! Ayez pitié de moi!_
PISTOL.
Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys,
Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat
In drops of crimson blood.
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_Est-il impossible d’échapper la force de ton bras?_
PISTOL.
Brass, cur!
Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,
Offer’st me brass?
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_O pardonnez-moi!_
PISTOL.
Say’st thou me so? Is that a ton of moys?
Come hither, boy; ask me this slave in French
What is his name.
BOY.
_Écoutez. Comment êtes-vous appelé?_
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_Monsieur le Fer._
BOY.
He says his name is Master Fer.
PISTOL.
Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him.
Discuss the same in French unto him.
BOY.
I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.
PISTOL.
Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_Que dit-il, monsieur?_
BOY.
_Il me commande à vous dire que vous faites vous prêt, car ce soldat
ici est disposé tout à cette heure de couper votre gorge._
PISTOL.
Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy,
Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;
Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_O, je vous supplie, pour l’amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis le
gentilhomme de bonne maison; gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux
cents écus._
PISTOL.
What are his words?
BOY.
He prays you to save his life. He is a gentleman of a good house; and
for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns.
PISTOL.
Tell him my fury shall abate, and I
The crowns will take.
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_Petit monsieur, que dit-il?_
BOY.
_Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier;
néanmoins, pour les écus que vous lui avez promis, il est content à
vous donner la liberté, le franchisement._
FRENCH SOLDIER.
_Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remerciements; et je m’estime
heureux que je suis tombé entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le
plus brave, vaillant, et très distingué seigneur d’Angleterre._
PISTOL.
Expound unto me, boy.
BOY.
He gives you upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and he esteems himself
happy that he hath fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, the most
brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy _seigneur_ of England.
PISTOL.
As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.
Follow me!
BOY.
_Suivez-vous le grand capitaine._
[_Exeunt Pistol and French Soldier._]
I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but the
saying is true, “The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.” Bardolph
and Nym had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i’ the old
play, that everyone may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and they
are both hang’d; and so would this be, if he durst steal anything
adventurously. I must stay with the lackeys with the luggage of our
camp. The French might have a good prey of us, if he knew of it; for
there is none to guard it but boys.
[_Exit._]
SCENE V. Another part of the field.
Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin and Rambures.
CONSTABLE.
_O diable!_
ORLEANS.
_O Seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu!_
DAUPHIN.
_Mort de ma vie!_ all is confounded, all!
Reproach and everlasting shame
Sits mocking in our plumes.
[_A short alarum._]
_O méchante Fortune!_ Do not run away.
CONSTABLE.
Why, all our ranks are broke.
DAUPHIN.
O perdurable shame! Let’s stab ourselves,
Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for?
ORLEANS.
Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?
BOURBON.
Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame!
Let’s die in honour! Once more back again!
And he that will not follow Bourbon now,
Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand,
Like a base pandar, hold the chamber door
Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog,
His fairest daughter is contaminated.
CONSTABLE.
Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now!
Let us on heaps go offer up our lives.
ORLEANS.
We are enough yet living in the field
To smother up the English in our throngs,
If any order might be thought upon.
BOURBON.
The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng.
Let life be short, else shame will be too long.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VI. Another part of the field.
Alarum. Enter King Henry and his train, with prisoners.
KING HENRY.
Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen.
But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field.
EXETER.
The Duke of York commends him to your Majesty.
KING HENRY.
Lives he, good uncle? Thrice within this hour
I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting.
From helmet to the spur all blood he was.
EXETER.
In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,
Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,
Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds,
The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.
Suffolk first died; and York, all haggled over,
Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteeped,
And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes
That bloodily did yawn upon his face.
He cries aloud, “Tarry, my cousin Suffolk!
My soul shall thine keep company to heaven;
Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast,
As in this glorious and well-foughten field
We kept together in our chivalry.”
Upon these words I came and cheer’d him up.
He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand,
And, with a feeble gripe, says, “Dear my lord,
Commend my service to my sovereign.”
So did he turn and over Suffolk’s neck
He threw his wounded arm and kiss’d his lips;
And so espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d
A testament of noble-ending love.
The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d
Those waters from me which I would have stopp’d;
But I had not so much of man in me,
And all my mother came into mine eyes
And gave me up to tears.
KING HENRY.
I blame you not;
For, hearing this, I must perforce compound
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.
[_Alarum._]
But hark! what new alarum is this same?
The French have reinforc’d their scatter’d men.
Then every soldier kill his prisoners;
Give the word through.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VII. Another part of the field.
Enter Fluellen and Gower.
FLUELLEN.
Kill the poys and the luggage! ’Tis expressly against the law of arms.
’Tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t; in
your conscience, now, is it not?
GOWER.
’Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals
that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter. Besides, they have
burned and carried away all that was in the King’s tent; wherefore the
King, most worthily, hath caus’d every soldier to cut his prisoner’s
throat. O, ’tis a gallant king!
FLUELLEN.
Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town’s
name where Alexander the Pig was born?
GOWER.
Alexander the Great.
FLUELLEN.
Why, I pray you, is not pig great? The pig, or the great, or the
mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save
the phrase is a little variations.
GOWER.
I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon. His father was called
Philip of Macedon, as I take it.
FLUELLEN.
I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I tell you, Captain,
if you look in the maps of the ’orld, I warrant you sall find, in the
comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look
you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also
moreover a river at Monmouth; it is call’d Wye at Monmouth; but it is
out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but ’tis all one,
’tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in
both. If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is
come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things.
Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and
his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and
his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains,
did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend,
Cleitus.
GOWER.
Our King is not like him in that. He never kill’d any of his friends.
FLUELLEN.
It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth,
ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons
of it. As Alexander kill’d his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and
his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good
judgements, turn’d away the fat knight with the great belly doublet. He
was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot
his name.
GOWER.
Sir John Falstaff.
FLUELLEN.
That is he. I’ll tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth.
GOWER.
Here comes his Majesty.
Alarum. Enter King Henry and forces; Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter with
prisoners. Flourish.
KING HENRY.
I was not angry since I came to France
Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald;
Ride thou unto the horsemen on yond hill.
If they will fight with us, bid them come down,
Or void the field; they do offend our sight.
If they’ll do neither, we will come to them,
And make them skirr away, as swift as stones
Enforced from the old Assyrian slings.
Besides, we’ll cut the throats of those we have,
And not a man of them that we shall take
Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.
Enter Montjoy.
EXETER.
Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.
GLOUCESTER.
His eyes are humbler than they us’d to be.
KING HENRY.
How now! what means this, herald? Know’st thou not
That I have fin’d these bones of mine for ransom?
Com’st thou again for ransom?
MONTJOY.
No, great King;
I come to thee for charitable license,
That we may wander o’er this bloody field
To book our dead, and then to bury them;
To sort our nobles from our common men.
For many of our princes—woe the while!—
Lie drown’d and soak’d in mercenary blood;
So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage
Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,
Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great King,
To view the field in safety, and dispose
Of their dead bodies!
KING HENRY.
I tell thee truly, herald,
I know not if the day be ours or no;
For yet a many of your horsemen peer
And gallop o’er the field.
MONTJOY.
The day is yours.
KING HENRY.
Praised be God, and not our strength, for it!
What is this castle call’d that stands hard by?
MONTJOY.
They call it Agincourt.
KING HENRY.
Then call we this the field of Agincourt,
Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.
FLUELLEN.
Your grandfather of famous memory, an’t please your Majesty, and your
great-uncle Edward the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the
chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in France.
KING HENRY.
They did, Fluellen.
FLUELLEN.
Your Majesty says very true. If your Majesties is rememb’red of it, the
Welshmen did good service in garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks
in their Monmouth caps; which, your Majesty know, to this hour is an
honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your Majesty takes no
scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day.
KING HENRY.
I wear it for a memorable honour;
For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.
FLUELLEN.
All the water in Wye cannot wash your Majesty’s Welsh plood out of your
pody, I can tell you that. Got pless it and preserve it, as long as it
pleases His grace, and His majesty too!
KING HENRY.
Thanks, good my countryman.
FLUELLEN.
By Jeshu, I am your Majesty’s countryman, I care not who know it. I
will confess it to all the ’orld. I need not be asham’d of your
Majesty, praised be God, so long as your Majesty is an honest man.
KING HENRY.
God keep me so!
Enter Williams.
Our heralds go with him;
Bring me just notice of the numbers dead
On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither.
[_Exeunt Heralds with Montjoy._]
EXETER.
Soldier, you must come to the King.
KING HENRY.
Soldier, why wear’st thou that glove in thy cap?
WILLIAMS.
An’t please your Majesty, ’tis the gage of one that I should fight
withal, if he be alive.
KING HENRY.
An Englishman?
WILLIAMS.
An’t please your Majesty, a rascal that swagger’d with me last night;
who, if alive and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to
take him a box o’ the ear; or if I can see my glove in his cap, which
he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive, I will strike it
out soundly.
KING HENRY.
What think you, Captain Fluellen, is it fit this soldier keep his oath?
FLUELLEN.
He is a craven and a villain else, an’t please your Majesty, in my
conscience.
KING HENRY.
It may be his enemy is a gentlemen of great sort, quite from the answer
of his degree.
FLUELLEN.
Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as Lucifier and
Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look your Grace, that he keep his
vow and his oath. If he be perjur’d, see you now, his reputation is as
arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black shoe trod upon
God’s ground and His earth, in my conscience, la!
KING HENRY.
Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meet’st the fellow.
WILLIAMS.
So I will, my liege, as I live.
KING HENRY.
Who serv’st thou under?
WILLIAMS.
Under Captain Gower, my liege.
FLUELLEN.
Gower is a good captain, and is good knowledge and literatured in the
wars.
KING HENRY.
Call him hither to me, soldier.
WILLIAMS.
I will, my liege.
[_Exit._]
KING HENRY.
Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and stick it in thy cap.
When Alençon and myself were down together, I pluck’d this glove from
his helm. If any man challenge this, he is a friend to Alençon, and an
enemy to our person. If thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou
dost me love.
FLUELLEN.
Your Grace does me as great honours as can be desir’d in the hearts of
his subjects. I would fain see the man, that has but two legs, that
shall find himself aggrief’d at this glove; that is all. But I would
fain see it once, an please God of His grace that I might see.
KING HENRY.
Know’st thou Gower?
FLUELLEN.
He is my dear friend, an please you.
KING HENRY.
Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent.
FLUELLEN.
I will fetch him.
[_Exit._]
KING HENRY.
My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester,
Follow Fluellen closely at the heels.
The glove which I have given him for a favour
May haply purchase him a box o’ the ear.
It is the soldier’s; I by bargain should
Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick.
If that the soldier strike him, as I judge
By his blunt bearing he will keep his word,
Some sudden mischief may arise of it;
For I do know Fluellen valiant
And, touch’d with choler, hot as gunpowder,
And quickly will return an injury.
Follow, and see there be no harm between them.
Go you with me, uncle of Exeter.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VIII. Before King Henry’s pavilion.
Enter Gower and Williams.
WILLIAMS.
I warrant it is to knight you, Captain.
Enter Fluellen.
FLUELLEN.
God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you now, come apace to
the King. There is more good toward you peradventure than is in your
knowledge to dream of.
WILLIAMS.
Sir, know you this glove?
FLUELLEN.
Know the glove! I know the glove is a glove.
WILLIAMS.
I know this; and thus I challenge it.
[_Strikes him._]
FLUELLEN.
’Sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in
France, or in England!
GOWER.
How now, sir! you villain!
WILLIAMS.
Do you think I’ll be forsworn?
FLUELLEN.
Stand away, Captain Gower. I will give treason his payment into plows,
I warrant you.
WILLIAMS.
I am no traitor.
FLUELLEN.
That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his Majesty’s name,
apprehend him; he’s a friend of the Duke Alençon’s.
Enter Warwick and Gloucester.
WARWICK.
How now, how now! what’s the matter?
FLUELLEN.
My lord of Warwick, here is—praised be God for it!—a most contagious
treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer’s day.
Here is his Majesty.
Enter King Henry and Exeter.
KING HENRY.
How now! what’s the matter?
FLUELLEN.
My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your Grace, has
struck the glove which your Majesty is take out of the helmet of
Alençon.
WILLIAMS.
My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it; and he that I
gave it to in change promis’d to wear it in his cap. I promis’d to
strike him, if he did. I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I
have been as good as my word.
FLUELLEN.
Your Majesty hear now, saving your Majesty’s manhood, what an arrant,
rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is. I hope your Majesty is pear me
testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that this is the glove of
Alençon that your Majesty is give me; in your conscience, now?
KING HENRY.
Give me thy glove, soldier. Look, here is the fellow of it.
’Twas I, indeed, thou promisedst to strike;
And thou hast given me most bitter terms.
FLUELLEN.
An it please your Majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any
martial law in the world.
KING HENRY.
How canst thou make me satisfaction?
WILLIAMS.
All offences, my lord, come from the heart. Never came any from mine
that might offend your Majesty.
KING HENRY.
It was ourself thou didst abuse.
WILLIAMS.
Your Majesty came not like yourself. You appear’d to me but as a common
man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your
Highness suffer’d under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own
fault and not mine; for had you been as I took you for, I made no
offence; therefore, I beseech your Highness, pardon me.
KING HENRY.
Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns,
And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow;
And wear it for an honour in thy cap
Till I do challenge it. Give him his crowns;
And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.
FLUELLEN.
By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly.
Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve God, and
keep you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissensions,
and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.
WILLIAMS.
I will none of your money.
FLUELLEN.
It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will serve you to mend your
shoes. Come, wherefore should you be so pashful? Your shoes is not so
good. ’Tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.
Enter an English Herald.
KING HENRY.
Now, herald, are the dead numb’red?
HERALD.
Here is the number of the slaught’red French.
KING HENRY.
What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?
EXETER.
Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the King;
John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Boucicault:
Of other lords and barons, knights and squires,
Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.
KING HENRY.
This note doth tell me of ten thousand French
That in the field lie slain; of princes, in this number,
And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead
One hundred twenty-six; added to these,
Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,
Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which,
Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights;
So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;
The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires,
And gentlemen of blood and quality.
The names of those their nobles that lie dead:
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;
Jacques of Chatillon, Admiral of France;
The master of the Crossbows, Lord Rambures;
Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dauphin,
John, Duke of Alençon, Anthony, Duke of Brabant,
The brother to the Duke of Burgundy,
And Edward, Duke of Bar; of lusty earls,
Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconbridge and Foix,
Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.
Here was a royal fellowship of death!
Where is the number of our English dead?
[_Herald gives him another paper._]
Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,
Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire;
None else of name; and of all other men
But five and twenty.—O God, thy arm was here;
And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem,
But in plain shock and even play of battle,
Was ever known so great and little loss
On one part and on the other? Take it, God,
For it is none but thine!
EXETER.
’Tis wonderful!
KING HENRY.
Come, go we in procession to the village;
And be it death proclaimed through our host
To boast of this or take that praise from God
Which is His only.
FLUELLEN.
Is it not lawful, an please your Majesty, to tell how many is kill’d?
KING HENRY.
Yes, Captain; but with this acknowledgment,
That God fought for us.
FLUELLEN.
Yes, my conscience, He did us great good.
KING HENRY.
Do we all holy rites.
Let there be sung _Non nobis_ and _Te Deum_,
The dead with charity enclos’d in clay,
And then to Calais; and to England then,
Where ne’er from France arriv’d more happy men.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 24
|
ACT IV
| null |
Dramatis Personæ
KING HENRY the Sixth
DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, uncle to the King, and Protector
DUKE OF BEDFORD, uncle to the King, and Regent of France
DUKE OF EXETER, (Thomas Beaufort), great-uncle to the King
BISHOP OF WINCHESTER (Henry Beaufort), great-uncle to the King,
afterwards Cardinal
DUKE OF SOMERSET (John Beaufort)
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, son of Richard, late Earl of Cambridge, afterwards
Duke of York
|
poem
| 25
|
ACT IV
| null |
BEATRICE.
Princes and Counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly
Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O! that I were a man for
his sake, or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake!
But manhood is melted into curtsies, valour into compliment, and
men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as
valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I
cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with
grieving.
|
poem
| 26
|
ACT IV
| null |
BENEDICK.
‘Suffer love,’ a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I
love thee against my will.
|
poem
| 27
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
148
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight,
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote,
Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no,
How can it? O how can love’s eye be true,
That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
No marvel then though I mistake my view,
The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears.
O cunning love, with tears thou keep’st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
|
poem
| 28
|
ACT IV
| null |
SCENE I. A room in the Castle.
Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
KING.
There’s matter in these sighs. These profound heaves
You must translate. ’tis fit we understand them.
Where is your son?
QUEEN.
Bestow this place on us a little while.
[_To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who go out._]
Ah, my good lord, what have I seen tonight!
KING.
What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?
QUEEN.
Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend
Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit
Behind the arras hearing something stir,
Whips out his rapier, cries ‘A rat, a rat!’
And in this brainish apprehension kills
The unseen good old man.
KING.
O heavy deed!
It had been so with us, had we been there.
His liberty is full of threats to all;
To you yourself, to us, to everyone.
Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer’d?
It will be laid to us, whose providence
Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt
This mad young man. But so much was our love
We would not understand what was most fit,
But like the owner of a foul disease,
To keep it from divulging, let it feed
Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?
QUEEN.
To draw apart the body he hath kill’d,
O’er whom his very madness, like some ore
Among a mineral of metals base,
Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.
KING.
O Gertrude, come away!
The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch
But we will ship him hence, and this vile deed
We must with all our majesty and skill
Both countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern!
Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Friends both, go join you with some further aid:
Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain,
And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him.
Go seek him out, speak fair, and bring the body
Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this.
[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]
Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends,
And let them know both what we mean to do
And what’s untimely done, so haply slander,
Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter,
As level as the cannon to his blank,
Transports his poison’d shot, may miss our name,
And hit the woundless air. O, come away!
My soul is full of discord and dismay.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Another room in the Castle.
Enter Hamlet.
HAMLET.
Safely stowed.
ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.
[_Within._] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!
HAMLET.
What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come.
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
ROSENCRANTZ.
What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?
HAMLET.
Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.
ROSENCRANTZ.
Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence,
And bear it to the chapel.
HAMLET.
Do not believe it.
ROSENCRANTZ.
Believe what?
HAMLET.
That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded
of a sponge—what replication should be made by the son of a king?
ROSENCRANTZ.
Take you me for a sponge, my lord?
HAMLET.
Ay, sir; that soaks up the King’s countenance, his rewards, his
authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end: he
keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be
last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but
squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.
ROSENCRANTZ.
I understand you not, my lord.
HAMLET.
I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.
ROSENCRANTZ.
My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King.
HAMLET.
The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King
is a thing—
GUILDENSTERN.
A thing, my lord!
HAMLET.
Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Another room in the Castle.
Enter King, attended.
KING.
I have sent to seek him and to find the body.
How dangerous is it that this man goes loose!
Yet must not we put the strong law on him:
He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude,
Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes;
And where ’tis so, th’offender’s scourge is weigh’d,
But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even,
This sudden sending him away must seem
Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are reliev’d,
Or not at all.
Enter Rosencrantz.
How now? What hath befall’n?
ROSENCRANTZ.
Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord,
We cannot get from him.
KING.
But where is he?
ROSENCRANTZ.
Without, my lord, guarded, to know your pleasure.
KING.
Bring him before us.
ROSENCRANTZ.
Ho, Guildenstern! Bring in my lord.
Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern.
KING.
Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?
HAMLET.
At supper.
KING.
At supper? Where?
HAMLET.
Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of
politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet.
We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.
Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes,
but to one table. That’s the end.
KING.
Alas, alas!
HAMLET.
A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the
fish that hath fed of that worm.
KING.
What dost thou mean by this?
HAMLET.
Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts
of a beggar.
KING.
Where is Polonius?
HAMLET.
In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not there,
seek him i’ th’other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not
within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the
lobby.
KING.
[_To some Attendants._] Go seek him there.
HAMLET.
He will stay till you come.
[_Exeunt Attendants._]
KING.
Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,—
Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve
For that which thou hast done,—must send thee hence
With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself;
The bark is ready, and the wind at help,
Th’associates tend, and everything is bent
For England.
HAMLET.
For England?
KING.
Ay, Hamlet.
HAMLET.
Good.
KING.
So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.
HAMLET.
I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England! Farewell, dear
mother.
KING.
Thy loving father, Hamlet.
HAMLET.
My mother. Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one
flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England.
[_Exit._]
KING.
Follow him at foot. Tempt him with speed aboard;
Delay it not; I’ll have him hence tonight.
Away, for everything is seal’d and done
That else leans on th’affair. Pray you make haste.
[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]
And England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,—
As my great power thereof may give thee sense,
Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red
After the Danish sword, and thy free awe
Pays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly set
Our sovereign process, which imports at full,
By letters conjuring to that effect,
The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;
For like the hectic in my blood he rages,
And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done,
Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. A plain in Denmark.
Enter Fortinbras and Forces marching.
FORTINBRAS.
Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king.
Tell him that by his license, Fortinbras
Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march
Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous.
If that his Majesty would aught with us,
We shall express our duty in his eye;
And let him know so.
CAPTAIN.
I will do’t, my lord.
FORTINBRAS.
Go softly on.
[_Exeunt all but the Captain._]
Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern &c.
HAMLET.
Good sir, whose powers are these?
CAPTAIN.
They are of Norway, sir.
HAMLET.
How purpos’d, sir, I pray you?
CAPTAIN.
Against some part of Poland.
HAMLET.
Who commands them, sir?
CAPTAIN.
The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
HAMLET.
Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,
Or for some frontier?
CAPTAIN.
Truly to speak, and with no addition,
We go to gain a little patch of ground
That hath in it no profit but the name.
To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it;
Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole
A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.
HAMLET.
Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
CAPTAIN.
Yes, it is already garrison’d.
HAMLET.
Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats
Will not debate the question of this straw!
This is th’imposthume of much wealth and peace,
That inward breaks, and shows no cause without
Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.
CAPTAIN.
God b’ wi’ you, sir.
[_Exit._]
ROSENCRANTZ.
Will’t please you go, my lord?
HAMLET.
I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.
[_Exeunt all but Hamlet._]
How all occasions do inform against me,
And spur my dull revenge. What is a man
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.
Sure he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unus’d. Now whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on th’event,—
A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward,—I do not know
Why yet I live to say this thing’s to do,
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means
To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me,
Witness this army of such mass and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff’d,
Makes mouths at the invisible event,
Exposing what is mortal and unsure
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,
Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw
When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then,
That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep, while to my shame I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men
That, for a fantasy and trick of fame,
Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain? O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.
[_Exit._]
SCENE V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
Enter Queen, Horatio and a Gentleman.
QUEEN.
I will not speak with her.
GENTLEMAN.
She is importunate, indeed distract.
Her mood will needs be pitied.
QUEEN.
What would she have?
GENTLEMAN.
She speaks much of her father; says she hears
There’s tricks i’ th’ world, and hems, and beats her heart,
Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt,
That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts,
Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them,
Indeed would make one think there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.
QUEEN.
Let her come in.
[_Exit Gentleman._]
To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is,
Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Enter Ophelia.
OPHELIA.
Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?
QUEEN.
How now, Ophelia?
OPHELIA.
[_Sings._]
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle bat and staff
And his sandal shoon.
QUEEN.
Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
OPHELIA.
Say you? Nay, pray you mark.
[_Sings._]
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone,
At his head a grass green turf,
At his heels a stone.
QUEEN.
Nay, but Ophelia—
OPHELIA.
Pray you mark.
[_Sings._]
White his shroud as the mountain snow.
Enter King.
QUEEN.
Alas, look here, my lord!
OPHELIA.
[_Sings._]
Larded all with sweet flowers;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
KING.
How do you, pretty lady?
OPHELIA.
Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we
know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!
KING.
Conceit upon her father.
OPHELIA.
Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it
means, say you this:
[_Sings._]
Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes,
And dupp’d the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
KING.
Pretty Ophelia!
OPHELIA.
Indeed la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t.
[_Sings._]
By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do’t if they come to’t;
By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promis’d me to wed.
So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.
KING.
How long hath she been thus?
OPHELIA.
I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but
weep, to think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground. My brother shall
know of it. And so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach!
Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.
[_Exit._]
KING.
Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
[_Exit Horatio._]
O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs
All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude,
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions. First, her father slain;
Next, your son gone; and he most violent author
Of his own just remove; the people muddied,
Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers
For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly
In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia
Divided from herself and her fair judgment,
Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts.
Last, and as much containing as all these,
Her brother is in secret come from France,
Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,
And wants not buzzers to infect his ear
With pestilent speeches of his father’s death,
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d,
Will nothing stick our person to arraign
In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this,
Like to a murdering piece, in many places
Gives me superfluous death.
[_A noise within._]
QUEEN.
Alack, what noise is this?
KING.
Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.
Enter a Gentleman.
What is the matter?
GENTLEMAN.
Save yourself, my lord.
The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,
O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord,
And, as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,
They cry ‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’
Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds,
‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.’
QUEEN.
How cheerfully on the false trail they cry.
O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs.
[_A noise within._]
KING.
The doors are broke.
Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.
LAERTES.
Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.
Danes.
No, let’s come in.
LAERTES.
I pray you, give me leave.
DANES.
We will, we will.
[_They retire without the door._]
LAERTES.
I thank you. Keep the door. O thou vile king,
Give me my father.
QUEEN.
Calmly, good Laertes.
LAERTES.
That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard;
Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot
Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow
Of my true mother.
KING.
What is the cause, Laertes,
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?—
Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person.
There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,
That treason can but peep to what it would,
Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes,
Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:—
Speak, man.
LAERTES.
Where is my father?
KING.
Dead.
QUEEN.
But not by him.
KING.
Let him demand his fill.
LAERTES.
How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with.
To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil!
Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit!
I dare damnation. To this point I stand,
That both the worlds, I give to negligence,
Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d
Most throughly for my father.
KING.
Who shall stay you?
LAERTES.
My will, not all the world.
And for my means, I’ll husband them so well,
They shall go far with little.
KING.
Good Laertes,
If you desire to know the certainty
Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge
That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe,
Winner and loser?
LAERTES.
None but his enemies.
KING.
Will you know them then?
LAERTES.
To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms;
And, like the kind life-rendering pelican,
Repast them with my blood.
KING.
Why, now you speak
Like a good child and a true gentleman.
That I am guiltless of your father’s death,
And am most sensibly in grief for it,
It shall as level to your judgment ’pear
As day does to your eye.
DANES.
[_Within._] Let her come in.
LAERTES.
How now! What noise is that?
Re-enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and flowers.
O heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye.
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits
Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?
Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
OPHELIA.
[_Sings._]
They bore him barefac’d on the bier,
Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny
And on his grave rain’d many a tear.—
Fare you well, my dove!
LAERTES.
Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,
It could not move thus.
OPHELIA.
You must sing ‘Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.’ O, how the
wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s
daughter.
LAERTES.
This nothing’s more than matter.
OPHELIA.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray love, remember. And
there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
LAERTES.
A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.
OPHELIA.
There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you; and here’s
some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O you must wear
your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some
violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a
good end.
[_Sings._]
For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
LAERTES.
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
OPHELIA.
[_Sings._]
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll.
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan.
God ha’ mercy on his soul.
And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b’ wi’ ye.
[_Exit._]
LAERTES.
Do you see this, O God?
KING.
Laertes, I must commune with your grief,
Or you deny me right. Go but apart,
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me.
If by direct or by collateral hand
They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give,
Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours
To you in satisfaction; but if not,
Be you content to lend your patience to us,
And we shall jointly labour with your soul
To give it due content.
LAERTES.
Let this be so;
His means of death, his obscure burial,—
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones,
No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,—
Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth,
That I must call’t in question.
KING.
So you shall.
And where th’offence is let the great axe fall.
I pray you go with me.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VI. Another room in the Castle.
Enter Horatio and a Servant.
HORATIO.
What are they that would speak with me?
SERVANT.
Sailors, sir. They say they have letters for you.
HORATIO.
Let them come in.
[_Exit Servant._]
I do not know from what part of the world
I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.
Enter Sailors.
FIRST SAILOR.
God bless you, sir.
HORATIO.
Let him bless thee too.
FIRST SAILOR.
He shall, sir, and’t please him. There’s a letter for you, sir. It
comes from th’ambassador that was bound for England; if your name be
Horatio, as I am let to know it is.
HORATIO.
[_Reads._] ‘Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these
fellows some means to the King. They have letters for him. Ere we were
two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us
chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled
valour, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got
clear of our ship, so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt
with me like thieves of mercy. But they knew what they did; I am to do
a good turn for them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and
repair thou to me with as much haste as thou wouldst fly death. I have
words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too
light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee
where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England:
of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell.
He that thou knowest thine,
HAMLET.’
Come, I will give you way for these your letters,
And do’t the speedier, that you may direct me
To him from whom you brought them.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VII. Another room in the Castle.
Enter King and Laertes.
KING.
Now must your conscience my acquittance seal,
And you must put me in your heart for friend,
Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear,
That he which hath your noble father slain
Pursu’d my life.
LAERTES.
It well appears. But tell me
Why you proceeded not against these feats,
So crimeful and so capital in nature,
As by your safety, wisdom, all things else,
You mainly were stirr’d up.
KING.
O, for two special reasons,
Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d,
But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother
Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,—
My virtue or my plague, be it either which,—
She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul,
That, as the star moves not but in his sphere,
I could not but by her. The other motive,
Why to a public count I might not go,
Is the great love the general gender bear him,
Who, dipping all his faults in their affection,
Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone,
Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows,
Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind,
Would have reverted to my bow again,
And not where I had aim’d them.
LAERTES.
And so have I a noble father lost,
A sister driven into desperate terms,
Whose worth, if praises may go back again,
Stood challenger on mount of all the age
For her perfections. But my revenge will come.
KING.
Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think
That we are made of stuff so flat and dull
That we can let our beard be shook with danger,
And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more.
I lov’d your father, and we love ourself,
And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine—
Enter a Messenger.
How now? What news?
MESSENGER.
Letters, my lord, from Hamlet.
This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.
KING.
From Hamlet! Who brought them?
MESSENGER.
Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not.
They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d them
Of him that brought them.
KING.
Laertes, you shall hear them.
Leave us.
[_Exit Messenger._]
[_Reads._] ‘High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your
kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes. When I
shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my
sudden and more strange return.
HAMLET.’
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?
Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?
LAERTES.
Know you the hand?
KING.
’Tis Hamlet’s character. ’Naked!’
And in a postscript here he says ‘alone.’
Can you advise me?
LAERTES.
I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come,
It warms the very sickness in my heart
That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,
‘Thus diest thou.’
KING.
If it be so, Laertes,—
As how should it be so? How otherwise?—
Will you be rul’d by me?
LAERTES.
Ay, my lord;
So you will not o’errule me to a peace.
KING.
To thine own peace. If he be now return’d,
As checking at his voyage, and that he means
No more to undertake it, I will work him
To exploit, now ripe in my device,
Under the which he shall not choose but fall;
And for his death no wind shall breathe,
But even his mother shall uncharge the practice
And call it accident.
LAERTES.
My lord, I will be rul’d;
The rather if you could devise it so
That I might be the organ.
KING.
It falls right.
You have been talk’d of since your travel much,
And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality
Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts
Did not together pluck such envy from him
As did that one, and that, in my regard,
Of the unworthiest siege.
LAERTES.
What part is that, my lord?
KING.
A very riband in the cap of youth,
Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes
The light and careless livery that it wears
Than settled age his sables and his weeds,
Importing health and graveness. Two months since
Here was a gentleman of Normandy,—
I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French,
And they can well on horseback, but this gallant
Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat,
And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,
As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d
With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought
That I in forgery of shapes and tricks,
Come short of what he did.
LAERTES.
A Norman was’t?
KING.
A Norman.
LAERTES.
Upon my life, Lamond.
KING.
The very same.
LAERTES.
I know him well. He is the brooch indeed
And gem of all the nation.
KING.
He made confession of you,
And gave you such a masterly report
For art and exercise in your defence,
And for your rapier most especially,
That he cried out ’twould be a sight indeed
If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation
He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye,
If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy
That he could nothing do but wish and beg
Your sudden coming o’er to play with him.
Now, out of this,—
LAERTES.
What out of this, my lord?
KING.
Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart?
LAERTES.
Why ask you this?
KING.
Not that I think you did not love your father,
But that I know love is begun by time,
And that I see, in passages of proof,
Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
There lives within the very flame of love
A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it;
And nothing is at a like goodness still,
For goodness, growing to a pleurisy,
Dies in his own too much. That we would do,
We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes,
And hath abatements and delays as many
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;
And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh
That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ th’ulcer:
Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake
To show yourself your father’s son in deed,
More than in words?
LAERTES.
To cut his throat i’ th’ church.
KING.
No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes,
Will you do this, keep close within your chamber.
Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home:
We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence,
And set a double varnish on the fame
The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together
And wager on your heads. He, being remiss,
Most generous, and free from all contriving,
Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease,
Or with a little shuffling, you may choose
A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice,
Requite him for your father.
LAERTES.
I will do’t.
And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword.
I bought an unction of a mountebank
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death
This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point
With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.
KING.
Let’s further think of this,
Weigh what convenience both of time and means
May fit us to our shape. If this should fail,
And that our drift look through our bad performance.
’Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project
Should have a back or second, that might hold
If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see.
We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,—
I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry,
As make your bouts more violent to that end,
And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him
A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,
If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck,
Our purpose may hold there.
Enter Queen.
How now, sweet Queen?
QUEEN.
One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,
So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.
LAERTES.
Drown’d! O, where?
QUEEN.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up,
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element. But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
LAERTES.
Alas, then she is drown’d?
QUEEN.
Drown’d, drown’d.
LAERTES.
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet
It is our trick; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will. When these are gone,
The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord,
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly douts it.
[_Exit._]
KING.
Let’s follow, Gertrude;
How much I had to do to calm his rage!
Now fear I this will give it start again;
Therefore let’s follow.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 29
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
97
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.
|
poem
| 30
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
80
O how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your wort, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark (inferior far to his)
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride,
Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride.
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this: my love was my decay.
|
poem
| 31
|
ACT III
| null |
DOGBERRY.
You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour,
sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your
writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of
such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and
fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the
lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom
men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name.
|
poem
| 32
|
ACT IV
| null |
SCENE V. Mytilene. A street before the brothel.
Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen.
FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Did you ever hear the like?
SECOND GENTLEMAN.
No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone.
FIRST GENTLEMAN.
But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a
thing?
SECOND GENTLEMAN.
No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy houses: shall’s go hear the
vestals sing?
FIRST GENTLEMAN.
I’ll do anything now that is virtuous; but I am out of the road of
rutting for ever.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 33
|
ACT II
| null |
DON PEDRO.
How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her
spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.
|
poem
| 34
|
ACT IV
| null |
CLAUDIO.
Leonato, stand I here?
Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother?
Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own?
|
poem
| 35
|
THE PROLOGUE
| null |
A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?
SERVANT.
Up.
ROMEO.
Whither to supper?
SERVANT.
To our house.
ROMEO.
Whose house?
SERVANT.
My master’s.
ROMEO.
Indeed I should have ask’d you that before.
SERVANT.
Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,
and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a
cup of wine. Rest you merry.
[_Exit._]
BENVOLIO.
At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s
Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;
With all the admired beauties of Verona.
Go thither and with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
ROMEO.
When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;
And these who, often drown’d, could never die,
Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars.
One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun
Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.
BENVOLIO.
Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois’d with herself in either eye:
But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d
Your lady’s love against some other maid
That I will show you shining at this feast,
And she shall scant show well that now shows best.
ROMEO.
I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of my own.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.
Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.
LADY CAPULET.
Nurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.
NURSE.
Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,
I bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!
God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!
Enter Juliet.
JULIET.
How now, who calls?
NURSE.
Your mother.
JULIET.
Madam, I am here. What is your will?
LADY CAPULET.
This is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,
I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.
Thou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.
NURSE.
Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
LADY CAPULET.
She’s not fourteen.
NURSE.
I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,
She is not fourteen. How long is it now
To Lammas-tide?
LADY CAPULET.
A fortnight and odd days.
NURSE.
Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.
Susan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—
Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me. But as I said,
On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;
And she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,
Of all the days of the year, upon that day:
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;
My lord and you were then at Mantua:
Nay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,
To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!
Shake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge.
And since that time it is eleven years;
For then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood
She could have run and waddled all about;
For even the day before she broke her brow,
And then my husband,—God be with his soul!
A was a merry man,—took up the child:
‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,
The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.
To see now how a jest shall come about.
I warrant, and I should live a thousand years,
I never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’
LADY CAPULET.
Enough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.
NURSE.
Yes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;
And yet I warrant it had upon it brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;
A perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.
‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.
JULIET.
And stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.
NURSE.
Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:
And I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
LADY CAPULET.
Marry, that marry is the very theme
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?
JULIET.
It is an honour that I dream not of.
NURSE.
An honour! Were not I thine only nurse,
I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.
LADY CAPULET.
Well, think of marriage now: younger than you,
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers. By my count
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
NURSE.
A man, young lady! Lady, such a man
As all the world—why he’s a man of wax.
LADY CAPULET.
Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.
NURSE.
Nay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.
LADY CAPULET.
What say you, can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast;
Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,
And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.
Examine every married lineament,
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,
Find written in the margent of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover:
The fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride
For fair without the fair within to hide.
That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him, making yourself no less.
NURSE.
No less, nay bigger. Women grow by men.
LADY CAPULET.
Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?
JULIET.
I’ll look to like, if looking liking move:
But no more deep will I endart mine eye
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady
asked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.
I must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight.
LADY CAPULET.
We follow thee.
[_Exit Servant._]
Juliet, the County stays.
NURSE.
Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. A Street.
Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;
Torch-bearers and others.
ROMEO.
What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?
Or shall we on without apology?
BENVOLIO.
The date is out of such prolixity:
We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:
But let them measure us by what they will,
We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.
ROMEO.
Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy I will bear the light.
MERCUTIO.
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
ROMEO.
Not I, believe me, you have dancing shoes,
With nimble soles, I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
MERCUTIO.
You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
ROMEO.
I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers, and so bound,
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.
Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.
MERCUTIO.
And, to sink in it, should you burden love;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
ROMEO.
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.
MERCUTIO.
If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.
Give me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._]
A visor for a visor. What care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.
BENVOLIO.
Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in
But every man betake him to his legs.
ROMEO.
A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;
For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,
I’ll be a candle-holder and look on,
The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.
MERCUTIO.
Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:
If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire
Or save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.
ROMEO.
Nay, that’s not so.
MERCUTIO.
I mean sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
ROMEO.
And we mean well in going to this mask;
But ’tis no wit to go.
MERCUTIO.
Why, may one ask?
ROMEO.
I dreamt a dream tonight.
MERCUTIO.
And so did I.
ROMEO.
Well what was yours?
MERCUTIO.
That dreamers often lie.
ROMEO.
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
MERCUTIO.
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men’s noses as they lie asleep:
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
Her traces, of the smallest spider’s web;
The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;
Her whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;
O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,
Tickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she,—
ROMEO.
Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace,
Thou talk’st of nothing.
MERCUTIO.
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
BENVOLIO.
This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
ROMEO.
I fear too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night’s revels; and expire the term
Of a despised life, clos’d in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But he that hath the steerage of my course
Direct my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!
BENVOLIO.
Strike, drum.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.
Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.
FIRST SERVANT.
Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?
He shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!
SECOND SERVANT.
When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they
unwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.
FIRST SERVANT.
Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the
plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me,
let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!
SECOND SERVANT.
Ay, boy, ready.
FIRST SERVANT.
You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the
great chamber.
SECOND SERVANT.
We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and
the longer liver take all.
[_Exeunt._]
Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.
CAPULET.
Welcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes
Unplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.
Ah my mistresses, which of you all
Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,
She I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,
Such as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone,
You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.
A hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.
[_Music plays, and they dance._]
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.
Ah sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.
Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,
For you and I are past our dancing days;
How long is’t now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
CAPULET’S COUSIN.
By’r Lady, thirty years.
CAPULET.
What, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:
’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.
CAPULET’S COUSIN.
’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.
CAPULET.
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
ROMEO.
What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
SERVANT.
I know not, sir.
ROMEO.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,
And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.
TYBALT.
This by his voice, should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave
Come hither, cover’d with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
CAPULET.
Why how now, kinsman!
Wherefore storm you so?
TYBALT.
Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
CAPULET.
Young Romeo, is it?
TYBALT.
’Tis he, that villain Romeo.
CAPULET.
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone,
A bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement.
Therefore be patient, take no note of him,
It is my will; the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
TYBALT.
It fits when such a villain is a guest:
I’ll not endure him.
CAPULET.
He shall be endur’d.
What, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;
Am I the master here, or you? Go to.
You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,
You’ll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!
TYBALT.
Why, uncle, ’tis a shame.
CAPULET.
Go to, go to!
You are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?
This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.
You must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.
Well said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!
I’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.
TYBALT.
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.
[_Exit._]
ROMEO.
[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
JULIET.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
ROMEO.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
JULIET.
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
ROMEO.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
JULIET.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.
ROMEO.
Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.
[_Kissing her._]
JULIET.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
ROMEO.
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!
Give me my sin again.
JULIET.
You kiss by the book.
NURSE.
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
ROMEO.
What is her mother?
NURSE.
Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house,
And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.
I nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.
ROMEO.
Is she a Capulet?
O dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.
BENVOLIO.
Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.
ROMEO.
Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
CAPULET.
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.
More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,
I’ll to my rest.
[_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]
JULIET.
Come hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?
NURSE.
The son and heir of old Tiberio.
JULIET.
What’s he that now is going out of door?
NURSE.
Marry, that I think be young Petruchio.
JULIET.
What’s he that follows here, that would not dance?
NURSE.
I know not.
JULIET.
Go ask his name. If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
NURSE.
His name is Romeo, and a Montague,
The only son of your great enemy.
JULIET.
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.
NURSE.
What’s this? What’s this?
JULIET.
A rhyme I learn’d even now
Of one I danc’d withal.
[_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]
NURSE.
Anon, anon!
Come let’s away, the strangers all are gone.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 36
|
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
| null |
DUKE OF MILAN, father to Silvia
VALENTINE, one of the two gentlemen
PROTEUS, " " " " "
ANTONIO, father to Proteus
THURIO, a foolish rival to Valentine
EGLAMOUR, agent for Silvia in her escape
SPEED, a clownish servant to Valentine
LAUNCE, the like to Proteus
PANTHINO, servant to Antonio
HOST, where Julia lodges in Milan
OUTLAWS, with Valentine
JULIA, a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus
SILVIA, the Duke's daughter, beloved of Valentine
LUCETTA, waiting-woman to Julia
|
poem
| 37
|
ACT IV
| null |
Scene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.
Scene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.
Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber.
Scene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.
Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.
|
poem
| 38
|
ACT II
| null |
Scene I. Inverness. Court within the Castle.
Scene II. The same.
Scene III. The same.
Scene IV. The same. Without the Castle.
|
poem
| 39
|
ACT IV
| null |
BENEDICK.
Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a high praise, too
brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise; only
this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she
is, she were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do
not like her.
|
poem
| 40
|
CLEOMENES
| null |
You tempt him over-much.
PAULINA.
Unless another,
As like Hermione as is her picture,
Affront his eye.
|
poem
| 41
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
132
Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
|
poem
| 42
|
ACT IV
| null |
DON JOHN.
Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for
a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?
|
poem
| 43
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
31
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
And there reigns love and all love’s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear,
But things removed that hidden in thee lie.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many, now is thine alone.
Their images I loved, I view in thee,
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
|
poem
| 44
|
ACT II
| null |
DON PEDRO.
And he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent
sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.
|
poem
| 45
|
ACT IV
| null |
SCENE I. On board Pericles’ ship, off Mytilene. A close pavilion on
deck, with a curtain before it; Pericles within it, reclined on a
couch. A barge lying beside the Tyrian vessel.
Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian vessel, the other to
the barge; to them Helicanus.
TYRIAN SAILOR.
[_To the Sailor of Mytilene._]
Where is lord Helicanus? He can resolve you.
O, here he is.
Sir, there’s a barge put off from Mytilene,
And in it is Lysimachus the governor,
Who craves to come aboard. What is your will?
HELICANUS.
That he have his. Call up some gentlemen.
TYRIAN SAILOR.
Ho, gentlemen! my lord calls.
Enter two or three Gentlemen.
FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Doth your lordship call?
HELICANUS.
Gentlemen, there is some of worth would come aboard;
I pray ye, greet them fairly.
[_The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend and go on board the
barge._]
Enter, from thence, Lysimachus and Lords; with the Gentlemen and the
two Sailors.
TYRIAN SAILOR.
Sir,
This is the man that can, in aught you would,
Resolve you.
LYSIMACHUS.
Hail, reverend sir! the gods preserve you!
HELICANUS.
And you, sir, to outlive the age I am,
And die as I would do.
LYSIMACHUS.
You wish me well.
Being on shore, honouring of Neptune’s triumphs,
Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us,
I made to it, to know of whence you are.
HELICANUS.
First, what is your place?
LYSIMACHUS.
I am the governor of this place you lie before.
HELICANUS.
Sir, our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;
A man who for this three months hath not spoken
To anyone, nor taken sustenance
But to prorogue his grief.
LYSIMACHUS.
Upon what ground is his distemperature?
HELICANUS.
’Twould be too tedious to repeat;
But the main grief springs from the loss
Of a beloved daughter and a wife.
LYSIMACHUS.
May we not see him?
HELICANUS.
You may;
But bootless is your sight: he will not speak
To any.
LYSIMACHUS.
Yet let me obtain my wish.
HELICANUS.
Behold him.
[_Pericles discovered._]
This was a goodly person.
Till the disaster that, one mortal night,
Drove him to this.
LYSIMACHUS.
Sir king, all hail! The gods preserve you!
Hail, royal sir!
HELICANUS.
It is in vain; he will not speak to you.
FIRST LORD.
Sir, we have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager,
Would win some words of him.
LYSIMACHUS.
’Tis well bethought.
She questionless with her sweet harmony
And other chosen attractions, would allure,
And make a battery through his deafen’d parts,
Which now are midway stopp’d:
She is all happy as the fairest of all,
And, with her fellow maids, is now upon
The leafy shelter that abuts against
The island’s side.
[_Whispers a Lord who goes off in the barge of Lysimachus._]
HELICANUS.
Sure, all’s effectless; yet nothing we’ll omit
That bears recovery’s name. But, since your kindness
We have stretch’d thus far, let us beseech you
That for our gold we may provision have,
Wherein we are not destitute for want,
But weary for the staleness.
LYSIMACHUS.
O, sir, a courtesy
Which if we should deny, the most just gods
For every graff would send a caterpillar,
And so inflict our province. Yet once more
Let me entreat to know at large the cause
Of your king’s sorrow.
HELICANUS.
Sit, sir, I will recount it to you:
But, see, I am prevented.
Re-enter from the barge, Lord with Marina and a young Lady.
LYSIMACHUS.
O, here is the lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one!
Is’t not a goodly presence?
HELICANUS.
She’s a gallant lady.
LYSIMACHUS.
She’s such a one, that, were I well assured
Came of a gentle kind and noble stock,
I’d wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed.
Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty
Expect even here, where is a kingly patient:
If that thy prosperous and artificial feat
Can draw him but to answer thee in aught,
Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay
As thy desires can wish.
MARINA.
Sir, I will use
My utmost skill in his recovery, provided
That none but I and my companion maid
Be suffer’d to come near him.
LYSIMACHUS.
Come, let us leave her,
And the gods make her prosperous!
[_Marina sings._]
LYSIMACHUS.
Mark’d he your music?
MARINA.
No, nor look’d on us,
LYSIMACHUS.
See, she will speak to him.
MARINA.
Hail, sir! My lord, lend ear.
PERICLES.
Hum, ha!
MARINA.
I am a maid,
My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes,
But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks,
My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief
Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d.
Though wayward Fortune did malign my state,
My derivation was from ancestors
Who stood equivalent with mighty kings:
But time hath rooted out my parentage,
And to the world and awkward casualties
Bound me in servitude.
[_Aside._] I will desist;
But there is something glows upon my cheek,
And whispers in mine ear ‘Go not till he speak.’
PERICLES.
My fortunes — parentage — good parentage —
To equal mine! — was it not thus? what say you?
MARINA.
I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage.
You would not do me violence.
PERICLES.
I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me.
You are like something that — what country-woman?
Here of these shores?
MARINA.
No, nor of any shores:
Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am
No other than I appear.
PERICLES.
I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.
My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one
My daughter might have been: my queen’s square brows;
Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight;
As silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like
And cased as richly; in pace another Juno;
Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,
The more she gives them speech. Where do you live?
MARINA.
Where I am but a stranger: from the deck
You may discern the place.
PERICLES.
Where were you bred?
And how achieved you these endowments, which
You make more rich to owe?
MARINA.
If I should tell my history, it would seem
Like lies disdain’d in the reporting.
PERICLES.
Prithee, speak:
Falseness cannot come from thee; for thou look’st
Modest as Justice, and thou seem’st a palace
For the crown’d Truth to dwell in: I will believe thee,
And make my senses credit thy relation
To points that seem impossible; for thou look’st
Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends?
Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back —
Which was when I perceived thee — that thou cam’st
From good descending?
MARINA.
So indeed I did.
PERICLES.
Report thy parentage. I think thou said’st
Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury,
And that thou thought’st thy griefs might equal mine,
If both were open’d.
MARINA.
Some such thing,
I said, and said no more but what my thoughts
Did warrant me was likely.
PERICLES.
Tell thy story;
If thine consider’d prove the thousand part
Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I
Have suffer’d like a girl: yet thou dost look
Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling
Extremity out of act. What were thy friends?
How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind virgin?
Recount, I do beseech thee: come, sit by me.
MARINA.
My name is Marina.
PERICLES.
O, I am mock’d,
And thou by some incensed god sent hither
To make the world to laugh at me.
MARINA.
Patience, good sir,
Or here I’ll cease.
PERICLES.
Nay, I’ll be patient.
Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me,
To call thyself Marina.
MARINA.
The name
Was given me by one that had some power,
My father, and a king.
PERICLES.
How! a king’s daughter?
And call’d Marina?
MARINA.
You said you would believe me;
But, not to be a troubler of your peace,
I will end here.
PERICLES.
But are you flesh and blood?
Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy?
Motion! Well; speak on. Where were you born?
And wherefore call’d Marina?
MARINA.
Call’d Marina
For I was born at sea.
PERICLES.
At sea! What mother?
MARINA.
My mother was the daughter of a king;
Who died the minute I was born,
As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft
Deliver’d weeping.
PERICLES.
O, stop there a little! [_Aside._] This is the rarest dream that e’er
dull sleep
Did mock sad fools withal: this cannot be:
My daughter, buried. Well, where were you bred?
I’ll hear you more, to the bottom of your story,
And never interrupt you.
MARINA.
You scorn: believe me, ’twere best I did give o’er.
PERICLES.
I will believe you by the syllable
Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave:
How came you in these parts? Where were you bred?
MARINA.
The king my father did in Tarsus leave me;
Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife,
Did seek to murder me: and having woo’d
A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do’t,
A crew of pirates came and rescued me;
Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir.
Whither will you have me? Why do you weep? It may be,
You think me an impostor: no, good faith;
I am the daughter to King Pericles,
If good King Pericles be.
PERICLES.
Ho, Helicanus!
Enter Helicanus and Lysimachus.
HELICANUS.
Calls my lord?
PERICLES.
Thou art a grave and noble counsellor,
Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst,
What this maid is, or what is like to be,
That thus hath made me weep.
HELICANUS.
I know not,
But here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene
Speaks nobly of her.
LYSIMACHUS.
She would never tell
Her parentage; being demanded that,
She would sit still and weep.
PERICLES.
O Helicanus, strike me, honour’d sir;
Give me a gash, put me to present pain;
Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me
O’erbear the shores of my mortality,
And drown me with their sweetness.
[_To Marina_] O, come hither,
Thou that beget’st him that did thee beget;
Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus,
And found at sea again! O Helicanus,
Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud
As thunder threatens us: this is Marina.
What was thy mother’s name? tell me but that,
For truth can never be confirm’d enough,
Though doubts did ever sleep.
MARINA.
First, sir, I pray, what is your title?
PERICLES.
I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now
My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you said
Thou hast been godlike perfect,
The heir of kingdoms and another life
To Pericles thy father.
MARINA.
Is it no more to be your daughter than
To say my mother’s name was Thaisa?
Thaisa was my mother, who did end
The minute I began.
PERICLES.
Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child.
Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus;
She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been,
By savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all;
When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge
She is thy very princess. Who is this?
HELICANUS.
Sir, ’tis the governor of Mytilene,
Who, hearing of your melancholy state,
Did come to see you.
PERICLES.
I embrace you.
Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding.
O heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music?
Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him
O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt,
How sure you are my daughter. But, what music?
HELICANUS.
My lord, I hear none.
PERICLES.
None!
The music of the spheres! List, my Marina.
LYSIMACHUS.
It is not good to cross him; give him way.
PERICLES.
Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear?
LYSIMACHUS.
Music, my lord? I hear.
[_Music._]
PERICLES.
Most heavenly music!
It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber
Hangs upon mine eyes: let me rest.
[_Sleeps._]
LYSIMACHUS.
A pillow for his head:
So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends,
If this but answer to my just belief,
I’ll well remember you.
[_Exeunt all but Pericles._]
Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision.
DIANA.
My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither,
And do upon mine altar sacrifice.
There, when my maiden priests are met together,
Before the people all,
Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife:
To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call
And give them repetition to the life.
Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe:
Do it, and happy; by my silver bow!
Awake and tell thy dream.
[_Disappears._]
PERICLES.
Celestial Dian, goddess argentine,
I will obey thee. Helicanus!
Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus and Marina.
HELICANUS.
Sir?
PERICLES.
My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike
The inhospitable Cleon; but I am
For other service first: toward Ephesus
Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I’ll tell thee why.
[_To Lysimachus._] Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore,
And give you gold for such provision
As our intents will need?
LYSIMACHUS.
Sir, with all my heart,
And when you come ashore I have another suit.
PERICLES.
You shall prevail, were it to woo my daughter;
For it seems you have been noble towards her.
LYSIMACHUS.
Sir, lend me your arm.
PERICLES.
Come, my Marina.
[_Exeunt._]
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ACT IV
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Enter Biondello, running.
BIONDELLO.
O master, master! I have watch’d so long
That I am dog-weary; but at last I spied
An ancient angel coming down the hill
Will serve the turn.
TRANIO.
What is he, Biondello?
BIONDELLO.
Master, a mercatante or a pedant,
I know not what; but formal in apparel,
In gait and countenance surely like a father.
LUCENTIO.
And what of him, Tranio?
TRANIO.
If he be credulous and trust my tale,
I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio,
And give assurance to Baptista Minola,
As if he were the right Vincentio.
Take in your love, and then let me alone.
[_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._]
Enter a Pedant.
PEDANT.
God save you, sir!
TRANIO.
And you, sir! you are welcome.
Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest?
PEDANT.
Sir, at the farthest for a week or two;
But then up farther, and as far as Rome;
And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.
TRANIO.
What countryman, I pray?
PEDANT.
Of Mantua.
TRANIO.
Of Mantua, sir? Marry, God forbid,
And come to Padua, careless of your life!
PEDANT.
My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard.
TRANIO.
’Tis death for anyone in Mantua
To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?
Your ships are stay’d at Venice; and the Duke,—
For private quarrel ’twixt your Duke and him,—
Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly.
’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come
You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.
PEDANT.
Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so;
For I have bills for money by exchange
From Florence, and must here deliver them.
TRANIO.
Well, sir, to do you courtesy,
This will I do, and this I will advise you:
First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?
PEDANT.
Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,
Pisa renowned for grave citizens.
TRANIO.
Among them know you one Vincentio?
PEDANT.
I know him not, but I have heard of him,
A merchant of incomparable wealth.
TRANIO.
He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,
In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.
BIONDELLO.
[_Aside._] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.
TRANIO.
To save your life in this extremity,
This favour will I do you for his sake;
And think it not the worst of all your fortunes
That you are like to Sir Vincentio.
His name and credit shall you undertake,
And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d;
Look that you take upon you as you should!
You understand me, sir; so shall you stay
Till you have done your business in the city.
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it.
PEDANT.
O, sir, I do; and will repute you ever
The patron of my life and liberty.
TRANIO.
Then go with me to make the matter good.
This, by the way, I let you understand:
My father is here look’d for every day
To pass assurance of a dower in marriage
’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here:
In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you.
Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.
[_Exeunt._]
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| 47
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ACT III
| null |
DON PEDRO.
Hang him, truant! there’s no true drop of blood in him to be
truly touched with love. If he be sad, he wants money.
|
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| 48
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
153
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,
A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground:
Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,
A dateless lively heat still to endure,
And grew a seeting bath which yet men prove,
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure:
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast,
I sick withal the help of bath desired,
And thither hied a sad distempered guest.
But found no cure, the bath for my help lies,
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes.
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| 49
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ACT IV
| null |
BENEDICK.
If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on
her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is.
|
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| 50
|
ACT III
| null |
Enter Petruchio and Grumio.
PETRUCHIO.
Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home?
BAPTISTA.
You are welcome, sir.
PETRUCHIO.
And yet I come not well.
BAPTISTA.
And yet you halt not.
TRANIO.
Not so well apparell’d as I wish you were.
PETRUCHIO.
Were it better, I should rush in thus.
But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride?
How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown;
And wherefore gaze this goodly company,
As if they saw some wondrous monument,
Some comet or unusual prodigy?
BAPTISTA.
Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day:
First were we sad, fearing you would not come;
Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.
Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,
An eye-sore to our solemn festival.
TRANIO.
And tell us what occasion of import
Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,
And sent you hither so unlike yourself?
PETRUCHIO.
Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear;
Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,
Though in some part enforced to digress;
Which at more leisure I will so excuse
As you shall well be satisfied withal.
But where is Kate? I stay too long from her;
The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.
TRANIO.
See not your bride in these unreverent robes;
Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.
PETRUCHIO.
Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her.
BAPTISTA.
But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.
PETRUCHIO.
Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words;
To me she’s married, not unto my clothes.
Could I repair what she will wear in me
As I can change these poor accoutrements,
’Twere well for Kate and better for myself.
But what a fool am I to chat with you
When I should bid good morrow to my bride,
And seal the title with a lovely kiss!
[_Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio and Biondello._]
TRANIO.
He hath some meaning in his mad attire.
We will persuade him, be it possible,
To put on better ere he go to church.
BAPTISTA.
I’ll after him and see the event of this.
[_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio and Attendants._]
TRANIO.
But, sir, to love concerneth us to add
Her father’s liking; which to bring to pass,
As I before imparted to your worship,
I am to get a man,—whate’er he be
It skills not much; we’ll fit him to our turn,—
And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,
And make assurance here in Padua,
Of greater sums than I have promised.
So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,
And marry sweet Bianca with consent.
LUCENTIO.
Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster
Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly,
’Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;
Which once perform’d, let all the world say no,
I’ll keep mine own despite of all the world.
TRANIO.
That by degrees we mean to look into,
And watch our vantage in this business.
We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,
The narrow-prying father, Minola,
The quaint musician, amorous Licio;
All for my master’s sake, Lucentio.
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ACT II
| null |
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be,
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours.
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone.
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.
PUCK.
The King doth keep his revels here tonight;
Take heed the Queen come not within his sight,
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
Because that she, as her attendant, hath
A lovely boy, stol’n from an Indian king;
She never had so sweet a changeling.
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild:
But she perforce withholds the lovèd boy,
Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy.
And now they never meet in grove or green,
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,
But they do square; that all their elves for fear
Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.
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| 52
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ACT IV
| null |
CLAUDIO.
We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof
melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy
wit?
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| 53
|
ACT II
| null |
SCENE I. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.
Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor all in
white, and three or four followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa
and their train.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadowed livery of the burnish’d sun,
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phœbus’ fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love
To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
Hath fear’d the valiant; by my love I swear
The best-regarded virgins of our clime
Have lov’d it too. I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
PORTIA.
In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes;
Besides, the lott’ry of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing.
But if my father had not scanted me
And hedg’d me by his wit to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair
As any comer I have look’d on yet
For my affection.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Even for that I thank you.
Therefore I pray you lead me to the caskets
To try my fortune. By this scimitar
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince,
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
I would o’erstare the sternest eyes that look,
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
If Hercules and Lichas play at dice
Which is the better man, the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
So is Alcides beaten by his rage,
And so may I, blind Fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.
PORTIA.
You must take your chance,
And either not attempt to choose at all,
Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong
Never to speak to lady afterward
In way of marriage. Therefore be advis’d.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.
PORTIA.
First, forward to the temple. After dinner
Your hazard shall be made.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Good fortune then,
To make me blest or cursed’st among men!
[_Cornets. Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Venice. A street.
Enter Launcelet Gobbo, the clown, alone.
LAUNCELET.
Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master.
The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me “Gobbo,
Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelet
Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says
“No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo” or, as
aforesaid, “honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy
heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” says the
fiend, “away!” says the fiend. “For the heavens, rouse up a brave
mind,” says the fiend “and run.” Well, my conscience, hanging about the
neck of my heart, says very wisely to me “My honest friend Launcelet,
being an honest man’s son”—or rather an honest woman’s son, for indeed
my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of
taste;—well, my conscience says “Launcelet, budge not.” “Budge,” says
the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you
counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel well.” To be ruled by my
conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, (God bless the
mark) is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be
ruled by the fiend, who (saving your reverence) is the devil himself.
Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation, and, in my conscience,
my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me
to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will
run, fiend, my heels are at your commandment, I will run.
Enter Old Gobbo with a basket.
GOBBO.
Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew’s?
LAUNCELET.
[_Aside._] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father, who being more
than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not. I will try confusions
with him.
GOBBO.
Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew’s?
LAUNCELET.
Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning
of all on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand,
but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.
GOBBO.
Be God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether
one Launcelet, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?
LAUNCELET.
Talk you of young Master Launcelet? [_Aside._] Mark me now, now will I
raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelet?
GOBBO.
No master, sir, but a poor man’s son, his father, though I say’t, is an
honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.
LAUNCELET.
Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master
Launcelet.
GOBBO.
Your worship’s friend, and Launcelet, sir.
LAUNCELET.
But I pray you, _ergo_, old man, _ergo_, I beseech you, talk you of
young Master Launcelet?
GOBBO.
Of Launcelet, an’t please your mastership.
LAUNCELET.
_Ergo_, Master Launcelet. Talk not of Master Launcelet, father, for the
young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies, and such odd
sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed
deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.
GOBBO.
Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.
LAUNCELET.
[_Aside._] Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop?
Do you know me, father?
GOBBO.
Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman, but I pray you tell me,
is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead?
LAUNCELET.
Do you not know me, father?
GOBBO.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.
LAUNCELET.
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it
is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell
you news of your son. Give me your blessing, truth will come to light,
murder cannot be hid long, a man’s son may, but in the end truth will
out.
GOBBO.
Pray you, sir, stand up, I am sure you are not Launcelet my boy.
LAUNCELET.
Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your
blessing. I am Launcelet, your boy that was, your son that is, your
child that shall be.
GOBBO.
I cannot think you are my son.
LAUNCELET.
I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelet, the Jew’s
man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.
GOBBO.
Her name is Margery, indeed. I’ll be sworn if thou be Launcelet, thou
art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard
hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my
fill-horse has on his tail.
LAUNCELET.
It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward. I am sure he
had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him.
GOBBO.
Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have
brought him a present. How ’gree you now?
LAUNCELET.
Well, well. But for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run
away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a
very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his
service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am
glad you are come, give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who
indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far
as God has any ground. O rare fortune, here comes the man! To him,
father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.
Enter Bassanio with Leonardo and a follower or two.
BASSANIO.
You may do so, but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the
farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the
liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.
[_Exit a Servant._]
LAUNCELET.
To him, father.
GOBBO.
God bless your worship!
BASSANIO.
Gramercy, wouldst thou aught with me?
GOBBO.
Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy.
LAUNCELET.
Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man, that would, sir, as my
father shall specify.
GOBBO.
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve.
LAUNCELET.
Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire,
as my father shall specify.
GOBBO.
His master and he (saving your worship’s reverence) are scarce
cater-cousins.
LAUNCELET.
To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth
cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto
you.
GOBBO.
I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and
my suit is—
LAUNCELET.
In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall
know by this honest old man, and though I say it, though old man, yet
poor man, my father.
BASSANIO.
One speak for both. What would you?
LAUNCELET.
Serve you, sir.
GOBBO.
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
BASSANIO.
I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy suit.
Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,
And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment
To leave a rich Jew’s service to become
The follower of so poor a gentleman.
LAUNCELET.
The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you,
sir: you have “the grace of God”, sir, and he hath “enough”.
BASSANIO.
Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son.
Take leave of thy old master, and inquire
My lodging out. [_To a Servant._] Give him a livery
More guarded than his fellows’; see it done.
LAUNCELET.
Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne’er a tongue in my
head! [_Looking on his palm._] Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer
table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune;
go to, here’s a simple line of life. Here’s a small trifle of wives,
alas, fifteen wives is nothing; eleven widows and nine maids is a
simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to
be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple
’scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear.
Father, come; I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling.
[_Exeunt Launcelet and Old Gobbo._]
BASSANIO.
I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this.
These things being bought and orderly bestow’d,
Return in haste, for I do feast tonight
My best esteem’d acquaintance; hie thee, go.
LEONARDO.
My best endeavours shall be done herein.
Enter Gratiano.
GRATIANO.
Where’s your master?
LEONARDO.
Yonder, sir, he walks.
[_Exit._]
GRATIANO.
Signior Bassanio!
BASSANIO.
Gratiano!
GRATIANO.
I have suit to you.
BASSANIO.
You have obtain’d it.
GRATIANO.
You must not deny me, I must go with you to Belmont.
BASSANIO.
Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano,
Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice,
Parts that become thee happily enough,
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;
But where thou art not known, why there they show
Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain
To allay with some cold drops of modesty
Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour
I be misconst’red in the place I go to,
And lose my hopes.
GRATIANO.
Signior Bassanio, hear me.
If I do not put on a sober habit,
Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,
Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,
Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes
Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say “amen”;
Use all the observance of civility
Like one well studied in a sad ostent
To please his grandam, never trust me more.
BASSANIO.
Well, we shall see your bearing.
GRATIANO.
Nay, but I bar tonight, you shall not gauge me
By what we do tonight.
BASSANIO.
No, that were pity.
I would entreat you rather to put on
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
That purpose merriment. But fare you well,
I have some business.
GRATIANO.
And I must to Lorenzo and the rest,
But we will visit you at supper-time.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. The same. A room in Shylock’s house.
Enter Jessica and Launcelet.
JESSICA.
I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so.
Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.
But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee,
And, Launcelet, soon at supper shalt thou see
Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest.
Give him this letter, do it secretly.
And so farewell. I would not have my father
See me in talk with thee.
LAUNCELET.
Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue, most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew!
If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived.
But, adieu! These foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit.
Adieu!
JESSICA.
Farewell, good Launcelet.
[_Exit Launcelet._]
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me
To be ashamed to be my father’s child!
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,
Become a Christian and thy loving wife.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. The same. A street.
Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino and Solanio.
LORENZO.
Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,
Disguise us at my lodging, and return
All in an hour.
GRATIANO.
We have not made good preparation.
SALARINO.
We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.
SOLANIO.
’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d,
And better in my mind not undertook.
LORENZO.
’Tis now but four o’clock, we have two hours
To furnish us.
Enter Launcelet with a letter.
Friend Launcelet, what’s the news?
LAUNCELET.
And it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.
LORENZO.
I know the hand, in faith ’tis a fair hand,
And whiter than the paper it writ on
Is the fair hand that writ.
GRATIANO.
Love news, in faith.
LAUNCELET.
By your leave, sir.
LORENZO.
Whither goest thou?
LAUNCELET.
Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup tonight with my new
master the Christian.
LORENZO.
Hold here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica
I will not fail her, speak it privately.
Go, gentlemen,
[_Exit Launcelet._]
Will you prepare you for this masque tonight?
I am provided of a torch-bearer.
SALARINO.
Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight.
SOLANIO.
And so will I.
LORENZO.
Meet me and Gratiano
At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence.
SALARINO.
’Tis good we do so.
[_Exeunt Salarino and Solanio._]
GRATIANO.
Was not that letter from fair Jessica?
LORENZO.
I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed
How I shall take her from her father’s house,
What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with,
What page’s suit she hath in readiness.
If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven,
It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake;
And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
Unless she do it under this excuse,
That she is issue to a faithless Jew.
Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest;
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. The same. Before Shylock’s house.
Enter Shylock the Jew and Launcelet his man that was the clown.
SHYLOCK.
Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio.—
What, Jessica!—Thou shalt not gormandize
As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!—
And sleep, and snore, and rend apparel out.
Why, Jessica, I say!
LAUNCELET.
Why, Jessica!
SHYLOCK.
Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
LAUNCELET.
Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding.
Enter Jessica.
JESSICA.
Call you? What is your will?
SHYLOCK.
I am bid forth to supper, Jessica.
There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?
I am not bid for love, they flatter me.
But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,
Look to my house. I am right loath to go;
There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money-bags tonight.
LAUNCELET.
I beseech you, sir, go. My young master doth expect your reproach.
SHYLOCK.
So do I his.
LAUNCELET.
And they have conspired together. I will not say you shall see a
masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell
a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o’clock i’ th’ morning, falling
out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in th’ afternoon.
SHYLOCK.
What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica,
Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum
And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife,
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces,
But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements.
Let not the sound of shallow fopp’ry enter
My sober house. By Jacob’s staff I swear
I have no mind of feasting forth tonight.
But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah.
Say I will come.
LAUNCELET.
I will go before, sir.
Mistress, look out at window for all this.
There will come a Christian by
Will be worth a Jewess’ eye.
[_Exit Launcelet._]
SHYLOCK.
What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha?
JESSICA.
His words were “Farewell, mistress,” nothing else.
SHYLOCK.
The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild-cat. Drones hive not with me,
Therefore I part with him, and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in.
Perhaps I will return immediately:
Do as I bid you, shut doors after you,
“Fast bind, fast find.”
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.
[_Exit._]
JESSICA.
Farewell, and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.
[_Exit._]
SCENE VI. The same.
Enter the masquers, Gratiano and Salarino.
GRATIANO.
This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo
Desired us to make stand.
SALARINO.
His hour is almost past.
GRATIANO.
And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
SALARINO.
O ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly
To seal love’s bonds new-made than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited!
GRATIANO.
That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? All things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d.
How like a younger or a prodigal
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like the prodigal doth she return
With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!
Enter Lorenzo.
SALARINO.
Here comes Lorenzo, more of this hereafter.
LORENZO.
Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode.
Not I but my affairs have made you wait.
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
I’ll watch as long for you then. Approach.
Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within?
Enter Jessica above, in boy’s clothes.
JESSICA.
Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue.
LORENZO.
Lorenzo, and thy love.
JESSICA.
Lorenzo certain, and my love indeed,
For who love I so much? And now who knows
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
LORENZO.
Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.
JESSICA.
Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.
I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much asham’d of my exchange.
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit,
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.
LORENZO.
Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.
JESSICA.
What! must I hold a candle to my shames?
They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light.
Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love,
And I should be obscur’d.
LORENZO.
So are you, sweet,
Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once,
For the close night doth play the runaway,
And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast.
JESSICA.
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
With some moe ducats, and be with you straight.
[_Exit above._]
GRATIANO.
Now, by my hood, a gentle, and no Jew.
LORENZO.
Beshrew me but I love her heartily,
For she is wise, if I can judge of her,
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,
And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself.
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.
Enter Jessica.
What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away!
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
[_Exit with Jessica and Salarino._]
Enter Antonio.
ANTONIO.
Who’s there?
GRATIANO.
Signior Antonio!
ANTONIO.
Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
’Tis nine o’clock, our friends all stay for you.
No masque tonight, the wind is come about;
Bassanio presently will go aboard.
I have sent twenty out to seek for you.
GRATIANO.
I am glad on’t. I desire no more delight
Than to be under sail and gone tonight.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VII. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.
Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco and both
their trains.
PORTIA.
Go, draw aside the curtains and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.
Now make your choice.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
The first, of gold, who this inscription bears,
“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.”
The second, silver, which this promise carries,
“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.”
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,
“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”
How shall I know if I do choose the right?
PORTIA.
The one of them contains my picture, prince.
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Some god direct my judgment! Let me see.
I will survey the inscriptions back again.
What says this leaden casket?
“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”
Must give, for what? For lead? Hazard for lead!
This casket threatens; men that hazard all
Do it in hope of fair advantages:
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross,
I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.
What says the silver with her virgin hue?
“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.”
As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,
And weigh thy value with an even hand.
If thou be’st rated by thy estimation
Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough
May not extend so far as to the lady.
And yet to be afeard of my deserving
Were but a weak disabling of myself.
As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady:
I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
In graces, and in qualities of breeding;
But more than these, in love I do deserve.
What if I stray’d no farther, but chose here?
Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold:
“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.”
Why, that’s the lady, all the world desires her.
From the four corners of the earth they come
To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint.
The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now
For princes to come view fair Portia.
The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spets in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign spirits, but they come
As o’er a brook to see fair Portia.
One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
Is’t like that lead contains her? ’Twere damnation
To think so base a thought. It were too gross
To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think in silver she’s immur’d
Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold; but that’s insculp’d upon;
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within. Deliver me the key.
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may.
PORTIA.
There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there,
Then I am yours.
[_He unlocks the golden casket._]
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
O hell! what have we here?
A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing.
_All that glisters is not gold,
Often have you heard that told.
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold.
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll’d,
Fare you well, your suit is cold._
Cold indeed and labour lost,
Then farewell heat, and welcome frost.
Portia, adieu! I have too griev’d a heart
To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part.
[_Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets._]
PORTIA.
A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VIII. Venice. A street.
Enter Salarino and Solanio.
SALARINO.
Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail;
With him is Gratiano gone along;
And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.
SOLANIO.
The villain Jew with outcries rais’d the Duke,
Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.
SALARINO.
He came too late, the ship was under sail;
But there the Duke was given to understand
That in a gondola were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.
Besides, Antonio certified the Duke
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
SOLANIO.
I never heard a passion so confus’d,
So strange, outrageous, and so variable
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets.
“My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!
Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!
Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter!
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
Of double ducats, stol’n from me by my daughter!
And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones,
Stol’n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl,
She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.”
SALARINO.
Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
SOLANIO.
Let good Antonio look he keep his day
Or he shall pay for this.
SALARINO.
Marry, well rememb’red.
I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday,
Who told me, in the narrow seas that part
The French and English, there miscarried
A vessel of our country richly fraught.
I thought upon Antonio when he told me,
And wish’d in silence that it were not his.
SOLANIO.
You were best to tell Antonio what you hear,
Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
SALARINO.
A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part,
Bassanio told him he would make some speed
Of his return. He answered “Do not so,
Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,
But stay the very riping of the time,
And for the Jew’s bond which he hath of me,
Let it not enter in your mind of love:
Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts
To courtship, and such fair ostents of love
As shall conveniently become you there.”
And even there, his eye being big with tears,
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,
And with affection wondrous sensible
He wrung Bassanio’s hand, and so they parted.
SOLANIO.
I think he only loves the world for him.
I pray thee, let us go and find him out
And quicken his embraced heaviness
With some delight or other.
SALARINO.
Do we so.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IX. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house.
Enter Nerissa and a Servitor.
NERISSA.
Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight.
The Prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath,
And comes to his election presently.
Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, his train, and
Portia.
PORTIA.
Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince,
If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d.
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.
ARRAGON.
I am enjoin’d by oath to observe three things:
First, never to unfold to anyone
Which casket ’twas I chose; next, if I fail
Of the right casket, never in my life
To woo a maid in way of marriage;
Lastly,
If I do fail in fortune of my choice,
Immediately to leave you and be gone.
PORTIA.
To these injunctions everyone doth swear
That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
ARRAGON.
And so have I address’d me. Fortune now
To my heart’s hope! Gold, silver, and base lead.
“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”
You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard.
What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see:
“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.”
What many men desire! that “many” may be meant
By the fool multitude, that choose by show,
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach,
Which pries not to th’ interior, but like the martlet
Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casualty.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump with common spirits
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house,
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear.
“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.”
And well said too; for who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honourable
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume
To wear an undeserved dignity.
O that estates, degrees, and offices
Were not deriv’d corruptly, and that clear honour
Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover that stand bare?
How many be commanded that command?
How much low peasantry would then be gleaned
From the true seed of honour? And how much honour
Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times,
To be new varnish’d? Well, but to my choice.
“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.”
I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,
And instantly unlock my fortunes here.
[_He opens the silver casket._]
PORTIA.
Too long a pause for that which you find there.
ARRAGON.
What’s here? The portrait of a blinking idiot
Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia!
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!
“Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.”
Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head?
Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better?
PORTIA.
To offend and judge are distinct offices,
And of opposed natures.
ARRAGON.
What is here?
_The fire seven times tried this;
Seven times tried that judgment is
That did never choose amiss.
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow’s bliss.
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silver’d o’er, and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head:
So be gone; you are sped._
Still more fool I shall appear
By the time I linger here.
With one fool’s head I came to woo,
But I go away with two.
Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath,
Patiently to bear my wroth.
[_Exit Aragon with his train._]
PORTIA.
Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth.
O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose,
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.
NERISSA.
The ancient saying is no heresy:
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
PORTIA.
Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
Where is my lady?
PORTIA.
Here, what would my lord?
MESSENGER.
Madam, there is alighted at your gate
A young Venetian, one that comes before
To signify th’ approaching of his lord,
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets;
To wit (besides commends and courteous breath)
Gifts of rich value; yet I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love.
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show how costly summer was at hand,
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.
PORTIA.
No more, I pray thee. I am half afeard
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,
Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him.
Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see
Quick Cupid’s post that comes so mannerly.
NERISSA.
Bassanio, Lord Love, if thy will it be!
[_Exeunt._]
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poem
| 54
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ACT IV
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SCENE I. The Coast of Kent
SCENE II. Blackheath
SCENE III. Another part of Blackheath
SCENE IV. London. The Palace
SCENE V. London. The Tower
SCENE VI. London. Cannon Street
SCENE VII. London. Smithfield
SCENE VIII. Southwark
SCENE IX. Kenilworth Castle
SCENE X. Kent. Iden’s Garden
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poem
| 55
|
ACT II
| null |
LEONATO.
There’s little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is
never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then, for I have
heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and
waked herself with laughing.
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poem
| 56
|
CLEOMENES
| null |
The climate’s delicate; the air most sweet,
Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing
The common praise it bears.
DION.
I shall report,
For most it caught me, the celestial habits
(Methinks I so should term them) and the reverence
Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!
How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly,
It was i’ th’ offering!
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poem
| 57
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ACT IV
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MESSENGER.
Much deserved on his part, and equally remembered by Don Pedro.
He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the
figure of a lamb the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better
bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how.
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poem
| 58
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ACT IV
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SCENE I. The King’s Camp near Shrewsbury.
Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt and Sir
John Falstaff.
KING.
How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above yon bulky hill! The day looks pale
At his distemp’rature.
PRINCE.
The southern wind
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,
And by his hollow whistling in the leaves
Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day.
KING.
Then with the losers let it sympathize,
For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
[_The trumpet sounds_.]
Enter Worcester and Vernon.
How, now, my Lord of Worcester! ’Tis not well
That you and I should meet upon such terms
As now we meet. You have deceived our trust,
And made us doff our easy robes of peace,
To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel.
This is not well, my lord, this is not well.
What say you to it? Will you again unknit
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,
And move in that obedient orb again
Where you did give a fair and natural light,
And be no more an exhaled meteor,
A prodigy of fear, and a portent
Of broached mischief to the unborn times?
WORCESTER.
Hear me, my liege:
For mine own part, I could be well content
To entertain the lag end of my life
With quiet hours. For I do protest
I have not sought the day of this dislike.
KING.
You have not sought it? How comes it, then?
FALSTAFF.
Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.
PRINCE.
Peace, chewet, peace!
WORCESTER.
It pleased your Majesty to turn your looks
Of favour from myself and all our house;
And yet I must remember you, my lord,
We were the first and dearest of your friends.
For you my staff of office did I break
In Richard’s time, and posted day and night
To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand,
When yet you were in place and in account
Nothing so strong and fortunate as I.
It was myself, my brother, and his son,
That brought you home, and boldly did outdare
The dangers of the time. You swore to us,
And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,
That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state,
Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right,
The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster.
To this we swore our aid. But in short space
It rain’d down fortune show’ring on your head,
And such a flood of greatness fell on you,
What with our help, what with the absent King,
What with the injuries of a wanton time,
The seeming sufferances that you had borne,
And the contrarious winds that held the King
So long in his unlucky Irish wars
That all in England did repute him dead:
And from this swarm of fair advantages
You took occasion to be quickly woo’d
To gripe the general sway into your hand,
Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster;
And, being fed by us, you used us so
As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird,
Useth the sparrow—did oppress our nest,
Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk
That even our love durst not come near your sight
For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing
We were enforced, for safety sake to fly
Out of your sight, and raise this present head,
Whereby we stand opposed by such means
As you yourself have forged against yourself,
By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,
And violation of all faith and troth
Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.
KING.
These things, indeed, you have articulate,
Proclaim’d at market crosses, read in churches,
To face the garment of rebellion
With some fine colour that may please the eye
Of fickle changelings and poor discontents,
Which gape and rub the elbow at the news
Of hurlyburly innovation.
And never yet did insurrection want
Such water-colours to impaint his cause,
Nor moody beggars starving for a time
Of pellmell havoc and confusion.
PRINCE.
In both your armies there is many a soul
Shall pay full dearly for this encounter
If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew,
The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world
In praise of Henry Percy. By my hopes,
This present enterprise set off his head,
I do not think a braver gentleman,
More active-valiant or more valiant-young,
More daring or more bold, is now alive
To grace this latter age with noble deeds.
For my part, I may speak it to my shame,
I have a truant been to chivalry,
And so I hear he doth account me too.
Yet this before my father’s Majesty—
I am content that he shall take the odds
Of his great name and estimation,
And will, to save the blood on either side,
Try fortune with him in a single fight.
KING.
And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,
Albeit considerations infinite
Do make against it.—No, good Worcester, no.
We love our people well, even those we love
That are misled upon your cousin’s part,
And, will they take the offer of our grace,
Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man
Shall be my friend again, and I’ll be his.
So tell your cousin, and then bring me word
What he will do. But if he will not yield,
Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,
And they shall do their office. So, be gone;
We will not now be troubled with reply.
We offer fair, take it advisedly.
[_Exit Worcester with Vernon._]
PRINCE.
It will not be accepted, on my life.
The Douglas and the Hotspur both together
Are confident against the world in arms.
KING.
Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge;
For on their answer, will we set on them,
And God befriend us as our cause is just!
[_Exeunt the King, Blunt and Prince John._]
FALSTAFF.
Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so; ’tis a
point of friendship.
PRINCE.
Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship.
Say thy prayers, and farewell.
FALSTAFF.
I would ’twere bedtime, Hal, and all well.
PRINCE.
Why, thou owest God a death.
[_Exit._]
FALSTAFF.
’Tis not due yet, I would be loth to pay Him before His day. What need
I be so forward with Him that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter,
honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come
on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away
the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No.
What is honour? A word. What is in that word, “honour”? What is that
“honour”? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o’
Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth be hear it? No. ’Tis insensible,
then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why?
Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honour is a
mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.
[_Exit._]
SCENE II. The Rebel Camp.
Enter Worcester and Vernon.
WORCESTER.
O no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,
The liberal and kind offer of the King.
VERNON.
’Twere best he did.
WORCESTER.
Then are we all undone.
It is not possible, it cannot be,
The King should keep his word in loving us;
He will suspect us still, and find a time
To punish this offence in other faults.
Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes,
For treason is but trusted like the fox,
Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d and lock’d up,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.
Look how we can, or sad or merrily,
Interpretation will misquote our looks,
And we shall feed like oxen at a stall,
The better cherish’d still the nearer death.
My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot,
It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,
And an adopted name of privilege—
A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen.
All his offences live upon my head
And on his father’s. We did train him on,
And, his corruption being ta’en from us,
We as the spring of all shall pay for all.
Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know
In any case the offer of the King.
VERNON.
Deliver what you will, I’ll say ’tis so.
Here comes your cousin.
Enter Hotspur and Douglas; Officers and Soldiers behind.
HOTSPUR.
My uncle is return’d.
Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland.
Uncle, what news?
WORCESTER.
The King will bid you battle presently.
DOUGLAS.
Defy him by the Lord Of Westmoreland.
HOTSPUR.
Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so.
DOUGLAS.
Marry, I shall, and very willingly.
[_Exit._]
WORCESTER.
There is no seeming mercy in the King.
HOTSPUR.
Did you beg any? God forbid!
WORCESTER.
I told him gently of our grievances,
Of his oath-breaking; which he mended thus,
By now forswearing that he is forsworn.
He calls us rebels, traitors, and will scourge
With haughty arms this hateful name in us.
Enter Douglas.
DOUGLAS.
Arm, gentlemen; to arms! For I have thrown
A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth,
And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it,
Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.
WORCESTER.
The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the King,
And, nephew, challenged you to single fight.
HOTSPUR.
O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads,
And that no man might draw short breath today
But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me,
How show’d his tasking? Seem’d it in contempt?
VERNON.
No, by my soul. I never in my life
Did hear a challenge urged more modestly,
Unless a brother should a brother dare
To gentle exercise and proof of arms.
He gave you all the duties of a man,
Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue,
Spoke your deservings like a chronicle,
Making you ever better than his praise
By still dispraising praise valued with you,
And, which became him like a prince indeed,
He made a blushing cital of himself,
And chid his truant youth with such a grace
As if he master’d there a double spirit
Of teaching and of learning instantly.
There did he pause: but let me tell the world,
If he outlive the envy of this day,
England did never owe so sweet a hope
So much misconstrued in his wantonness.
HOTSPUR.
Cousin, I think thou art enamoured
Upon his follies. Never did I hear
Of any prince so wild a liberty.
But be he as he will, yet once ere night
I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm,
That he shall shrink under my courtesy.
Arm, arm with speed! And, fellows, soldiers, friends,
Better consider what you have to do
Than I that have not well the gift of tongue
Can lift your blood up with persuasion.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
My lord, here are letters for you.
HOTSPUR.
I cannot read them now.—
O gentlemen, the time of life is short!
To spend that shortness basely were too long
If life did ride upon a dial’s point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
And if we live, we live to tread on kings;
If die, brave death, when princes die with us!
Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair
When the intent of bearing them is just.
Enter another Messenger.
MESSENGER.
My lord, prepare. The King comes on apace.
HOTSPUR.
I thank him that he cuts me from my tale,
For I profess not talking. Only this:
Let each man do his best. And here draw I
A sword whose temper I intend to stain
With the best blood that I can meet withal
In the adventure of this perilous day.
Now, Esperance! Percy! And set on.
Sound all the lofty instruments of war,
And by that music let us all embrace,
For, Heaven to Earth, some of us never shall
A second time do such a courtesy.
[_The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt._]
SCENE III. Plain between the Camps.
The King enters with his power. Alarum to the battle. Then enter
Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt.
BLUNT.
What is thy name that in the battle thus
Thou crossest me? What honour dost thou seek
Upon my head?
DOUGLAS.
Know then my name is Douglas,
And I do haunt thee in the battle thus
Because some tell me that thou art a king.
BLUNT.
They tell thee true.
DOUGLAS.
The Lord of Stafford dear today hath bought
Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry,
This sword hath ended him. So shall it thee,
Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.
BLUNT.
I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot,
And thou shalt find a king that will revenge
Lord Stafford’s death.
[_They fight, and Blunt is slain._]
Enter Hotspur.
HOTSPUR.
O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus,
I never had triumphed upon a Scot.
DOUGLAS.
All’s done, all’s won; here breathless lies the King.
HOTSPUR.
Where?
DOUGLAS.
Here.
HOTSPUR.
This, Douglas? No, I know this face full well.
A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt,
Semblably furnish’d like the King himself.
DOUGLAS.
A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes!
A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear.
Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?
HOTSPUR.
The King hath many marching in his coats.
DOUGLAS.
Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats;
I’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece,
Until I meet the King.
HOTSPUR.
Up, and away!
Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.
[_Exeunt._]
Alarums. Enter Falstaff solus.
FALSTAFF.
Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here. Here’s
no scoring but upon the pate.—Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt.
There’s honour for you. Here’s no vanity. I am as hot as molten lead,
and as heavy too. God keep lead out of me, I need no more weight than
mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered.
There’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they are for
the town’s end, to beg during life. But who comes here?
Enter Prince Henry.
PRINCE.
What, stand’st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword.
Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,
Whose deaths are yet unrevenged. I prithee
Lend me thy sword.
FALSTAFF.
O Hal, I prithee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never
did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I
have made him sure.
PRINCE.
He is indeed, and living to kill thee.
I prithee, lend me thy sword.
FALSTAFF.
Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou gett’st not my sword; but
take my pistol, if thou wilt.
PRINCE.
Give it me. What, is it in the case?
FALSTAFF.
Ay, Hal, ’tis hot, ’tis hot. There’s that will sack a city.
[_The Prince draws out a bottle of sack._]
PRINCE.
What, is it a time to jest and dally now?
[_Throws it at him, and exit._]
FALSTAFF.
Well, if Percy be alive, I’ll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so;
if he do not, if I come in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of
me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath. Give me life,
which if I can save, so: if not, honour comes unlooked for, and there’s
an end.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. Another Part of the Field.
Alarums. Excursions. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster and
Westmoreland.
KING.
I prithee, Harry, withdraw thyself, thou bleedest too much.
Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.
LANCASTER.
Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.
PRINCE.
I do beseech your Majesty, make up,
Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.
KING.
I will do so. My Lord of Westmoreland,
Lead him to his tent.
WESTMORELAND.
Come, my lord, I’ll lead you to your tent.
PRINCE.
Lead me, my lord? I do not need your help,
And God forbid a shallow scratch should drive
The Prince of Wales from such a field as this,
Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on,
And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres!
LANCASTER.
We breathe too long. Come, cousin Westmoreland,
Our duty this way lies. For God’s sake, come.
[_Exeunt Lancaster and Westmoreland._]
PRINCE.
By Heaven, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster,
I did not think thee lord of such a spirit.
Before, I loved thee as a brother, John,
But now I do respect thee as my soul.
KING.
I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point
With lustier maintenance than I did look for
Of such an ungrown warrior.
PRINCE.
O, this boy
Lends mettle to us all!
[_Exit._]
Enter Douglas.
DOUGLAS.
Another king! They grow like Hydra’s heads.
I am the Douglas, fatal to all those
That wear those colours on them. What art thou
That counterfeit’st the person of a king?
KING.
The King himself, who, Douglas, grieves at heart
So many of his shadows thou hast met,
And not the very King. I have two boys
Seek Percy and thyself about the field,
But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily,
I will assay thee, and defend thyself.
DOUGLAS.
I fear thou art another counterfeit,
And yet, in faith, thou bearest thee like a king.
But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be,
And thus I win thee.
They fight; the King being in danger, enter Prince Henry.
PRINCE.
Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like
Never to hold it up again! The spirits
Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms.
It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee,
Who never promiseth but he means to pay.
[_They fight. Douglas flies._]
Cheerly, my lord. How fares your Grace?
Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,
And so hath Clifton. I’ll to Clifton straight.
KING.
Stay and breathe awhile.
Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion,
And show’d thou mak’st some tender of my life,
In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.
PRINCE.
O God, they did me too much injury
That ever said I hearken’d for your death.
If it were so, I might have let alone
The insulting hand of Douglas over you,
Which would have been as speedy in your end
As all the poisonous potions in the world,
And saved the treacherous labour of your son.
KING.
Make up to Clifton. I’ll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.
[_Exit._]
Enter Hotspur.
HOTSPUR.
If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.
PRINCE.
Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name.
HOTSPUR.
My name is Harry Percy.
PRINCE.
Why then I see
A very valiant rebel of the name.
I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,
To share with me in glory any more.
Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere,
Nor can one England brook a double reign,
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.
HOTSPUR.
Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come
To end the one of us, and would to God
Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!
PRINCE.
I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee,
And all the budding honours on thy crest
I’ll crop to make a garland for my head.
HOTSPUR.
I can no longer brook thy vanities.
[_They fight._]
Enter Falstaff.
FALSTAFF.
Well said, Hal! To it, Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I
can tell you.
Enter Douglas. He fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were
dead, and exit Douglas. The Prince kills Hotspur.
HOTSPUR.
O Harry, thou hast robb’d me of my youth!
I better brook the loss of brittle life
Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;
They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh.
But thoughts, the slaves of life, and life, time’s fool,
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy,
But that the earthy and cold hand of death
Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust,
And food for—
[_Dies._]
PRINCE.
For worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart!
Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough. This earth that bears thee dead
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.
If thou wert sensible of courtesy,
I should not make so dear a show of zeal.
But let my favours hide thy mangled face;
And even in thy behalf I’ll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness.
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven!
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remember’d in thy epitaph!
[_Sees Falstaff on the ground._]
What, old acquaintance, could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!
I could have better spared a better man.
O, I should have a heavy miss of thee
If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a deer today,
Though many dearer, in this bloody fray.
Embowell’d will I see thee by and by,
Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.
[_Exit._]
Falstaff rises up.
FALSTAFF.
Embowell’d! If thou embowel me today, I’ll give you leave to powder me
and eat me too tomorrow. ’Sblood, ’twas time to counterfeit, or that
hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, I
am no counterfeit. To die, is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the
counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man: but to counterfeit
dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true
and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is
discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am
afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should
counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the
better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure, yea, and I’ll swear I
killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but
eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your
thigh, come you along with me.
[_Takes Hotspur on his back._]
Enter Prince Henry and Lancaster.
PRINCE.
Come, brother John, full bravely hast thou flesh’d
Thy maiden sword.
LANCASTER.
But soft, whom have we here?
Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?
PRINCE.
I did; I saw him dead,
Breathless and bleeding on the ground.—Art thou alive?
Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight?
I prithee, speak, we will not trust our eyes
Without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem’st.
FALSTAFF.
No, that’s certain, I am not a double man. But if I be not Jack
Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There is Percy! [_Throwing the body down._]
If your father will do me any honour, so; if not, let him kill the next
Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.
PRINCE.
Why, Percy I kill’d myself, and saw thee dead.
FALSTAFF.
Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I grant you I
was down and out of breath, and so was he, but we rose both at an
instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be
believed, so; if not, let them that should reward valour bear the sin
upon their own heads. I’ll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound
in the thigh. If the man were alive, and would deny it, zounds, I would
make him eat a piece of my sword.
LANCASTER.
This is the strangest tale that ever I heard.
PRINCE.
This is the strangest fellow, brother John.—
Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back.
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,
I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
[_A retreat is sounded._]
The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.
Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field,
To see what friends are living, who are dead.
[_Exeunt Prince Henry and Lancaster._]
FALSTAFF.
I’ll follow, as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward
him! If I do grow great, I’ll grow less, for I’ll purge, and leave
sack, and live cleanly as a nobleman should do.
[_Exit, bearing off the body._]
SCENE V. Another Part of the Field.
The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lancaster,
Westmoreland and others, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners.
KING.
Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.
Ill-spirited Worcester, did not we send grace,
Pardon, and terms of love to all of you?
And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary?
Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman’s trust?
Three knights upon our party slain today,
A noble earl, and many a creature else,
Had been alive this hour,
If, like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne
Betwixt our armies true intelligence.
WORCESTER.
What I have done my safety urged me to;
And I embrace this fortune patiently,
Since not to be avoided it falls on me.
KING.
Bear Worcester to the death, and Vernon too.
Other offenders we will pause upon.
[_Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded._]
How goes the field?
PRINCE.
The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw
The fortune of the day quite turn’d from him,
The noble Percy slain, and all his men
Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest,
And, falling from a hill, he was so bruised
That the pursuers took him. At my tent
The Douglas is, and I beseech your Grace
I may dispose of him.
KING.
With all my heart.
PRINCE.
Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you
This honourable bounty shall belong.
Go to the Douglas and deliver him
Up to his pleasure, ransomless and free.
His valours shown upon our crests today
Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds,
Even in the bosom of our adversaries.
LANCASTER.
I thank your Grace for this high courtesy,
Which I shall give away immediately.
KING.
Then this remains, that we divide our power.
You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland,
Towards York shall bend you with your dearest speed
To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop,
Who, as we hear, are busily in arms.
Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales,
To fight with Glendower and the Earl of March.
Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway,
Meeting the check of such another day,
And since this business so fair is done,
Let us not leave till all our own be won.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 59
|
ACT II
| null |
Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke.
BAPTISTA.
How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?
HORTENSIO.
For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.
BAPTISTA.
What, will my daughter prove a good musician?
HORTENSIO.
I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier:
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.
BAPTISTA.
Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?
HORTENSIO.
Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
’Frets, call you these?’ quoth she ‘I’ll fume with them’;
And with that word she struck me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way;
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute;
While she did call me rascal fiddler,
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,
As had she studied to misuse me so.
PETRUCHIO.
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!
I love her ten times more than e’er I did:
O! how I long to have some chat with her!
BAPTISTA.
[_To Hortensio_.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited;
Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;
She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,
Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?
PETRUCHIO.
I pray you do.
[_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio and Hortensio._]
I will attend her here,
And woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Say that she rail; why, then I’ll tell her plain
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:
Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash’d with dew:
Say she be mute, and will not speak a word;
Then I’ll commend her volubility,
And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:
If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks,
As though she bid me stay by her a week:
If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day
When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.
But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.
|
poem
| 60
|
ACT II
| null |
SCENE 1. (Athens. A garden, with a prison in the background.)
[Enter Iailor, and Wooer.]
IAILOR.
I may depart with little, while I live; some thing I may cast to you,
not much: Alas, the Prison I keepe, though it be for great ones, yet
they seldome come; Before one Salmon, you shall take a number of
Minnowes. I am given out to be better lyn'd then it can appeare to me
report is a true Speaker: I would I were really that I am deliverd to
be. Marry, what I have (be it what it will) I will assure upon my
daughter at the day of my death.
WOOER.
Sir, I demaund no more then your owne offer, and I will estate
your
Daughter in what I have promised.
IAILOR.
Wel, we will talke more of this, when the solemnity is past. But have
you a full promise of her? When that shall be seene, I tender my
consent.
[Enter Daughter.]
WOOER.
I have Sir; here shee comes.
IAILOR.
Your Friend and I have chanced to name you here, upon the old busines:
But no more of that now; so soone as the Court hurry is over, we will
have an end of it: I'th meane time looke tenderly to the two Prisoners.
I can tell you they are princes.
DAUGHTER.
These strewings are for their Chamber; tis pitty they are in prison,
and twer pitty they should be out: I doe thinke they have patience to
make any adversity asham'd; the prison it selfe is proud of 'em; and
they have all the world in their Chamber.
IAILOR.
They are fam'd to be a paire of absolute men.
DAUGHTER.
By my troth, I think Fame but stammers 'em; they stand a greise above
the reach of report.
IAILOR.
I heard them reported in the Battaile to be the only doers.
DAUGHTER.
Nay, most likely, for they are noble suffrers; I mervaile how they
would have lookd had they beene Victors, that with such a constant
Nobility enforce a freedome out of Bondage, making misery their Mirth,
and affliction a toy to jest at.
IAILOR.
Doe they so?
DAUGHTER.
It seemes to me they have no more sence of their Captivity, then I of
ruling Athens: they eate well, looke merrily, discourse of many things,
but nothing of their owne restraint, and disasters: yet sometime a
devided sigh, martyrd as 'twer i'th deliverance, will breake from one
of them; when the other presently gives it so sweete a rebuke, that I
could wish my selfe a Sigh to be so chid, or at least a Sigher to be
comforted.
WOOER.
I never saw 'em.
IAILOR.
The Duke himselfe came privately in the night,
[Enter Palamon, and Arcite, above.]
and so did they: what the reason of it is, I know not: Looke, yonder
they are! that's Arcite lookes out.
DAUGHTER.
No, Sir, no, that's Palamon: Arcite is the lower of the twaine; you may
perceive a part of him.
IAILOR.
Goe too, leave your pointing; they would not make us their object; out
of their sight.
DAUGHTER.
It is a holliday to looke on them: Lord, the diffrence of men!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 2. (The prison)
[Enter Palamon, and Arcite in prison.]
PALAMON.
How doe you, Noble Cosen?
ARCITE.
How doe you, Sir?
PALAMON.
Why strong inough to laugh at misery,
And beare the chance of warre, yet we are prisoners,
I feare, for ever, Cosen.
ARCITE.
I beleeve it,
And to that destiny have patiently
Laide up my houre to come.
PALAMON.
O Cosen Arcite,
Where is Thebs now? where is our noble Country?
Where are our friends, and kindreds? never more
Must we behold those comforts, never see
The hardy youthes strive for the Games of honour
(Hung with the painted favours of their Ladies,
Like tall Ships under saile) then start among'st 'em
And as an Eastwind leave 'en all behinde us,
Like lazy Clowdes, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg
Out-stript the peoples praises, won the Garlands,
Ere they have time to wish 'em ours. O never
Shall we two exercise, like Twyns of honour,
Our Armes againe, and feele our fyry horses
Like proud Seas under us: our good Swords now
(Better the red-eyd god of war nev'r wore)
Ravishd our sides, like age must run to rust,
And decke the Temples of those gods that hate us:
These hands shall never draw'em out like lightning,
To blast whole Armies more.
ARCITE.
No, Palamon,
Those hopes are Prisoners with us; here we are
And here the graces of our youthes must wither
Like a too-timely Spring; here age must finde us,
And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried;
The sweete embraces of a loving wife,
Loden with kisses, armd with thousand Cupids
Shall never claspe our neckes, no issue know us,
No figures of our selves shall we ev'r see,
To glad our age, and like young Eagles teach 'em
Boldly to gaze against bright armes, and say:
'Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.'
The faire-eyd Maides, shall weepe our Banishments,
And in their Songs, curse ever-blinded fortune,
Till shee for shame see what a wrong she has done
To youth and nature. This is all our world;
We shall know nothing here but one another,
Heare nothing but the Clocke that tels our woes.
The Vine shall grow, but we shall never see it:
Sommer shall come, and with her all delights;
But dead-cold winter must inhabite here still.
PALAMON.
Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban houndes,
That shooke the aged Forrest with their ecchoes,
No more now must we halloa, no more shake
Our pointed Iavelyns, whilst the angry Swine
Flyes like a parthian quiver from our rages,
Strucke with our well-steeld Darts: All valiant uses
(The foode, and nourishment of noble mindes,)
In us two here shall perish; we shall die
(Which is the curse of honour) lastly
Children of greife, and Ignorance.
ARCITE.
Yet, Cosen,
Even from the bottom of these miseries,
From all that fortune can inflict upon us,
I see two comforts rysing, two meere blessings,
If the gods please: to hold here a brave patience,
And the enjoying of our greefes together.
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish
If I thinke this our prison.
PALAMON.
Certeinly,
Tis a maine goodnes, Cosen, that our fortunes
Were twyn'd together; tis most true, two soules
Put in two noble Bodies—let 'em suffer
The gaule of hazard, so they grow together—
Will never sincke; they must not, say they could:
A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done.
ARCITE.
Shall we make worthy uses of this place
That all men hate so much?
PALAMON.
How, gentle Cosen?
ARCITE.
Let's thinke this prison holy sanctuary,
To keepe us from corruption of worse men.
We are young and yet desire the waies of honour,
That liberty and common Conversation,
The poyson of pure spirits, might like women
Wooe us to wander from. What worthy blessing
Can be but our Imaginations
May make it ours? And heere being thus together,
We are an endles mine to one another;
We are one anothers wife, ever begetting
New birthes of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance;
We are, in one another, Families,
I am your heire, and you are mine: This place
Is our Inheritance, no hard Oppressour
Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience,
We shall live long, and loving: No surfeits seeke us:
The hand of war hurts none here, nor the Seas
Swallow their youth: were we at liberty,
A wife might part us lawfully, or busines;
Quarrels consume us, Envy of ill men
Grave our acquaintance; I might sicken, Cosen,
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eies,
Or praiers to the gods: a thousand chaunces,
Were we from hence, would seaver us.
PALAMON.
You have made me
(I thanke you, Cosen Arcite) almost wanton
With my Captivity: what a misery
It is to live abroade, and every where!
Tis like a Beast, me thinkes: I finde the Court here—
I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures
That wooe the wils of men to vanity,
I see through now, and am sufficient
To tell the world, tis but a gaudy shaddow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.
What had we bin, old in the Court of Creon,
Where sin is Iustice, lust and ignorance
The vertues of the great ones! Cosen Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died as they doe, ill old men, unwept,
And had their Epitaphes, the peoples Curses:
Shall I say more?
ARCITE.
I would heare you still.
PALAMON.
Ye shall.
Is there record of any two that lov'd
Better then we doe, Arcite?
ARCITE.
Sure, there cannot.
PALAMON.
I doe not thinke it possible our friendship
Should ever leave us.
ARCITE.
Till our deathes it cannot;
[Enter Emilia and her woman (below).]
And after death our spirits shall be led
To those that love eternally. Speake on, Sir.
EMILIA.
This garden has a world of pleasures in't.
What Flowre is this?
WOMAN.
Tis calld Narcissus, Madam.
EMILIA.
That was a faire Boy, certaine, but a foole,
To love himselfe; were there not maides enough?
ARCITE.
Pray forward.
PALAMON.
Yes.
EMILIA.
Or were they all hard hearted?
WOMAN.
They could not be to one so faire.
EMILIA.
Thou wouldst not.
WOMAN.
I thinke I should not, Madam.
EMILIA.
That's a good wench:
But take heede to your kindnes though.
WOMAN.
Why, Madam?
EMILIA.
Men are mad things.
ARCITE.
Will ye goe forward, Cosen?
EMILIA.
Canst not thou worke such flowers in silke, wench?
WOMAN.
Yes.
EMILIA.
Ile have a gowne full of 'em, and of these;
This is a pretty colour, wilt not doe
Rarely upon a Skirt, wench?
WOMAN.
Deinty, Madam.
ARCITE.
Cosen, Cosen, how doe you, Sir? Why, Palamon?
PALAMON.
Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.
ARCITE.
Why whats the matter, Man?
PALAMON.
Behold, and wonder.
By heaven, shee is a Goddesse.
ARCITE.
Ha.
PALAMON.
Doe reverence. She is a Goddesse, Arcite.
EMILIA.
Of all Flowres, me thinkes a Rose is best.
WOMAN.
Why, gentle Madam?
EMILIA.
It is the very Embleme of a Maide.
For when the west wind courts her gently,
How modestly she blowes, and paints the Sun,
With her chaste blushes! When the North comes neere her,
Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity,
Shee lockes her beauties in her bud againe,
And leaves him to base briers.
WOMAN.
Yet, good Madam,
Sometimes her modesty will blow so far
She fals for't: a Mayde,
If shee have any honour, would be loth
To take example by her.
EMILIA.
Thou art wanton.
ARCITE.
She is wondrous faire.
PALAMON.
She is beauty extant.
EMILIA.
The Sun grows high, lets walk in: keep these flowers;
Weele see how neere Art can come neere their colours.
I am wondrous merry hearted, I could laugh now.
WOMAN.
I could lie downe, I am sure.
EMILIA.
And take one with you?
WOMAN.
That's as we bargaine, Madam.
EMILIA.
Well, agree then. [Exeunt Emilia and woman.]
PALAMON.
What thinke you of this beauty?
ARCITE.
Tis a rare one.
PALAMON.
Is't but a rare one?
ARCITE.
Yes, a matchles beauty.
PALAMON.
Might not a man well lose himselfe and love her?
ARCITE.
I cannot tell what you have done, I have;
Beshrew mine eyes for't: now I feele my Shackles.
PALAMON.
You love her, then?
ARCITE.
Who would not?
PALAMON.
And desire her?
ARCITE.
Before my liberty.
PALAMON.
I saw her first.
ARCITE.
That's nothing.
PALAMON.
But it shall be.
ARCITE.
I saw her too.
PALAMON.
Yes, but you must not love her.
ARCITE.
I will not as you doe, to worship her,
As she is heavenly, and a blessed Goddes;
I love her as a woman, to enjoy her:
So both may love.
PALAMON.
You shall not love at all.
ARCITE.
Not love at all!
Who shall deny me?
PALAMON.
I, that first saw her; I, that tooke possession
First with mine eyes of all those beauties
In her reveald to mankinde: if thou lou'st her,
Or entertain'st a hope to blast my wishes,
Thou art a Traytour, Arcite, and a fellow
False as thy Title to her: friendship, blood,
And all the tyes betweene us I disclaime,
If thou once thinke upon her.
ARCITE.
Yes, I love her,
And if the lives of all my name lay on it,
I must doe so; I love her with my soule:
If that will lose ye, farewell, Palamon;
I say againe, I love, and in loving her maintaine
I am as worthy and as free a lover,
And have as just a title to her beauty
As any Palamon or any living
That is a mans Sonne.
PALAMON.
Have I cald thee friend?
ARCITE.
Yes, and have found me so; why are you mov'd thus?
Let me deale coldly with you: am not I
Part of your blood, part of your soule? you have told me
That I was Palamon, and you were Arcite.
PALAMON.
Yes.
ARCITE.
Am not I liable to those affections,
Those joyes, greifes, angers, feares, my friend shall suffer?
PALAMON.
Ye may be.
ARCITE.
Why, then, would you deale so cunningly,
So strangely, so vnlike a noble kinesman,
To love alone? speake truely: doe you thinke me
Vnworthy of her sight?
PALAMON.
No; but unjust,
If thou pursue that sight.
ARCITE.
Because an other
First sees the Enemy, shall I stand still
And let mine honour downe, and never charge?
PALAMON.
Yes, if he be but one.
ARCITE.
But say that one
Had rather combat me?
PALAMON.
Let that one say so,
And use thy freedome; els if thou pursuest her,
Be as that cursed man that hates his Country,
A branded villaine.
ARCITE.
You are mad.
PALAMON.
I must be,
Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concernes me,
And in this madnes, if I hazard thee
And take thy life, I deale but truely.
ARCITE.
Fie, Sir,
You play the Childe extreamely: I will love her,
I must, I ought to doe so, and I dare;
And all this justly.
PALAMON.
O that now, that now
Thy false-selfe and thy friend had but this fortune,
To be one howre at liberty, and graspe
Our good Swords in our hands! I would quickly teach thee
What 'twer to filch affection from another:
Thou art baser in it then a Cutpurse;
Put but thy head out of this window more,
And as I have a soule, Ile naile thy life too't.
ARCITE.
Thou dar'st not, foole, thou canst not, thou art feeble.
Put my head out? Ile throw my Body out,
And leape the garden, when I see her next
[Enter Keeper.]
And pitch between her armes to anger thee.
PALAMON.
No more; the keeper's comming; I shall live
To knocke thy braines out with my Shackles.
ARCITE.
Doe.
KEEPER.
By your leave, Gentlemen—
PALAMON.
Now, honest keeper?
KEEPER.
Lord Arcite, you must presently to'th Duke;
The cause I know not yet.
ARCITE.
I am ready, keeper.
KEEPER.
Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you
Of your faire Cosens Company. [Exeunt Arcite, and Keeper.]
PALAMON.
And me too,
Even when you please, of life. Why is he sent for?
It may be he shall marry her; he's goodly,
And like enough the Duke hath taken notice
Both of his blood and body: But his falsehood!
Why should a friend be treacherous? If that
Get him a wife so noble, and so faire,
Let honest men ne're love againe. Once more
I would but see this faire One. Blessed Garden,
And fruite, and flowers more blessed, that still blossom
As her bright eies shine on ye! would I were,
For all the fortune of my life hereafter,
Yon little Tree, yon blooming Apricocke;
How I would spread, and fling my wanton armes
In at her window; I would bring her fruite
Fit for the Gods to feed on: youth and pleasure
Still as she tasted should be doubled on her,
And if she be not heavenly, I would make her
So neere the Gods in nature, they should feare her,
[Enter Keeper.]
And then I am sure she would love me. How now, keeper.
Wher's Arcite?
KEEPER.
Banishd: Prince Pirithous
Obtained his liberty; but never more
Vpon his oth and life must he set foote
Vpon this Kingdome.
PALAMON.
Hees a blessed man!
He shall see Thebs againe, and call to Armes
The bold yong men, that, when he bids 'em charge,
Fall on like fire: Arcite shall have a Fortune,
If he dare make himselfe a worthy Lover,
Yet in the Feild to strike a battle for her;
And if he lose her then, he's a cold Coward;
How bravely may he beare himselfe to win her
If he be noble Arcite—thousand waies.
Were I at liberty, I would doe things
Of such a vertuous greatnes, that this Lady,
This blushing virgine, should take manhood to her
And seeke to ravish me.
KEEPER.
My Lord for you
I have this charge too—
PALAMON.
To discharge my life?
KEEPER.
No, but from this place to remoove your Lordship:
The windowes are too open.
PALAMON.
Devils take 'em,
That are so envious to me! pre'thee kill me.
KEEPER.
And hang for't afterward.
PALAMON.
By this good light,
Had I a sword I would kill thee.
KEEPER.
Why, my Lord?
PALAMON.
Thou bringst such pelting scuruy news continually
Thou art not worthy life. I will not goe.
KEEPER.
Indeede, you must, my Lord.
PALAMON.
May I see the garden?
KEEPER.
Noe.
PALAMON.
Then I am resolud, I will not goe.
KEEPER.
I must constraine you then: and for you are dangerous,
Ile clap more yrons on you.
PALAMON.
Doe, good keeper.
Ile shake 'em so, ye shall not sleepe;
Ile make ye a new Morrisse: must I goe?
KEEPER.
There is no remedy.
PALAMON.
Farewell, kinde window.
May rude winde never hurt thee. O, my Lady,
If ever thou hast felt what sorrow was,
Dreame how I suffer. Come; now bury me. [Exeunt Palamon, and
Keeper.]
SCENE 3. (The country near Athens.
[Enter Arcite.]
ARCITE.
Banishd the kingdome? tis a benefit,
A mercy I must thanke 'em for, but banishd
The free enjoying of that face I die for,
Oh twas a studdied punishment, a death
Beyond Imagination: Such a vengeance
That, were I old and wicked, all my sins
Could never plucke upon me. Palamon,
Thou ha'st the Start now, thou shalt stay and see
Her bright eyes breake each morning gainst thy window,
And let in life into thee; thou shalt feede
Vpon the sweetenes of a noble beauty,
That nature nev'r exceeded, nor nev'r shall:
Good gods! what happines has Palamon!
Twenty to one, hee'le come to speake to her,
And if she be as gentle as she's faire,
I know she's his; he has a Tongue will tame
Tempests, and make the wild Rockes wanton.
Come what can come,
The worst is death; I will not leave the Kingdome.
I know mine owne is but a heape of ruins,
And no redresse there; if I goe, he has her.
I am resolu'd an other shape shall make me,
Or end my fortunes. Either way, I am happy:
Ile see her, and be neere her, or no more.
[Enter 4. Country people, & one with a garlond before them.]
1. COUNTREYMAN
My Masters, ile be there, that's certaine
2. COUNTREYMAN
And Ile be there.
3. COUNTREYMAN
And I.
4. COUNTREYMAN
Why, then, have with ye, Boyes; Tis but a chiding.
Let the plough play to day, ile tick'lt out
Of the Iades tailes to morrow.
1. COUNTREYMAN
I am sure
To have my wife as jealous as a Turkey:
But that's all one; ile goe through, let her mumble.
2. COUNTREYMAN
Clap her aboard to morrow night, and stoa her,
And all's made up againe.
3. COUNTREYMAN
I, doe but put a feskue in her fist, and you shall see her
Take a new lesson out, and be a good wench.
Doe we all hold against the Maying?
4. COUNTREYMAN
Hold? what should aile us?
3. COUNTREYMAN
Arcas will be there.
2. COUNTREYMAN
And Sennois.
And Rycas, and 3. better lads nev'r dancd
Under green Tree. And yee know what wenches: ha?
But will the dainty Domine, the Schoolemaster,
Keep touch, doe you thinke? for he do's all, ye know.
3. COUNTREYMAN
Hee'l eate a hornebooke ere he faile: goe too, the matter's too farre
driven betweene him and the Tanners daughter, to let slip now, and she
must see the Duke, and she must daunce too.
4. COUNTREYMAN
Shall we be lusty?
2. COUNTREYMAN
All the Boyes in Athens blow wind i'th breech on's, and heere ile be
and there ile be, for our Towne, and here againe, and there againe: ha,
Boyes, heigh for the weavers.
1. COUNTREYMAN
This must be done i'th woods.
4. COUNTREYMAN
O, pardon me.
2. COUNTREYMAN
By any meanes, our thing of learning saies so:
Where he himselfe will edifie the Duke
Most parlously in our behalfes: hees excellent i'th woods;
Bring him to'th plaines, his learning makes no cry.
3. COUNTREYMAN
Weele see the sports, then; every man to's Tackle:
And, Sweete Companions, lets rehearse by any meanes,
Before the Ladies see us, and doe sweetly,
And God knows what May come on't.
4. COUNTREYMAN
Content; the sports once ended, wee'l performe.
Away, Boyes and hold.
ARCITE.
By your leaves, honest friends: pray you, whither goe you?
4. COUNTREYMAN
Whither? why, what a question's that?
ARCITE.
Yes, tis a question, to me that know not.
3. COUNTREYMAN
To the Games, my Friend.
2. COUNTREYMAN
Where were you bred, you know it not?
ARCITE.
Not farre, Sir,
Are there such Games to day?
1. COUNTREYMAN
Yes, marry, are there:
And such as you neuer saw; The Duke himselfe
Will be in person there.
ARCITE.
What pastimes are they?
2. COUNTREYMAN
Wrastling, and Running.—Tis a pretty Fellow.
3. COUNTREYMAN
Thou wilt not goe along?
ARCITE.
Not yet, Sir.
4. COUNTREYMAN
Well, Sir,
Take your owne time: come, Boyes.
1. COUNTREYMAN
My minde misgives me;
This fellow has a veng'ance tricke o'th hip:
Marke how his Bodi's made for't
2. COUNTREYMAN
Ile be hangd, though,
If he dare venture; hang him, plumb porredge,
He wrastle? he rost eggs! Come, lets be gon, Lads. [Exeunt.]
ARCITE.
This is an offerd oportunity
I durst not wish for. Well I could have wrestled,
The best men calld it excellent, and run—
Swifter the winde upon a feild of Corne
(Curling the wealthy eares) never flew: Ile venture,
And in some poore disguize be there; who knowes
Whether my browes may not be girt with garlands?
And happines preferre me to a place,
Where I may ever dwell in sight of her. [Exit Arcite.]
SCENE 4. (Athens. A room in the prison.)
[Enter Iailors Daughter alone.]
DAUGHTER.
Why should I love this Gentleman? Tis odds
He never will affect me; I am base,
My Father the meane Keeper of his Prison,
And he a prince: To marry him is hopelesse;
To be his whore is witles. Out upon't,
What pushes are we wenches driven to,
When fifteene once has found us! First, I saw him;
I (seeing) thought he was a goodly man;
He has as much to please a woman in him,
(If he please to bestow it so) as ever
These eyes yet lookt on. Next, I pittied him,
And so would any young wench, o' my Conscience,
That ever dream'd, or vow'd her Maydenhead
To a yong hansom Man; Then I lov'd him,
Extreamely lov'd him, infinitely lov'd him;
And yet he had a Cosen, faire as he too.
But in my heart was Palamon, and there,
Lord, what a coyle he keepes! To heare him
Sing in an evening, what a heaven it is!
And yet his Songs are sad ones. Fairer spoken
Was never Gentleman. When I come in
To bring him water in a morning, first
He bowes his noble body, then salutes me, thus:
'Faire, gentle Mayde, good morrow; may thy goodnes
Get thee a happy husband.' Once he kist me.
I lov'd my lips the better ten daies after.
Would he would doe so ev'ry day! He greives much,
And me as much to see his misery.
What should I doe, to make him know I love him?
For I would faine enjoy him. Say I ventur'd
To set him free? what saies the law then? Thus much
For Law, or kindred! I will doe it,
And this night, or to morrow, he shall love me. [Exit.]
SCENE 5. (An open place in Athens.)
[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Pirithous, Emilia: Arcite with a
Garland, &c.]
[This short florish of Cornets and Showtes within.]
THESEUS.
You have done worthily; I have not seene,
Since Hercules, a man of tougher synewes;
What ere you are, you run the best, and wrastle,
That these times can allow.
ARCITE.
I am proud to please you.
THESEUS.
What Countrie bred you?
ARCITE.
This; but far off, Prince.
THESEUS.
Are you a Gentleman?
ARCITE.
My father said so;
And to those gentle uses gave me life.
THESEUS.
Are you his heire?
ARCITE.
His yongest, Sir.
THESEUS.
Your Father
Sure is a happy Sire then: what prooves you?
ARCITE.
A little of all noble Quallities:
I could have kept a Hawke, and well have holloa'd
To a deepe crie of Dogges; I dare not praise
My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew me
Would say it was my best peece: last, and greatest,
I would be thought a Souldier.
THESEUS.
You are perfect.
PERITHOUS.
Vpon my soule, a proper man.
EMILIA.
He is so.
PERITHOUS.
How doe you like him, Ladie?
HIPPOLITA.
I admire him;
I have not seene so yong a man so noble
(If he say true,) of his sort.
EMILIA.
Beleeve,
His mother was a wondrous handsome woman;
His face, me thinkes, goes that way.
HIPPOLITA.
But his Body
And firie minde illustrate a brave Father.
PERITHOUS.
Marke how his vertue, like a hidden Sun,
Breakes through his baser garments.
HIPPOLITA.
Hee's well got, sure.
THESEUS.
What made you seeke this place, Sir?
ARCITE.
Noble Theseus,
To purchase name, and doe my ablest service
To such a well-found wonder as thy worth,
For onely in thy Court, of all the world,
Dwells faire-eyd honor.
PERITHOUS.
All his words are worthy.
THESEUS.
Sir, we are much endebted to your travell,
Nor shall you loose your wish: Perithous,
Dispose of this faire Gentleman.
PERITHOUS.
Thankes, Theseus.
What ere you are y'ar mine, and I shall give you
To a most noble service, to this Lady,
This bright yong Virgin; pray, observe her goodnesse;
You have honourd hir faire birth-day with your vertues,
And as your due y'ar hirs: kisse her faire hand, Sir.
ARCITE.
Sir, y'ar a noble Giver: dearest Bewtie,
Thus let me seale my vowd faith: when your Servant
(Your most unworthie Creature) but offends you,
Command him die, he shall.
EMILIA.
That were too cruell.
If you deserve well, Sir, I shall soone see't:
Y'ar mine, and somewhat better than your rancke
Ile use you.
PERITHOUS.
Ile see you furnish'd, and because you say
You are a horseman, I must needs intreat you
This after noone to ride, but tis a rough one.
ARCITE.
I like him better, Prince, I shall not then
Freeze in my Saddle.
THESEUS.
Sweet, you must be readie,
And you, Emilia, and you, Friend, and all,
To morrow by the Sun, to doe observance
To flowry May, in Dians wood: waite well, Sir,
Vpon your Mistris. Emely, I hope
He shall not goe a foote.
EMILIA.
That were a shame, Sir,
While I have horses: take your choice, and what
You want at any time, let me but know it;
If you serve faithfully, I dare assure you
You'l finde a loving Mistris.
ARCITE.
If I doe not,
Let me finde that my Father ever hated,
Disgrace and blowes.
THESEUS.
Go, leade the way; you have won it:
It shall be so; you shall receave all dues
Fit for the honour you have won; Twer wrong else.
Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a Servant,
That, if I were a woman, would be Master,
But you are wise. [Florish.]
EMILIA.
I hope too wise for that, Sir. [Exeunt omnes.]
SCENE 6. (Before the prison.)
[Enter Iaylors Daughter alone.]
DAUGHTER.
Let all the Dukes, and all the divells rore,
He is at liberty: I have venturd for him,
And out I have brought him to a little wood
A mile hence. I have sent him, where a Cedar,
Higher than all the rest, spreads like a plane
Fast by a Brooke, and there he shall keepe close,
Till I provide him Fyles and foode, for yet
His yron bracelets are not off. O Love,
What a stout hearted child thou art! My Father
Durst better have indur'd cold yron, than done it:
I love him beyond love and beyond reason,
Or wit, or safetie: I have made him know it.
I care not, I am desperate; If the law
Finde me, and then condemne me for't, some wenches,
Some honest harted Maides, will sing my Dirge,
And tell to memory my death was noble,
Dying almost a Martyr: That way he takes,
I purpose is my way too: Sure he cannot
Be so unmanly, as to leave me here;
If he doe, Maides will not so easily
Trust men againe: And yet he has not thank'd me
For what I have done: no not so much as kist me,
And that (me thinkes) is not so well; nor scarcely
Could I perswade him to become a Freeman,
He made such scruples of the wrong he did
To me, and to my Father. Yet I hope,
When he considers more, this love of mine
Will take more root within him: Let him doe
What he will with me, so he use me kindly;
For use me so he shall, or ile proclaime him,
And to his face, no man. Ile presently
Provide him necessaries, and packe my cloathes up,
And where there is a patch of ground Ile venture,
So hee be with me; By him, like a shadow,
Ile ever dwell; within this houre the whoobub
Will be all ore the prison: I am then
Kissing the man they looke for: farewell, Father;
Get many more such prisoners and such daughters,
And shortly you may keepe yourselfe. Now to him!
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ACT IV
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Scene I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
Scene II. The Country near Dunsinane.
Scene III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
Scene IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view.
Scene V. Dunsinane. Within the castle.
Scene VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle.
Scene VII. The same. Another part of the Plain.
Scene VIII. The same. Another part of the field.
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ACT II
| null |
BENEDICK.
[_Aside_] I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded
fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such
reverence.
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| 63
|
ACT II
| null |
BEATRICE.
So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the
mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me
to seek.
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THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
67
Ah wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace it self with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek,
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins,
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains?
O him she stores, to show what wealth she had,
In days long since, before these last so bad.
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ACT IV
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Enter Gower.
GOWER.
Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre,
Welcomed and settled to his own desire.
His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus,
Unto Diana there a votaress.
Now to Marina bend your mind,
Whom our fast-growing scene must find
At Tarsus, and by Cleon train’d
In music’s letters; who hath gain’d
Of education all the grace,
Which makes her both the heart and place
Of general wonder. But, alack,
That monster envy, oft the wrack
Of earned praise, Marina’s life
Seeks to take off by treason’s knife,
And in this kind our Cleon hath
One daughter, and a full grown wench
Even ripe for marriage-rite; this maid
Hight Philoten: and it is said
For certain in our story, she
Would ever with Marina be.
Be’t when she weaved the sleided silk
With fingers long, small, white as milk;
Or when she would with sharp needle wound,
The cambric, which she made more sound
By hurting it; or when to th’ lute
She sung, and made the night-bird mute
That still records with moan; or when
She would with rich and constant pen
Vail to her mistress Dian; still
This Philoten contends in skill
With absolute Marina: so
The dove of Paphos might with the crow
Vie feathers white. Marina gets
All praises, which are paid as debts,
And not as given. This so darks
In Philoten all graceful marks,
That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare,
A present murderer does prepare
For good Marina, that her daughter
Might stand peerless by this slaughter.
The sooner her vile thoughts to stead,
Lychorida, our nurse, is dead:
And cursed Dionyza hath
The pregnant instrument of wrath
Prest for this blow. The unborn event
I do commend to your content:
Only I carry winged time
Post on the lame feet of my rhyme;
Which never could I so convey,
Unless your thoughts went on my way.
Dionyza does appear,
With Leonine, a murderer.
[_Exit._]
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ACT III
| null |
DOGBERRY.
Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I
cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your
bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses,
and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
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| 67
|
ACT IV
| null |
BEATRICE.
No; and he were, I would burn my study. But I pray you, who is
his companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a
voyage with him to the devil?
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| 68
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ACT IV
| null |
LEONATO.
There thou speak’st reason: nay, I will do so.
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied;
And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince,
And all of them that thus dishonour her.
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|
ACT III
| null |
DOGBERRY.
Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with
crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes,
will never answer a calf when he bleats.
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ACT IV
| null |
BEATRICE.
I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great
persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were
in a consumption.
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|
ACT II
| null |
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic’d flow’rs that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
CLOTEN.
So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the
better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and
calves’ guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.
[_Exeunt Musicians._]
Enter Cymbeline and Queen.
SECOND LORD.
Here comes the King.
CLOTEN.
I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason I was up so early. He
cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.—Good morrow
to your Majesty and to my gracious mother.
CYMBELINE.
Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?
CLOTEN.
I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice.
CYMBELINE.
The exile of her minion is too new;
She hath not yet forgot him; some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance on’t,
And then she’s yours.
QUEEN.
You are most bound to th’ King,
Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly solicits, and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Increase your services; so seem as if
You were inspir’d to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.
CLOTEN.
Senseless? Not so.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;
The one is Caius Lucius.
CYMBELINE.
A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
But that’s no fault of his. We must receive him
According to the honour of his sender;
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,
We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need
T’ employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.
[_Exeunt all but Cloten._]
CLOTEN.
If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho!
[_Knocks._]
I know her women are about her; what
If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold
Which buys admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes
Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up
Their deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer; and ’tis gold
Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief;
Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What
Can it not do and undo? I will make
One of her women lawyer to me, for
I yet not understand the case myself.
By your leave.
[_Knocks._]
Enter a Lady.
LADY.
Who’s there that knocks?
CLOTEN.
A gentleman.
LADY.
No more?
CLOTEN.
Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son.
LADY.
That’s more
Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours
Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?
CLOTEN.
Your lady’s person; is she ready?
LADY.
Ay,
To keep her chamber.
CLOTEN.
There is gold for you; sell me your good report.
LADY.
How? My good name? or to report of you
What I shall think is good? The Princess!
Enter Imogen.
CLOTEN.
Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand.
[_Exit Lady._]
IMOGEN.
Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.
CLOTEN.
Still I swear I love you.
IMOGEN.
If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me.
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.
CLOTEN.
This is no answer.
IMOGEN.
But that you shall not say I yield, being silent,
I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith,
I shall unfold equal discourtesy
To your best kindness; one of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, forbearance.
CLOTEN.
To leave you in your madness ’twere my sin;
I will not.
IMOGEN.
Fools are not mad folks.
CLOTEN.
Do you call me fool?
IMOGEN.
As I am mad, I do;
If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad;
That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady’s manners
By being so verbal; and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity
To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather
You felt than make’t my boast.
CLOTEN.
You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes,
With scraps o’ th’ court, it is no contract, none.
And though it be allowed in meaner parties
(Yet who than he more mean?) to knit their souls
(On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary) in self-figur’d knot,
Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by
The consequence o’ th’ crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth,
A pantler; not so eminent!
IMOGEN.
Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made
Comparative for your virtues to be styl’d
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
For being preferr’d so well.
CLOTEN.
The south fog rot him!
IMOGEN.
He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but nam’d of thee. His mean’st garment
That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!
Enter Pisanio.
CLOTEN.
‘His garment’! Now the devil—
IMOGEN.
To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.
CLOTEN.
‘His garment’!
IMOGEN.
I am sprited with a fool;
Frighted, and ang’red worse. Go bid my woman
Search for a jewel that too casually
Hath left mine arm. It was thy master’s; shrew me,
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king’s in Europe! I do think
I saw’t this morning; confident I am
Last night ’twas on mine arm; I kiss’d it.
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but he.
PISANIO.
’Twill not be lost.
IMOGEN.
I hope so. Go and search.
[_Exit Pisanio._]
CLOTEN.
You have abus’d me.
‘His meanest garment’!
IMOGEN.
Ay, I said so, sir.
If you will make ’t an action, call witness to ’t.
CLOTEN.
I will inform your father.
IMOGEN.
Your mother too.
She’s my good lady and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,
To th’ worst of discontent.
[_Exit._]
CLOTEN.
I’ll be reveng’d.
‘His mean’st garment’! Well.
[_Exit._]
SCENE IV. Rome. Philario’s house.
Enter Posthumus and Philario.
POSTHUMUS.
Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure
To win the King as I am bold her honour
Will remain hers.
PHILARIO.
What means do you make to him?
POSTHUMUS.
Not any; but abide the change of time,
Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish
That warmer days would come. In these fear’d hopes
I barely gratify your love; they failing,
I must die much your debtor.
PHILARIO.
Your very goodness and your company
O’erpays all I can do. By this your king
Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius
Will do’s commission throughly; and I think
He’ll grant the tribute, send th’ arrearages,
Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.
POSTHUMUS.
I do believe
Statist though I am none, nor like to be,
That this will prove a war; and you shall hear
The legions now in Gallia sooner landed
In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen
Are men more order’d than when Julius Cæsar
Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline,
Now mingled with their courages, will make known
To their approvers they are people such
That mend upon the world.
Enter Iachimo.
PHILARIO.
See! Iachimo!
POSTHUMUS.
The swiftest harts have posted you by land,
And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails,
To make your vessel nimble.
PHILARIO.
Welcome, sir.
POSTHUMUS.
I hope the briefness of your answer made
The speediness of your return.
IACHIMO.
Your lady
Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon.
POSTHUMUS.
And therewithal the best; or let her beauty
Look through a casement to allure false hearts,
And be false with them.
IACHIMO.
Here are letters for you.
POSTHUMUS.
Their tenour good, I trust.
IACHIMO.
’Tis very like.
PHILARIO.
Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court
When you were there?
IACHIMO.
He was expected then,
But not approach’d.
POSTHUMUS.
All is well yet.
Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is’t not
Too dull for your good wearing?
IACHIMO.
If I have lost it,
I should have lost the worth of it in gold.
I’ll make a journey twice as far t’ enjoy
A second night of such sweet shortness which
Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.
POSTHUMUS.
The stone’s too hard to come by.
IACHIMO.
Not a whit,
Your lady being so easy.
POSTHUMUS.
Make not, sir,
Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we
Must not continue friends.
IACHIMO.
Good sir, we must,
If you keep covenant. Had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant
We were to question farther; but I now
Profess myself the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her or you, having proceeded but
By both your wills.
POSTHUMUS.
If you can make’t apparent
That you have tasted her in bed, my hand
And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion
You had of her pure honour gains or loses
Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both
To who shall find them.
IACHIMO.
Sir, my circumstances,
Being so near the truth as I will make them,
Must first induce you to believe; whose strength
I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not
You’ll give me leave to spare when you shall find
You need it not.
POSTHUMUS.
Proceed.
IACHIMO.
First, her bedchamber,
(Where I confess I slept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching) it was hang’d
With tapestry of silk and silver; the story,
Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman
And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for
The press of boats or pride. A piece of work
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive
In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,
Since the true life on’t was—
POSTHUMUS.
This is true;
And this you might have heard of here, by me
Or by some other.
IACHIMO.
More particulars
Must justify my knowledge.
POSTHUMUS.
So they must,
Or do your honour injury.
IACHIMO.
The chimney
Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece
Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures
So likely to report themselves. The cutter
Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her,
Motion and breath left out.
POSTHUMUS.
This is a thing
Which you might from relation likewise reap,
Being, as it is, much spoke of.
IACHIMO.
The roof o’ th’ chamber
With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons
(I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids
Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely
Depending on their brands.
POSTHUMUS.
This is her honour!
Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise
Be given to your remembrance; the description
Of what is in her chamber nothing saves
The wager you have laid.
IACHIMO.
Then, if you can, [_Shows the bracelet_]
Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See!
And now ’tis up again. It must be married
To that your diamond; I’ll keep them.
POSTHUMUS.
Jove!
Once more let me behold it. Is it that
Which I left with her?
IACHIMO.
Sir (I thank her) that.
She stripp’d it from her arm; I see her yet;
Her pretty action did outsell her gift,
And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me, and said
She priz’d it once.
POSTHUMUS.
May be she pluck’d it of
To send it me.
IACHIMO.
She writes so to you, doth she?
POSTHUMUS.
O, no, no, no! ’tis true. Here, take this too;
[_Gives the ring._]
It is a basilisk unto mine eye,
Kills me to look on’t. Let there be no honour
Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love
Where there’s another man. The vows of women
Of no more bondage be to where they are made
Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing.
O, above measure false!
PHILARIO.
Have patience, sir,
And take your ring again; ’tis not yet won.
It may be probable she lost it, or
Who knows if one her women, being corrupted
Hath stol’n it from her?
POSTHUMUS.
Very true;
And so I hope he came by’t. Back my ring.
Render to me some corporal sign about her,
More evident than this; for this was stol’n.
IACHIMO.
By Jupiter, I had it from her arm!
POSTHUMUS.
Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears.
’Tis true, nay, keep the ring, ’tis true. I am sure
She would not lose it. Her attendants are
All sworn and honourable:—they induc’d to steal it!
And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy’d her.
The cognizance of her incontinency
Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly.
There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell
Divide themselves between you!
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poem
| 72
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ACT III
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SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting.
A crowd of people in the street leading to the Capitol. Flourish.
Enter Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius,
Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Artemidorus, Publius, Popilius and the
Soothsayer.
CAESAR.
The Ides of March are come.
SOOTHSAYER.
Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
ARTEMIDORUS.
Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule.
DECIUS.
Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read,
At your best leisure, this his humble suit.
ARTEMIDORUS.
O Caesar, read mine first; for mine’s a suit
That touches Caesar nearer. Read it, great Caesar.
CAESAR.
What touches us ourself shall be last serv’d.
ARTEMIDORUS.
Delay not, Caesar. Read it instantly.
CAESAR.
What, is the fellow mad?
PUBLIUS.
Sirrah, give place.
CASSIUS.
What, urge you your petitions in the street?
Come to the Capitol.
Caesar enters the Capitol, the rest following. All the Senators rise.
POPILIUS.
I wish your enterprise today may thrive.
CASSIUS.
What enterprise, Popilius?
POPILIUS.
Fare you well.
[_Advances to Caesar._]
BRUTUS.
What said Popilius Lena?
CASSIUS.
He wish’d today our enterprise might thrive.
I fear our purpose is discovered.
BRUTUS.
Look how he makes to Caesar: mark him.
CASSIUS.
Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention.
Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known,
Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back,
For I will slay myself.
BRUTUS.
Cassius, be constant:
Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes;
For look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.
CASSIUS.
Trebonius knows his time, for look you, Brutus,
He draws Mark Antony out of the way.
[_Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. Caesar and the Senators take their
seats._]
DECIUS.
Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go,
And presently prefer his suit to Caesar.
BRUTUS.
He is address’d; press near and second him.
CINNA.
Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.
CAESAR.
Are we all ready? What is now amiss
That Caesar and his Senate must redress?
METELLUS.
Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar,
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat
An humble heart.
[_Kneeling._]
CAESAR.
I must prevent thee, Cimber.
These couchings and these lowly courtesies
Might fire the blood of ordinary men,
And turn pre-ordinance and first decree
Into the law of children. Be not fond,
To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood
That will be thaw’d from the true quality
With that which melteth fools; I mean sweet words,
Low-crooked curtsies, and base spaniel fawning.
Thy brother by decree is banished:
If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn for him,
I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.
Know, Caesar dost not wrong, nor without cause
Will he be satisfied.
METELLUS.
Is there no voice more worthy than my own,
To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear
For the repealing of my banish’d brother?
BRUTUS.
I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar;
Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may
Have an immediate freedom of repeal.
CAESAR.
What, Brutus?
CASSIUS.
Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon:
As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall,
To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.
CAESAR.
I could be well mov’d, if I were as you;
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:
But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks,
They are all fire, and every one doth shine;
But there’s but one in all doth hold his place.
So in the world; ’tis furnish’d well with men,
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;
Yet in the number I do know but one
That unassailable holds on his rank,
Unshak’d of motion: and that I am he,
Let me a little show it, even in this,
That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d,
And constant do remain to keep him so.
CINNA.
O Caesar,—
CAESAR.
Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus?
DECIUS.
Great Caesar,—
CAESAR.
Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?
CASCA.
Speak, hands, for me!
[_Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. Caesar catches hold of his arm. He
is then stabbed by several other Conspirators, and at last by Marcus
Brutus._]
CAESAR.
_Et tu, Brute?_—Then fall, Caesar!
[_Dies. The Senators and People retire in confusion._]
CINNA.
Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.
CASSIUS.
Some to the common pulpits and cry out,
“Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!”
BRUTUS.
People and Senators, be not affrighted.
Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid.
CASCA.
Go to the pulpit, Brutus.
DECIUS.
And Cassius too.
BRUTUS.
Where’s Publius?
CINNA.
Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.
METELLUS.
Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar’s
Should chance—
BRUTUS.
Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer!
There is no harm intended to your person,
Nor to no Roman else. So tell them, Publius.
CASSIUS.
And leave us, Publius; lest that the people
Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.
BRUTUS.
Do so; and let no man abide this deed
But we the doers.
Enter Trebonius.
CASSIUS.
Where’s Antony?
TREBONIUS.
Fled to his house amaz’d.
Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and run,
As it were doomsday.
BRUTUS.
Fates, we will know your pleasures.
That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time
And drawing days out, that men stand upon.
CASCA.
Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life
Cuts off so many years of fearing death.
BRUTUS.
Grant that, and then is death a benefit:
So are we Caesar’s friends, that have abridg’d
His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop,
And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood
Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords:
Then walk we forth, even to the market-place,
And waving our red weapons o’er our heads,
Let’s all cry, “Peace, freedom, and liberty!”
CASSIUS.
Stoop then, and wash. How many ages hence
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over
In States unborn, and accents yet unknown!
BRUTUS.
How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport,
That now on Pompey’s basis lies along,
No worthier than the dust!
CASSIUS.
So oft as that shall be,
So often shall the knot of us be call’d
The men that gave their country liberty.
DECIUS.
What, shall we forth?
CASSIUS.
Ay, every man away.
Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels
With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.
Enter a Servant.
BRUTUS.
Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony’s.
SERVANT.
Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel;
Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down;
And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say:
Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest;
Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving;
Say I love Brutus and I honour him;
Say I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him, and lov’d him.
If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony
May safely come to him, and be resolv’d
How Caesar hath deserv’d to lie in death,
Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead
So well as Brutus living; but will follow
The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus
Thorough the hazards of this untrod state,
With all true faith. So says my master Antony.
BRUTUS.
Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman;
I never thought him worse.
Tell him, so please him come unto this place,
He shall be satisfied and, by my honour,
Depart untouch’d.
SERVANT.
I’ll fetch him presently.
[_Exit._]
BRUTUS.
I know that we shall have him well to friend.
CASSIUS.
I wish we may: but yet have I a mind
That fears him much; and my misgiving still
Falls shrewdly to the purpose.
Enter Antony.
BRUTUS.
But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony.
ANTONY.
O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low?
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well.
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend,
Who else must be let blood, who else is rank:
If I myself, there is no hour so fit
As Caesar’s death’s hour; nor no instrument
Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich
With the most noble blood of all this world.
I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,
Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,
Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years,
I shall not find myself so apt to die.
No place will please me so, no means of death,
As here by Caesar, and by you cut off,
The choice and master spirits of this age.
BRUTUS.
O Antony, beg not your death of us.
Though now we must appear bloody and cruel,
As by our hands and this our present act
You see we do; yet see you but our hands
And this the bleeding business they have done.
Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful;
And pity to the general wrong of Rome—
As fire drives out fire, so pity pity—
Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part,
To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony;
Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts
Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in
With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.
CASSIUS.
Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s
In the disposing of new dignities.
BRUTUS.
Only be patient till we have appeas’d
The multitude, beside themselves with fear,
And then we will deliver you the cause
Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him,
Have thus proceeded.
ANTONY.
I doubt not of your wisdom.
Let each man render me his bloody hand.
First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you;
Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand.
Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus;
Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours;
Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius.
Gentlemen all—alas, what shall I say?
My credit now stands on such slippery ground,
That one of two bad ways you must conceit me,
Either a coward or a flatterer.
That I did love thee, Caesar, O, ’tis true:
If then thy spirit look upon us now,
Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death,
To see thy Antony making his peace,
Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,
Most noble, in the presence of thy corse?
Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds,
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood,
It would become me better than to close
In terms of friendship with thine enemies.
Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart;
Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,
Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe.
O world, thou wast the forest to this hart;
And this indeed, O world, the heart of thee.
How like a deer strucken by many princes,
Dost thou here lie!
CASSIUS.
Mark Antony,—
ANTONY.
Pardon me, Caius Cassius:
The enemies of Caesar shall say this;
Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty.
CASSIUS.
I blame you not for praising Caesar so;
But what compact mean you to have with us?
Will you be prick’d in number of our friends,
Or shall we on, and not depend on you?
ANTONY.
Therefore I took your hands; but was indeed
Sway’d from the point, by looking down on Caesar.
Friends am I with you all, and love you all,
Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons
Why, and wherein, Caesar was dangerous.
BRUTUS.
Or else were this a savage spectacle.
Our reasons are so full of good regard
That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar,
You should be satisfied.
ANTONY.
That’s all I seek,
And am moreover suitor that I may
Produce his body to the market-place;
And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend,
Speak in the order of his funeral.
BRUTUS.
You shall, Mark Antony.
CASSIUS.
Brutus, a word with you.
[_Aside to Brutus._] You know not what you do. Do not consent
That Antony speak in his funeral.
Know you how much the people may be mov’d
By that which he will utter?
BRUTUS.
[_Aside to Cassius._] By your pardon:
I will myself into the pulpit first,
And show the reason of our Caesar’s death.
What Antony shall speak, I will protest
He speaks by leave and by permission;
And that we are contented Caesar shall
Have all true rights and lawful ceremonies.
It shall advantage more than do us wrong.
CASSIUS.
[_Aside to Brutus._] I know not what may fall; I like it not.
BRUTUS.
Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar’s body.
You shall not in your funeral speech blame us,
But speak all good you can devise of Caesar,
And say you do’t by our permission;
Else shall you not have any hand at all
About his funeral. And you shall speak
In the same pulpit whereto I am going,
After my speech is ended.
ANTONY.
Be it so;
I do desire no more.
BRUTUS.
Prepare the body, then, and follow us.
[_Exeunt all but Antony._]
ANTONY.
O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers.
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
Which, like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quartered with the hands of war;
All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from Hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice
Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.
Enter a Servant.
You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not?
SERVANT.
I do, Mark Antony.
ANTONY.
Caesar did write for him to come to Rome.
SERVANT.
He did receive his letters, and is coming,
And bid me say to you by word of mouth,—
[_Seeing the body._] O Caesar!
ANTONY.
Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep.
Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes,
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,
Began to water. Is thy master coming?
SERVANT.
He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome.
ANTONY.
Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc’d.
Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,
No Rome of safety for Octavius yet.
Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile;
Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse
Into the market-place: there shall I try,
In my oration, how the people take
The cruel issue of these bloody men;
According to the which thou shalt discourse
To young Octavius of the state of things.
Lend me your hand.
[_Exeunt with Caesar’s body._]
SCENE II. The same. The Forum.
Enter Brutus and goes into the pulpit, and Cassius, with a throng of
Citizens.
CITIZENS.
We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied.
BRUTUS.
Then follow me, and give me audience, friends.
Cassius, go you into the other street
And part the numbers.
Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here;
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him;
And public reasons shall be rendered
Of Caesar’s death.
FIRST CITIZEN.
I will hear Brutus speak.
SECOND CITIZEN.
I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons,
When severally we hear them rendered.
[_Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes into the
rostrum._]
THIRD CITIZEN.
The noble Brutus is ascended: silence!
BRUTUS.
Be patient till the last.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause; and be silent,
that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine
honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your
senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this
assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love
to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus
rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less,
but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die
all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesar
loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he
was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There
is tears, for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and
death, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman?
If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would
not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so
vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I
offended. I pause for a reply.
CITIZENS.
None, Brutus, none.
BRUTUS.
Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shall
do to Brutus. The question of his death is enroll’d in the Capitol, his
glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforc’d,
for which he suffered death.
Enter Antony and others, with Caesar’s body.
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand
in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the
commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, that, as I
slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for
myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.
CITIZENS.
Live, Brutus! live, live!
FIRST CITIZEN.
Bring him with triumph home unto his house.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Give him a statue with his ancestors.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Let him be Caesar.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Caesar’s better parts
Shall be crown’d in Brutus.
FIRST CITIZEN.
We’ll bring him to his house with shouts and clamours.
BRUTUS.
My countrymen,—
SECOND CITIZEN.
Peace! Silence! Brutus speaks.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Peace, ho!
BRUTUS.
Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony.
Do grace to Caesar’s corpse, and grace his speech
Tending to Caesar’s glories, which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allow’d to make.
I do entreat you, not a man depart,
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke.
[_Exit._]
FIRST CITIZEN.
Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Let him go up into the public chair.
We’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.
ANTONY.
For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you.
[_Goes up._]
FOURTH CITIZEN.
What does he say of Brutus?
THIRD CITIZEN.
He says, for Brutus’ sake
He finds himself beholding to us all.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here!
FIRST CITIZEN.
This Caesar was a tyrant.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Nay, that’s certain.
We are blest that Rome is rid of him.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Peace! let us hear what Antony can say.
ANTONY.
You gentle Romans,—
CITIZENS.
Peace, ho! let us hear him.
ANTONY.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,
For Brutus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men,
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And sure he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me.
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.
SECOND CITIZEN.
If thou consider rightly of the matter,
Caesar has had great wrong.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Has he, masters?
I fear there will a worse come in his place.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown;
Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious.
FIRST CITIZEN.
If it be found so, some will dear abide it.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Poor soul, his eyes are red as fire with weeping.
THIRD CITIZEN.
There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Now mark him; he begins again to speak.
ANTONY.
But yesterday the word of Caesar might
Have stood against the world; now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters! If I were dispos’d to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men.
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar,
I found it in his closet; ’tis his will:
Let but the commons hear this testament,
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy
Unto their issue.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
We’ll hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony.
CITIZENS.
The will, the will! We will hear Caesar’s will.
ANTONY.
Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it.
It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And being men, hearing the will of Caesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
For if you should, O, what would come of it?
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Read the will! We’ll hear it, Antony;
You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will!
ANTONY.
Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?
I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it.
I fear I wrong the honourable men
Whose daggers have stabb’d Caesar; I do fear it.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
They were traitors. Honourable men!
CITIZENS.
The will! The testament!
SECOND CITIZEN.
They were villains, murderers. The will! Read the will!
ANTONY.
You will compel me then to read the will?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
CITIZENS.
Come down.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Descend.
[_He comes down._]
THIRD CITIZEN.
You shall have leave.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
A ring! Stand round.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Stand from the hearse, stand from the body.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Room for Antony, most noble Antony!
ANTONY.
Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
CITIZENS.
Stand back; room! bear back.
ANTONY.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle. I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on;
’Twas on a Summer’s evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii.
Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;
And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel.
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him.
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;
And in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statue
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.
O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity. These are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold
Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors.
FIRST CITIZEN.
O piteous spectacle!
SECOND CITIZEN.
O noble Caesar!
THIRD CITIZEN.
O woeful day!
FOURTH CITIZEN.
O traitors, villains!
FIRST CITIZEN.
O most bloody sight!
SECOND CITIZEN.
We will be revenged.
CITIZENS.
Revenge,—about,—seek,—burn,—fire,—kill,—slay,—let not a traitor live!
ANTONY.
Stay, countrymen.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Peace there! Hear the noble Antony.
SECOND CITIZEN.
We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him.
ANTONY.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable.
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it. They’re wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts.
I am no orator, as Brutus is;
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on.
I tell you that which you yourselves do know,
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
CITIZENS.
We’ll mutiny.
FIRST CITIZEN.
We’ll burn the house of Brutus.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.
ANTONY.
Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.
CITIZENS.
Peace, ho! Hear Antony; most noble Antony.
ANTONY.
Why, friends, you go to do you know not what.
Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves?
Alas, you know not; I must tell you then.
You have forgot the will I told you of.
CITIZENS.
Most true; the will!—let’s stay, and hear the will.
ANTONY.
Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal.
To every Roman citizen he gives,
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge his death.
THIRD CITIZEN.
O, royal Caesar!
ANTONY.
Hear me with patience.
CITIZENS.
Peace, ho!
ANTONY.
Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs forever; common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Caesar! when comes such another?
FIRST CITIZEN.
Never, never. Come, away, away!
We’ll burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses.
Take up the body.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Go, fetch fire.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Pluck down benches.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Pluck down forms, windows, anything.
[_Exeunt Citizens, with the body._]
ANTONY.
Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,
Take thou what course thou wilt!
Enter a Servant.
How now, fellow?
SERVANT.
Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.
ANTONY.
Where is he?
SERVANT.
He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house.
ANTONY.
And thither will I straight to visit him.
He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry,
And in this mood will give us anything.
SERVANT.
I heard him say Brutus and Cassius
Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.
ANTONY.
Belike they had some notice of the people,
How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. The same. A street.
Enter Cinna, the poet, and after him the citizens.
CINNA.
I dreamt tonight that I did feast with Caesar,
And things unluckily charge my fantasy.
I have no will to wander forth of doors,
Yet something leads me forth.
FIRST CITIZEN.
What is your name?
SECOND CITIZEN.
Whither are you going?
THIRD CITIZEN.
Where do you dwell?
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Are you a married man or a bachelor?
SECOND CITIZEN.
Answer every man directly.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Ay, and briefly.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Ay, and wisely.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Ay, and truly, you were best.
CINNA.
What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married
man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly,
wisely and truly. Wisely I say I am a bachelor.
SECOND CITIZEN.
That’s as much as to say they are fools that marry; you’ll bear me a
bang for that, I fear. Proceed, directly.
CINNA.
Directly, I am going to Caesar’s funeral.
FIRST CITIZEN.
As a friend, or an enemy?
CINNA.
As a friend.
SECOND CITIZEN.
That matter is answered directly.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
For your dwelling, briefly.
CINNA.
Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Your name, sir, truly.
CINNA.
Truly, my name is Cinna.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Tear him to pieces! He’s a conspirator.
CINNA.
I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses.
CINNA.
I am not Cinna the conspirator.
FOURTH CITIZEN.
It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart,
and turn him going.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Tear him, tear him! Come; brands, ho! firebrands. To Brutus’, to
Cassius’; burn all. Some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s, some to
Ligarius’. Away, go!
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 73
|
ACT III
| null |
Flourish. Enter Chorus.
CHORUS.
Thus with imagin’d wing our swift scene flies,
In motion of no less celerity
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen
The well-appointed king at Hampton pier
Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet
With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning.
Play with your fancies; and in them behold
Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;
Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give
To sounds confus’d; behold the threaden sails,
Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,
Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think
You stand upon the rivage and behold
A city on the inconstant billows dancing;
For so appears this fleet majestical,
Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow!
Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,
And leave your England, as dead midnight still,
Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women,
Either past or not arriv’d to pith and puissance.
For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d
With one appearing hair, that will not follow
These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;
Behold the ordnance on their carriages,
With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.
Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back,
Tells Harry that the King doth offer him
Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry,
Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms.
The offer likes not; and the nimble gunner
With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,
[_Alarum, and chambers go off._]
And down goes all before them. Still be kind,
And eke out our performance with your mind.
[_Exit._]
SCENE I. France. Before Harfleur.
Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester and Soldiers,
with scaling-ladders.
KING HENRY.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as does a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot!
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry, “God for Harry! England and Saint George!”
[_Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off._]
SCENE II. The same.
Enter Nym, Bardolph, Pistol and Boy.
BARDOLPH.
On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach!
NYM.
Pray thee, corporal, stay. The knocks are too hot; and, for mine own
part, I have not a case of lives. The humour of it is too hot; that is
the very plain-song of it.
PISTOL.
The plain-song is most just, for humours do abound.
Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die;
And sword and shield,
In bloody field,
Doth win immortal fame.
BOY.
Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a
pot of ale and safety.
PISTOL.
And I.
If wishes would prevail with me,
My purpose should not fail with me,
But thither would I hie.
BOY.
As duly,
But not as truly,
As bird doth sing on bough.
Enter Fluellen.
FLUELLEN.
Up to the breach, you dogs! Avaunt, you cullions!
[_Driving them forward._]
PISTOL.
Be merciful, great Duke, to men of mould.
Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage,
Abate thy rage, great Duke!
Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!
NYM.
These be good humours! Your honour wins bad humours.
[_Exeunt all but Boy._]
BOY.
As young as I am, I have observ’d these three swashers. I am boy to
them all three; but all they three, though they would serve me, could
not be man to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man.
For Bardolph, he is white-liver’d and red-fac’d; by the means whereof
’a faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue
and a quiet sword; by the means whereof ’a breaks words, and keeps
whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the
best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest ’a should be
thought a coward. But his few bad words are match’d with as few good
deeds; for ’a never broke any man’s head but his own, and that was
against a post when he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it
purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold
it for three half-pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in
filching, and in Calais they stole a fire-shovel. I knew by that piece
of service the men would carry coals. They would have me as familiar
with men’s pockets as their gloves or their handkerchers; which makes
much against my manhood, if I should take from another’s pocket to put
into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them,
and seek some better service. Their villainy goes against my weak
stomach, and therefore I must cast it up.
[_Exit._]
Enter Gower and Fluellen.
GOWER.
Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines.
The Duke of Gloucester would speak with you.
FLUELLEN.
To the mines! Tell you the Duke, it is not so good to come to the
mines; for, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of
the war. The concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you, the
athversary, you may discuss unto the Duke, look you, is digt himself
four yard under the countermines. By Cheshu, I think ’a will plow up
all, if there is not better directions.
GOWER.
The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is
altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i’ faith.
FLUELLEN.
It is Captain Macmorris, is it not?
GOWER.
I think it be.
FLUELLEN.
By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world. I will verify as much in his
beard. He has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars,
look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.
Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy.
GOWER.
Here ’a comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him.
FLUELLEN.
Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gentleman, that is certain; and
of great expedition and knowledge in the anchient wars, upon my
particular knowledge of his directions. By Cheshu, he will maintain his
argument as well as any military man in the world, in the disciplines
of the pristine wars of the Romans.
JAMY.
I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen.
FLUELLEN.
God-den to your worship, good Captain James.
GOWER.
How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines?
Have the pioneers given o’er?
MACMORRIS.
By Chrish, la! ’tish ill done! The work ish give over, the trompet
sound the retreat. By my hand I swear, and my father’s soul, the work
ish ill done; it ish give over. I would have blowed up the town, so
Chrish save me, la! in an hour. O, ’tish ill done, ’tish ill done; by
my hand, ’tish ill done!
FLUELLEN.
Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a
few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the
disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument, look
you, and friendly communication; partly to satisfy my opinion, and
partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as touching the
direction of the military discipline; that is the point.
JAMY.
It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath: and I sall quit you
with gud leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry.
MACMORRIS.
It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me. The day is hot, and the
weather, and the wars, and the King, and the Dukes. It is no time to
discourse. The town is beseech’d, and the trumpet call us to the
breach, and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing. ’Tis shame for us all.
So God sa’ me, ’tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand; and
there is throats to be cut, and works to be done; and there ish nothing
done, so Chrish sa’ me, la!
JAMY.
By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, I’ll
de gud service, or I’ll lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go to death;
and I’ll pay’t as valorously as I may, that sall I suerly do, that is
the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full fain heard some question
’tween you tway.
FLUELLEN.
Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is
not many of your nation—
MACMORRIS.
Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a
knave, and a rascal? What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation?
FLUELLEN.
Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Captain
Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that
affability as in discretion you ought to use me, look you, being as
good a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of war, and in the
derivation of my birth, and in other particularities.
MACMORRIS.
I do not know you so good a man as myself. So Chrish save me,
I will cut off your head.
GOWER.
Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.
JAMY.
Ah! that’s a foul fault.
[_A parley sounded._]
GOWER.
The town sounds a parley.
FLUELLEN.
Captain Macmorris, when there is more better opportunity to be
required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you I know the
disciplines of war; and there is an end.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III. Before the gates.
The Governor and some citizens on the walls; the English forces below.
Enter King Henry and his train.
KING HENRY.
How yet resolves the governor of the town?
This is the latest parle we will admit;
Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves,
Or like to men proud of destruction
Defy us to our worst; for, as I am a soldier,
A name that in my thoughts becomes me best,
If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur
Till in her ashes she lie buried.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand shall range
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass
Your fresh fair virgins and your flow’ring infants.
What is it then to me, if impious War,
Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends,
Do with his smirch’d complexion all fell feats
Enlink’d to waste and desolation?
What is’t to me, when you yourselves are cause,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand
Of hot and forcing violation?
What rein can hold licentious wickedness
When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil
As send precepts to the leviathan
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,
Take pity of your town and of your people,
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command,
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy.
If not, why, in a moment look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;
Your fathers taken by the silver beards,
And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls;
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus’d
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry
At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
What say you? Will you yield, and this avoid,
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?
GOVERNOR.
Our expectation hath this day an end.
The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated,
Returns us that his powers are yet not ready
To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great King,
We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.
Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours;
For we no longer are defensible.
KING HENRY.
Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter,
Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,
And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French.
Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle,
The winter coming on, and sickness growing
Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais.
Tonight in Harfleur will we be your guest;
Tomorrow for the march are we addrest.
Flourish. The King and his train enter the town.
SCENE IV. The French King’s palace.
Enter Katharine and Alice, an old Gentlewoman.
KATHARINE.
_Alice, tu as été en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage._
ALICE.
_Un peu, madame._
KATHARINE.
_Je te prie, m’enseignez; il faut que j’apprenne à parler.
Comment appelez-vous la main en anglais?_
ALICE.
_La main? Elle est appelée_ de hand.
KATHARINE.
De hand. _Et les doigts?_
ALICE.
_Les doigts? Ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les
doigts? Je pense qu’ils sont appelés_ de fingres; _oui_, de fingres.
KATHARINE.
_La main_, de hand; _les doigts_, de fingres. _Je pense que je suis le
bon écolier; j’ai gagné deux mots d’anglais vitement. Comment
appelez-vous les ongles?_
ALICE.
_Les ongles? Nous les appelons_ de nails.
KATHARINE.
De nails. _Écoutez; dites-moi, si je parle bien:_ de hand, de fingres,
_et_ de nails.
ALICE.
_C’est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon anglais._
KATHARINE.
_Dites-moi l’anglais pour le bras._
ALICE.
De arm, _madame._
KATHARINE.
_Et le coude?_
ALICE.
D’elbow.
KATHARINE.
D’elbow. _Je m’en fais la répétition de tous les mots que vous m’avez
appris dès à présent._
ALICE.
_Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense._
KATHARINE.
_Excusez-moi, Alice. Écoutez:_ d’hand, de fingres, de nails, d’arm, de
bilbow.
ALICE.
D’elbow, _madame._
KATHARINE.
_O Seigneur Dieu, je m’en oublie!_ D’elbow.
_Comment appelez-vous le col?_
ALICE.
De nick, _madame._
KATHARINE.
De nick. _Et le menton?_
ALICE.
De chin.
KATHARINE.
De sin. _Le col_, de nick; _le menton_, de sin.
ALICE.
_Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en vérité, vous prononcez les mots aussi
droit que les natifs d’Angleterre._
KATHARINE.
_Je ne doute point d’apprendre, par la grâce de Dieu, et en peu de
temps._
ALICE.
_N’avez-vous pas déjà oublié ce que je vous ai enseigné?_
KATHARINE.
_Non, je réciterai à vous promptement:_ d’hand, de fingres, de mails,—
ALICE.
De nails, _madame._
KATHARINE.
De nails, de arm, de ilbow.
ALICE.
_Sauf votre honneur_, de elbow.
KATHARINE.
_Ainsi dis-je_, d’elbow, de nick, _et_ de sin. _Comment appelez-vous le
pied et la robe?_
ALICE.
De foot, _madame; et_ de coun.
KATHARINE.
De foot _et_ de coun! _O Seigneur Dieu! ils sont les mots de son
mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames
d’honneur d’user. Je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les
seigneurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh!_ le foot _et_ le coun!
_Néanmoins, je réciterai une autre fois ma leçon ensemble:_ d’hand, de
fingres, de nails, d’arm, d’elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun.
ALICE.
_Excellent, madame!_
KATHARINE.
_C’est assez pour une fois. Allons-nous à dîner._
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. The same.
Enter the King of France, the Dauphin, the Duke of Bourbon, the
Constable of France and others.
FRENCH KING.
’Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme.
CONSTABLE.
And if he be not fought withal, my lord,
Let us not live in France; let us quit all
And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
DAUPHIN.
_O Dieu vivant_! shall a few sprays of us,
The emptying of our fathers’ luxury,
Our scions put in wild and savage stock,
Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,
And overlook their grafters?
BOURBON.
Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
_Mort de ma vie_, if they march along
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
CONSTABLE.
_Dieu de batailles_, where have they this mettle?
Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull,
On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,
Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,
A drench for sur-rein’d jades, their barley-broth,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?
And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,
Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land,
Let us not hang like roping icicles
Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty people
Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields!
Poor we may call them in their native lords.
DAUPHIN.
By faith and honour,
Our madams mock at us, and plainly say
Our mettle is bred out, and they will give
Their bodies to the lust of English youth
To new-store France with bastard warriors.
BOURBON.
They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavoltas high, and swift corantos;
Saying our grace is only in our heels,
And that we are most lofty runaways.
FRENCH KING.
Where is Montjoy the herald? Speed him hence.
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.
Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field!
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France;
You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry,
Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;
Jacques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconbridge,
Foix, Lestrale, Boucicault, and Charolois;
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights,
For your great seats now quit you of great shames.
Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land
With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur.
Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow
Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat
The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon.
Go down upon him, you have power enough,
And in a captive chariot into Rouen
Bring him our prisoner.
CONSTABLE.
This becomes the great.
Sorry am I his numbers are so few,
His soldiers sick and famish’d in their march;
For I am sure, when he shall see our army,
He’ll drop his heart into the sink of fear
And for achievement offer us his ransom.
FRENCH KING.
Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Montjoy,
And let him say to England that we send
To know what willing ransom he will give.
Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.
DAUPHIN.
Not so, I do beseech your Majesty.
FRENCH KING.
Be patient, for you shall remain with us.
Now forth, Lord Constable and princes all,
And quickly bring us word of England’s fall.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VI. The English camp in Picardy.
Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting.
GOWER.
How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?
FLUELLEN.
I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge.
GOWER.
Is the Duke of Exeter safe?
FLUELLEN.
The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I
love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life,
and my living, and my uttermost power. He is not—God be praised and
blessed!—any hurt in the world; but keeps the bridge most valiantly,
with excellent discipline. There is an anchient lieutenant there at the
pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark
Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the world, but I did see
him do as gallant service.
GOWER.
What do you call him?
FLUELLEN.
He is call’d Anchient Pistol.
GOWER.
I know him not.
Enter Pistol.
FLUELLEN.
Here is the man.
PISTOL.
Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours.
The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.
FLUELLEN.
Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands.
PISTOL.
Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,
And of buxom valour, hath by cruel fate
And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel,
That goddess blind,
That stands upon the rolling restless stone—
FLUELLEN.
By your patience, Anchient Pistol. Fortune is painted blind, with a
muffler afore his eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and
she is painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral
of it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and mutability, and
variation; and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone,
which rolls, and rolls, and rolls. In good truth, the poet makes a most
excellent description of it. Fortune is an excellent moral.
PISTOL.
Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him;
For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must ’a be,—
A damned death!
Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free,
And let not hemp his windpipe suffocate.
But Exeter hath given the doom of death
For pax of little price.
Therefore, go speak; the Duke will hear thy voice;
And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut
With edge of penny cord and vile reproach.
Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.
FLUELLEN.
Anchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.
PISTOL.
Why then, rejoice therefore.
FLUELLEN.
Certainly, anchient, it is not a thing to rejoice at; for if, look you,
he were my brother, I would desire the Duke to use his good pleasure,
and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used.
PISTOL.
Die and be damn’d! and _fico_ for thy friendship!
FLUELLEN.
It is well.
PISTOL.
The fig of Spain.
[_Exit._]
FLUELLEN.
Very good.
GOWER.
Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal. I remember him now; a bawd,
a cutpurse.
FLUELLEN.
I’ll assure you, ’a uttered as prave words at the pridge as you shall
see in a summer’s day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me,
that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve.
GOWER.
Why, ’t is a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars,
to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier.
And such fellows are perfect in the great commanders’ names; and they
will learn you by rote where services were done; at such and such a
sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who
was shot, who disgrac’d, what terms the enemy stood on; and this they
con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new-tuned
oaths: and what a beard of the general’s cut and a horrid suit of the
camp will do among foaming bottles and ale-wash’d wits, is wonderful to
be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or
else you may be marvellously mistook.
FLUELLEN.
I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is not the man that he
would gladly make show to the world he is. If I find a hole in his
coat, I will tell him my mind. [_Drum heard._] Hark you, the King is
coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge.
Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, Gloucester and his poor soldiers.
God bless your Majesty!
KING HENRY.
How now, Fluellen! cam’st thou from the bridge?
FLUELLEN.
Ay, so please your Majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly
maintain’d the pridge. The French is gone off, look you; and there is
gallant and most prave passages. Marry, th’ athversary was have
possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of
Exeter is master of the pridge. I can tell your Majesty, the Duke is a
prave man.
KING HENRY.
What men have you lost, Fluellen?
FLUELLEN.
The perdition of the athversary hath been very great, reasonable great.
Marry, for my part, I think the Duke hath lost never a man, but one
that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your
Majesty know the man. His face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs,
and flames o’ fire; and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a
coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is
executed, and his fire’s out.
KING HENRY.
We would have all such offenders so cut off; and we give express
charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing
compell’d from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the
French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and
cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner.
Tucket. Enter Montjoy.
MONTJOY.
You know me by my habit.
KING HENRY.
Well then I know thee. What shall I know of thee?
MONTJOY.
My master’s mind.
KING HENRY.
Unfold it.
MONTJOY.
Thus says my King: Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seem’d dead,
we did but sleep; advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him
we could have rebuk’d him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to
bruise an injury till it were full ripe. Now we speak upon our cue, and
our voice is imperial. England shall repent his folly, see his
weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his
ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we
have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer,
his pettishness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too
poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too
faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneeling at our
feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance; and
tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose
condemnation is pronounc’d. So far my King and master; so much my
office.
KING HENRY.
What is thy name? I know thy quality.
MONTJOY.
Montjoy.
KING HENRY.
Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back,
And tell thy King I do not seek him now,
But could be willing to march on to Calais
Without impeachment; for, to say the sooth,
Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much
Unto an enemy of craft and vantage,
My people are with sickness much enfeebled,
My numbers lessen’d, and those few I have
Almost no better than so many French;
Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald,
I thought upon one pair of English legs
Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God,
That I do brag thus! This your air of France
Hath blown that vice in me. I must repent.
Go therefore, tell thy master here I am;
My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,
My army but a weak and sickly guard;
Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,
Though France himself and such another neighbour
Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, Montjoy.
Go, bid thy master well advise himself.
If we may pass, we will; if we be hind’red,
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolour; and so, Montjoy, fare you well.
The sum of all our answer is but this:
We would not seek a battle, as we are;
Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it.
So tell your master.
MONTJOY.
I shall deliver so. Thanks to your Highness.
[_Exit._]
GLOUCESTER.
I hope they will not come upon us now.
KING HENRY.
We are in God’s hands, brother, not in theirs.
March to the bridge; it now draws toward night.
Beyond the river we’ll encamp ourselves,
And on tomorrow bid them march away.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE VII. The French camp, near Agincourt.
Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Rambures, Orleans, Dauphin
with others.
CONSTABLE.
Tut! I have the best armour of the world.
Would it were day!
ORLEANS.
You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due.
CONSTABLE.
It is the best horse of Europe.
ORLEANS.
Will it never be morning?
DAUPHIN.
My Lord of Orleans, and my Lord High Constable, you talk of horse and
armour?
ORLEANS.
You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.
DAUPHIN.
What a long night is this! I will not change my horse with any that
treads but on four pasterns. Ch’ha! He bounds from the earth, as if his
entrails were hairs; _le cheval volant_, the Pegasus, _qui a les
narines de feu!_ When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk. He trots the
air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is
more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
ORLEANS.
He’s of the colour of the nutmeg.
DAUPHIN.
And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus. He is pure
air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in
him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him. He is
indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.
CONSTABLE.
Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse.
DAUPHIN.
It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the bidding of a
monarch, and his countenance enforces homage.
ORLEANS.
No more, cousin.
DAUPHIN.
Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising of the lark to
the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey. It is a
theme as fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and
my horse is argument for them all. ’Tis a subject for a sovereign to
reason on, and for a sovereign’s sovereign to ride on; and for the
world, familiar to us and unknown, to lay apart their particular
functions and wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise and
began thus: “Wonder of nature,”—
ORLEANS.
I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mistress.
DAUPHIN.
Then did they imitate that which I compos’d to my courser, for my horse
is my mistress.
ORLEANS.
Your mistress bears well.
DAUPHIN.
Me well; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and
particular mistress.
CONSTABLE.
Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back.
DAUPHIN.
So perhaps did yours.
CONSTABLE.
Mine was not bridled.
DAUPHIN.
O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode, like a kern of
Ireland, your French hose off, and in your strait strossers.
CONSTABLE.
You have good judgment in horsemanship.
DAUPHIN.
Be warn’d by me, then; they that ride so and ride not warily, fall into
foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress.
CONSTABLE.
I had as lief have my mistress a jade.
DAUPHIN.
I tell thee, Constable, my mistress wears his own hair.
CONSTABLE.
I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress.
DAUPHIN.
“_Le chien est retourné à son propre vomissement, et la truie lavée au
bourbier_.” Thou mak’st use of anything.
CONSTABLE.
Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so
little kin to the purpose.
RAMBURES.
My Lord Constable, the armour that I saw in your tent tonight, are
those stars or suns upon it?
CONSTABLE.
Stars, my lord.
DAUPHIN.
Some of them will fall tomorrow, I hope.
CONSTABLE.
And yet my sky shall not want.
DAUPHIN.
That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and ’twere more honour
some were away.
CONSTABLE.
Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were
some of your brags dismounted.
DAUPHIN.
Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will it never be day? I
will trot tomorrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English
faces.
CONSTABLE.
I will not say so, for fear I should be fac’d out of my way. But I
would it were morning; for I would fain be about the ears of the
English.
RAMBURES.
Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners?
CONSTABLE.
You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them.
DAUPHIN.
’Tis midnight; I’ll go arm myself.
[_Exit._]
ORLEANS.
The Dauphin longs for morning.
RAMBURES.
He longs to eat the English.
CONSTABLE.
I think he will eat all he kills.
ORLEANS.
By the white hand of my lady, he’s a gallant prince.
CONSTABLE.
Swear by her foot that she may tread out the oath.
ORLEANS.
He is simply the most active gentleman of France.
CONSTABLE.
Doing is activity; and he will still be doing.
ORLEANS.
He never did harm, that I heard of.
CONSTABLE.
Nor will do none tomorrow. He will keep that good name still.
ORLEANS.
I know him to be valiant.
CONSTABLE.
I was told that by one that knows him better than you.
ORLEANS.
What’s he?
CONSTABLE.
Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he car’d not who knew it.
ORLEANS.
He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him.
CONSTABLE.
By my faith, sir, but it is; never anybody saw it but his lackey. ’Tis
a hooded valour; and when it appears, it will bate.
ORLEANS.
“Ill will never said well.”
CONSTABLE.
I will cap that proverb with “There is flattery in friendship.”
ORLEANS.
And I will take up that with “Give the devil his due.”
CONSTABLE.
Well plac’d. There stands your friend for the devil; have at the very
eye of that proverb with “A pox of the devil.”
ORLEANS.
You are the better at proverbs, by how much “A fool’s bolt is soon
shot.”
CONSTABLE.
You have shot over.
ORLEANS.
’Tis not the first time you were overshot.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
My Lord High Constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of
your tents.
CONSTABLE.
Who hath measur’d the ground?
MESSENGER.
The Lord Grandpré.
CONSTABLE.
A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas, poor
Harry of England, he longs not for the dawning as we do.
ORLEANS.
What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England, to mope
with his fat-brain’d followers so far out of his knowledge!
CONSTABLE.
If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.
ORLEANS.
That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they
could never wear such heavy head-pieces.
RAMBURES.
That island of England breeds very valiant creatures. Their mastiffs
are of unmatchable courage.
ORLEANS.
Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear and
have their heads crush’d like rotten apples! You may as well say,
that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.
CONSTABLE.
Just, just; and the men do sympathize with the mastiffs in robustious
and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives; and then,
give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like
wolves and fight like devils.
ORLEANS.
Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef.
CONSTABLE.
Then shall we find tomorrow they have only stomachs to eat and none to
fight. Now is it time to arm. Come, shall we about it?
ORLEANS.
It is now two o’clock; but, let me see, by ten
We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.
[_Exeunt._]
|
poem
| 74
|
ACT III
| null |
BEATRICE.
’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my
troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho!
|
poem
| 75
|
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
| null |
Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather’d king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak’st
With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
So they lov’d, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance and no space was seen
’Twixt this turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix’ sight;
Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was called.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded.
That it cried, How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
|
poem
| 76
|
ACT IV
| null |
Enter Biondello.
TRANIO.
Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you.
Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio.
BIONDELLO.
Tut! fear not me.
TRANIO.
But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?
BIONDELLO.
I told him that your father was at Venice,
And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.
TRANIO.
Th’art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink.
Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.
|
poem
| 77
|
ACT III
| null |
A thousand pound, Hal? A million. Thy love is worth a million; thou
owest me thy love.
HOSTESS.
Nay, my lord, he call’d you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.
FALSTAFF.
Did I, Bardolph?
BARDOLPH.
Indeed, Sir John, you said so.
FALSTAFF.
Yea, if he said my ring was copper.
PRINCE.
I say ’tis copper. Darest thou be as good as thy word now?
FALSTAFF.
Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare, but as thou art
prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of the lion’s whelp.
PRINCE.
And why not as the lion?
FALSTAFF.
The King himself is to be feared as the lion. Dost thou think I’ll fear
thee as I fear thy father? Nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break.
PRINCE.
O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees! But, sirrah,
there’s no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine;
it is all filled up with midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking
thy pocket! Why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there
were anything in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy
houses, and one poor pennyworth of sugar-candy to make thee
long-winded, if thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries but
these, I am a villain. And yet you will stand to it, you will not
pocket up wrong. Art thou not ashamed!
FALSTAFF.
Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell,
and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? Thou
seest I have more flesh than another man and therefore more frailty.
You confess, then, you picked my pocket?
PRINCE.
It appears so by the story.
FALSTAFF.
Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast, love thy husband,
look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt find me tractable
to any honest reason. Thou seest I am pacified still. Nay, prithee, be
gone.
[_Exit Hostess._]
Now, Hal, to the news at court. For the robbery, lad, how is that
answered?
PRINCE.
O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee. The money is paid
back again.
FALSTAFF.
O, I do not like that paying back, ’tis a double labour.
PRINCE.
I am good friends with my father, and may do anything.
FALSTAFF.
Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou dost, and do it with unwashed
hands too.
BARDOLPH.
Do, my lord.
PRINCE.
I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.
FALSTAFF.
I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that can steal
well? O, for a fine thief, of the age of two-and-twenty or thereabouts!
I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels; they
offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them.
PRINCE.
Bardolph!
BARDOLPH.
My lord?
PRINCE.
Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster,
To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.
[_Exit Bardolph._]
Go, Peto, to horse, to horse, for thou and I
Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.
[_Exit Peto._]
Jack, meet me tomorrow in the Temple hall
At two o’clock in the afternoon;
There shalt thou know thy charge, and there receive
Money and order for their furniture.
The land is burning, Percy stands on high,
And either we or they must lower lie.
[_Exit._]
FALSTAFF.
Rare words! Brave world!—Hostess, my breakfast, come.—
O, I could wish this tavern were my drum.
[_Exit._]
|
poem
| 78
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red, than her lips red,
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun:
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head:
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight,
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet by heaven I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
|
poem
| 79
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
22
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date,
But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me,
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O therefore love be of thyself so wary,
As I not for my self, but for thee will,
Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again.
|
poem
| 80
|
PROLOGUE
| null |
In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece
The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf’d,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships
Fraught with the ministers and instruments
Of cruel war. Sixty and nine that wore
Their crownets regal from the Athenian bay
Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made
To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures
The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen,
With wanton Paris sleeps—and that’s the quarrel.
To Tenedos they come,
And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge
Their war-like fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains
The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch
Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city,
Dardan, and Tymbria, Ilias, Chetas, Troien,
And Antenorides, with massy staples
And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts,
Stir up the sons of Troy.
Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits
On one and other side, Trojan and Greek,
Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come
A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence
Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited
In like conditions as our argument,
To tell you, fair beholders, that our play
Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils,
Beginning in the middle; starting thence away,
To what may be digested in a play.
Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are;
Now good or bad, ’tis but the chance of war.
|
poem
| 81
|
ACT II
| null |
URSULA.
You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man.
Here’s his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he.
|
poem
| 82
|
ACT IV
| null |
ANTONIO.
Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,
And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,
Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,
Go antickly, show outward hideousness,
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,
How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;
And this is all!
|
poem
| 83
|
ACT IV
| null |
LEONATO.
Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he’ll be
meet with you, I doubt it not.
|
poem
| 84
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
131
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet in good faith some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to my self alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans but thinking on thy face,
One on another’s neck do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander as I think proceeds.
|
poem
| 85
|
ACT II
| null |
LEONATO.
O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at
herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she
knew would flout her: ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘by my own
spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I
love him, I should.’
|
poem
| 86
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
36
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love’s sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
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RICHMOND, SIR WILLIAM BRANDON, OXFORD, DORSET,
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and others. Some pitch RICHMOND'S tent
RICHMOND. The weary sun hath made a golden set,
And by the bright tract of his fiery car
Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.
Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard.
Give me some ink and paper in my tent.
I'll draw the form and model of our battle,
Limit each leader to his several charge,
And part in just proportion our small power.
My Lord of Oxford-you, Sir William Brandon-
And you, Sir Walter Herbert-stay with me.
The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment;
Good Captain Blunt, bear my good night to him,
And by the second hour in the morning
Desire the Earl to see me in my tent.
Yet one thing more, good Captain, do for me-
Where is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know?
BLUNT. Unless I have mista'en his colours much-
Which well I am assur'd I have not done-
His regiment lies half a mile at least
South from the mighty power of the King.
RICHMOND. If without peril it be possible,
Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with him
And give him from me this most needful note.
BLUNT. Upon my life, my lord, I'll undertake it;
And so, God give you quiet rest to-night!
RICHMOND. Good night, good Captain Blunt. Come,
gentlemen,
Let us consult upon to-morrow's business.
In to my tent; the dew is raw and cold.
[They withdraw into the tent]
Enter, to his-tent, KING RICHARD, NORFOLK,
RATCLIFF, and CATESBY
KING RICHARD. What is't o'clock?
CATESBY. It's supper-time, my lord;
It's nine o'clock.
KING RICHARD. I will not sup to-night.
Give me some ink and paper.
What, is my beaver easier than it was?
And all my armour laid into my tent?
CATESBY. It is, my liege; and all things are in readiness.
KING RICHARD. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge;
Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels.
NORFOLK. I go, my lord.
KING RICHARD. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk.
NORFOLK. I warrant you, my lord. Exit
KING RICHARD. Catesby!
CATESBY. My lord?
KING RICHARD. Send out a pursuivant-at-arms
To Stanley's regiment; bid him bring his power
Before sunrising, lest his son George fall
Into the blind cave of eternal night. Exit CATESBY
Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch.
Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow.
Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy.
Ratcliff!
RATCLIFF. My lord?
KING RICHARD. Saw'st thou the melancholy Lord
Northumberland?
RATCLIFF. Thomas the Earl of Surrey and himself,
Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop
Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.
KING RICHARD. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine.
I have not that alacrity of spirit
Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have.
Set it down. Is ink and paper ready?
RATCLIFF. It is, my lord.
KING RICHARD. Bid my guard watch; leave me.
RATCLIFF, about the mid of night come to my tent
And help to arm me. Leave me, I say.
Exit RATCLIFF. RICHARD sleeps
Enter DERBY to RICHMOND in his tent;
LORDS attending
DERBY. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!
RICHMOND. All comfort that the dark night can afford
Be to thy person, noble father-in-law!
Tell me, how fares our loving mother?
DERBY. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother,
Who prays continually for Richmond's good.
So much for that. The silent hours steal on,
And flaky darkness breaks within the east.
In brief, for so the season bids us be,
Prepare thy battle early in the morning,
And put thy fortune to the arbitrement
Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war.
I, as I may-that which I would I cannot-
With best advantage will deceive the time
And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms;
But on thy side I may not be too forward,
Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George,
Be executed in his father's sight.
Farewell; the leisure and the fearful time
Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love
And ample interchange of sweet discourse
Which so-long-sund'red friends should dwell upon.
God give us leisure for these rites of love!
Once more, adieu; be valiant, and speed well!
RICHMOND. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment.
I'll strive with troubled thoughts to take a nap,
Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow
When I should mount with wings of victory.
Once more, good night, kind lords and gentlemen.
Exeunt all but RICHMOND
O Thou, whose captain I account myself,
Look on my forces with a gracious eye;
Put in their hands Thy bruising irons of wrath,
That they may crush down with a heavy fall
The usurping helmets of our adversaries!
Make us Thy ministers of chastisement,
That we may praise Thee in the victory!
To Thee I do commend my watchful soul
Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes.
Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still! [Sleeps]
Enter the GHOST Of YOUNG PRINCE EDWARD,
son to HENRY THE SIXTH
GHOST. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy on thy soul
to-morrow!
Think how thou stabb'dst me in my prime of youth
At Tewksbury; despair, therefore, and die!
[To RICHMOND] Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged
souls
Of butcher'd princes fight in thy behalf.
King Henry's issue, Richmond, comforts thee.
Enter the GHOST of HENRY THE SIXTH
GHOST. [To RICHARD] When I was mortal, my anointed
body
By thee was punched full of deadly holes.
Think on the Tower and me. Despair, and die.
Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die.
[To RICHMOND] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror!
Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be King,
Doth comfort thee in thy sleep. Live and flourish!
Enter the GHOST of CLARENCE
GHOST. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy in thy soul
to-morrow! I that was wash'd to death with fulsome wine,
Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray'd to death!
To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair and die!
[To RICHMOND] Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster,
The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee.
Good angels guard thy battle! Live and flourish!
Enter the GHOSTS of RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN
GHOST OF RIVERS. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy in thy
soul to-morrow,
Rivers that died at Pomfret! Despair and die!
GHOST OF GREY. [To RICHARD] Think upon Grey, and let
thy soul despair!
GHOST OF VAUGHAN. [To RICHARD] Think upon Vaughan,
and with guilty fear
Let fall thy lance. Despair and die!
ALL. [To RICHMOND] Awake, and think our wrongs in
Richard's bosom
Will conquer him. Awake and win the day.
Enter the GHOST of HASTINGS
GHOST. [To RICHARD] Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake,
And in a bloody battle end thy days!
Think on Lord Hastings. Despair and die.
[To RICHMOND] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake!
Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England's sake!
Enter the GHOSTS of the two young PRINCES
GHOSTS. [To RICHARD] Dream on thy cousins smothered in
the Tower.
Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard,
And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death!
Thy nephews' souls bid thee despair and die.
[To RICHMOND] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and
wake in joy;
Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy!
Live, and beget a happy race of kings!
Edward's unhappy sons do bid thee flourish.
Enter the GHOST of LADY ANNE, his wife
GHOST. [To RICHARD] Richard, thy wife, that wretched
Anne thy wife
That never slept a quiet hour with thee
Now fills thy sleep with perturbations.
To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair and die.
[To RICHMOND] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep;
Dream of success and happy victory.
Thy adversary's wife doth pray for thee.
Enter the GHOST of BUCKINGHAM
GHOST. [To RICHARD] The first was I that help'd thee
to the crown;
The last was I that felt thy tyranny.
O, in the battle think on Buckingham,
And die in terror of thy guiltiness!
Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death;
Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath!
[To RICHMOND] I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid;
But cheer thy heart and be thou not dismay'd:
God and good angels fight on Richmond's side;
And Richard falls in height of all his pride.
[The GHOSTS vanish. RICHARD starts out of his dream]
KING RICHARD. Give me another horse. Bind up my wounds.
Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by.
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No-yes, I am.
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why-
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself!
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself!
I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree;
Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree;
All several sins, all us'd in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all 'Guilty! guilty!'
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;
And if I die no soul will pity me:
And wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?
Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent, and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.
Enter RATCLIFF
RATCLIFF. My lord!
KING RICHARD. Zounds, who is there?
RATCLIFF. Ratcliff, my lord; 'tis I. The early village-cock
Hath twice done salutation to the morn;
Your friends are up and buckle on their armour.
KING RICHARD. O Ratcliff, I have dream'd a fearful dream!
What think'st thou-will our friends prove all true?
RATCLIFF. No doubt, my lord.
KING RICHARD. O Ratcliff, I fear, I fear.
RATCLIFF. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows.
KING RICHARD By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night
Have stuck more terror to the soul of Richard
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers
Armed in proof and led by shallow Richmond.
'Tis not yet near day. Come, go with me;
Under our tents I'll play the eaves-dropper,
To see if any mean to shrink from me. Exeunt
Enter the LORDS to RICHMOND sitting in his tent
LORDS. Good morrow, Richmond!
RICHMOND. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen,
That you have ta'en a tardy sluggard here.
LORDS. How have you slept, my lord?
RICHMOND. The sweetest sleep and fairest-boding dreams
That ever ent'red in a drowsy head
Have I since your departure had, my lords.
Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murder'd
Came to my tent and cried on victory.
I promise you my soul is very jocund
In the remembrance of so fair a dream.
How far into the morning is it, lords?
LORDS. Upon the stroke of four.
RICHMOND. Why, then 'tis time to arm and give direction.
His ORATION to his SOLDIERS
More than I have said, loving countrymen,
The leisure and enforcement of the time
Forbids to dwell upon; yet remember this:
God and our good cause fight upon our side;
The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls,
Like high-rear'd bulwarks, stand before our faces;
Richard except, those whom we fight against
Had rather have us win than him they follow.
For what is he they follow? Truly, gentlemen,
A bloody tyrant and a homicide;
One rais'd in blood, and one in blood establish'd;
One that made means to come by what he hath,
And slaughtered those that were the means to help him;
A base foul stone, made precious by the foil
Of England's chair, where he is falsely set;
One that hath ever been God's enemy.
Then if you fight against God's enemy,
God will in justice ward you as his soldiers;
If you do sweat to put a tyrant down,
You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain;
If you do fight against your country's foes,
Your country's foes shall pay your pains the hire;
If you do fight in safeguard of your wives,
Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors;
If you do free your children from the sword,
Your children's children quits it in your age.
Then, in the name of God and all these rights,
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords.
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt
Shall be this cold corpse on the earth's cold face;
But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt
The least of you shall share his part thereof.
Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully;
God and Saint George! Richmond and victory! Exeunt
Re-enter KING RICHARD, RATCLIFF, attendants,
and forces
KING RICHARD. What said Northumberland as touching
Richmond?
RATCLIFF. That he was never trained up in arms.
KING RICHARD. He said the truth; and what said Surrey
then?
RATCLIFF. He smil'd, and said 'The better for our purpose.'
KING He was in the right; and so indeed it is.
[Clock strikes]
Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar.
Who saw the sun to-day?
RATCLIFF. Not I, my lord.
KING RICHARD. Then he disdains to shine; for by the book
He should have brav'd the east an hour ago.
A black day will it be to somebody.
Ratcliff!
RATCLIFF. My lord?
KING RICHARD. The sun will not be seen to-day;
The sky doth frown and lour upon our army.
I would these dewy tears were from the ground.
Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me
More than to Richmond? For the selfsame heaven
That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.
Enter NORFOLK
NORFOLK. Arm, arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the field.
KING RICHARD. Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse;
Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power.
I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain,
And thus my battle shall be ordered:
My foreward shall be drawn out all in length,
Consisting equally of horse and foot;
Our archers shall be placed in the midst.
John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey,
Shall have the leading of this foot and horse.
They thus directed, we will follow
In the main battle, whose puissance on either side
Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse.
This, and Saint George to boot! What think'st thou,
Norfolk?
NORFOLK. A good direction, warlike sovereign.
This found I on my tent this morning.
[He sheweth him a paper]
KING RICHARD. [Reads]
'Jockey of Norfolk, be not so bold,
For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.'
A thing devised by the enemy.
Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge.
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls;
Conscience is but a word that cowards use,
Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe.
Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law.
March on, join bravely, let us to it pell-mell;
If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.
His ORATION to his ARMY
What shall I say more than I have inferr'd?
Remember whom you are to cope withal-
A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways,
A scum of Britaines, and base lackey peasants,
Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth
To desperate adventures and assur'd destruction.
You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest;
You having lands, and bless'd with beauteous wives,
They would restrain the one, distain the other.
And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in Britaine at our mother's cost?
A milk-sop, one that never in his life
Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?
Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again;
Lash hence these over-weening rags of France,
These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives;
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,
For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd themselves.
If we be conquered, let men conquer us,
And not these bastard Britaines, whom our fathers
Have in their own land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd,
And, in record, left them the heirs of shame.
Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives,
Ravish our daughters? [Drum afar off] Hark! I hear their
drum.
Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!
Enter a MESSENGER
What says Lord Stanley? Will he bring his power?
MESSENGER. My lord, he doth deny to come.
KING RICHARD. Off with his son George's head!
NORFOLK. My lord, the enemy is pass'd the marsh.
After the battle let George Stanley die.
KING RICHARD. A thousand hearts are great within my
bosom.
Advance our standards, set upon our foes;
Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!
Upon them! Victory sits on our helms. Exeunt
SCENE 4.
Another part of the field
Alarum; excursions. Enter NORFOLK and forces; to him CATESBY
CATESBY. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!
The King enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring an opposite to every danger.
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost.
Alarums. Enter KING RICHARD
KING RICHARD. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
CATESBY. Withdraw, my lord! I'll help you to a horse.
KING RICHARD. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast
And I Will stand the hazard of the die.
I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day instead of him.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse! Exeunt
SCENE 5.
Another part of the field
Alarum. Enter RICHARD and RICHMOND; they fight; RICHARD is slain.
Retreat and flourish. Enter RICHMOND, DERBY bearing the crown, with
other LORDS
RICHMOND. God and your arms be prais'd, victorious friends;
The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.
DERBY. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee!
Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty
From the dead temples of this bloody wretch
Have I pluck'd off, to grace thy brows withal.
Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.
RICHMOND. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all!
But, teLL me is young George Stanley living.
DERBY. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town,
Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us.
RICHMOND. What men of name are slain on either side?
DERBY. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,
Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.
RICHMOND. Inter their bodies as becomes their births.
Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled
That in submission will return to us.
And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament,
We will unite the white rose and the red.
Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction,
That long have frown'd upon their emnity!
What traitor hears me, and says not Amen?
England hath long been mad, and scarr'd herself;
The brother blindly shed the brother's blood,
The father rashly slaughter'd his own son,
The son, compell'd, been butcher to the sire;
All this divided York and Lancaster,
Divided in their dire division,
O, now let Richmond and Elizabeth,
The true succeeders of each royal house,
By God's fair ordinance conjoin together!
And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so,
Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac'd peace,
With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,
That would reduce these bloody days again
And make poor England weep in streams of blood!
Let them not live to taste this land's increase
That would with treason wound this fair land's peace!
Now civil wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again-
That she may long live here, God say Amen! Exeunt
|
poem
| 88
|
ACT III
| null |
DON JOHN.
The word’s too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say, she
were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it.
Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me tonight, you
shall see her chamber window entered, even the night before her
wedding-day: if you love her then, tomorrow wed her; but it would
better fit your honour to change your mind.
|
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| 89
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
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87
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing:
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking,
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
|
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| 90
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
147
My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please:
My reason the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
|
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| 91
|
JULIUS CAESAR
| null |
Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants.
SCENE: Rome, the conspirators’ camp near Sardis, and the plains of
Philippi.
|
poem
| 92
|
ACT IV
| null |
SCENE III. The temple of Diana at Ephesus; Thaisa standing near the
altar, as high priestess; a number of Virgins on each side; Cerimon and
other inhabitants of Ephesus attending.
Enter Pericles with his train; Lysimachus, Helicanus, Marina and a
Lady.
PERICLES.
Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command,
I here confess myself the King of Tyre;
Who, frighted from my country, did wed
At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa.
At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth
A maid child call’d Marina; whom, O goddess,
Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus
Was nursed with Cleon; who at fourteen years
He sought to murder: but her better stars
Brought her to Mytilene; ’gainst whose shore
Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us,
Where by her own most clear remembrance, she
Made known herself my daughter.
THAISA.
Voice and favour!
You are, you are — O royal Pericles!
[_Faints._]
PERICLES.
What means the nun? She dies! help, gentlemen!
CERIMON.
Noble sir,
If you have told Diana’s altar true,
This is your wife.
PERICLES.
Reverend appearer, no;
I threw her overboard with these very arms.
CERIMON.
Upon this coast, I warrant you.
PERICLES.
’Tis most certain.
CERIMON.
Look to the lady; O, she’s but o’er-joy’d.
Early in blustering morn this lady was
Thrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin,
Found there rich jewels; recover’d her, and placed her
Here in Diana’s temple.
PERICLES.
May we see them?
CERIMON.
Great sir, they shall be brought you to my house,
Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is
Recovered.
THAISA.
O, let me look!
If he be none of mine, my sanctity
Will to my sense bend no licentious ear,
But curb it, spite of seeing. O, my lord,
Are you not Pericles? Like him you spake,
Like him you are: did you not name a tempest,
A birth, and death?
PERICLES.
The voice of dead Thaisa!
THAISA.
That Thaisa am I, supposed dead
And drown’d.
PERICLES.
Immortal Dian!
THAISA.
Now I know you better,
When we with tears parted Pentapolis,
The king my father gave you such a ring.
[_Shows a ring._]
PERICLES.
This, this: no more, you gods! your present kindness
Makes my past miseries sports: you shall do well,
That on the touching of her lips I may
Melt and no more be seen. O, come, be buried
A second time within these arms.
MARINA.
My heart
Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom.
[_Kneels to Thaisa._]
PERICLES.
Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, Thaisa;
Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina
For she was yielded there.
THAISA.
Blest, and mine own!
HELICANUS.
Hail, madam, and my queen!
THAISA.
I know you not.
PERICLES.
You have heard me say, when I did fly from Tyre,
I left behind an ancient substitute:
Can you remember what I call’d the man
I have named him oft.
THAISA.
’Twas Helicanus then.
PERICLES.
Still confirmation:
Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he.
Now do I long to hear how you were found:
How possibly preserved; and who to thank,
Besides the gods, for this great miracle.
THAISA.
Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man,
Through whom the gods have shown their power; that can
From first to last resolve you.
PERICLES.
Reverend sir,
The gods can have no mortal officer
More like a god than you. Will you deliver
How this dead queen relives?
CERIMON.
I will, my lord.
Beseech you, first go with me to my house,
Where shall be shown you all was found with her;
How she came placed here in the temple;
No needful thing omitted.
PERICLES.
Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision! I
Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa,
This prince, the fair betrothed of your daughter,
Shall marry her at Pentapolis.
And now this ornament
Makes me look dismal will I clip to form;
And what this fourteen years no razor touch’d
To grace thy marriage-day, I’ll beautify.
THAISA.
Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, sir,
My father’s dead.
PERICLES.
Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, my queen,
We’ll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves
Will in that kingdom spend our following days:
Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign.
Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay
To hear the rest untold. Sir, lead’s the way.
[_Exeunt._]
Enter Gower.
GOWER.
In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard
Of monstrous lust the due and just reward:
In Pericles, his queen and daughter seen,
Although assail’d with Fortune fierce and keen,
Virtue preserved from fell destruction’s blast,
Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last.
In Helicanus may you well descry
A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty:
In reverend Cerimon there well appears
The worth that learned charity aye wears:
For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame
Had spread their cursed deed, the honour’d name
Of Pericles, to rage the city turn,
That him and his they in his palace burn.
The gods for murder seemed so content
To punish, although not done, but meant.
So on your patience evermore attending,
New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending.
[_Exit._]
|
poem
| 93
|
ACT III
| null |
HERO.
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
As we do trace this alley up and down,
Our talk must only be of Benedick:
When I do name him, let it be thy part
To praise him more than ever man did merit.
My talk to thee must be how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter
Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made,
That only wounds by hearsay.
|
poem
| 94
|
ACT IV
| null |
BENEDICK.
And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
|
poem
| 95
|
ACT III
| null |
Scene I. Bristol. Bolingbroke’s camp.
Scene II. The coast of Wales. A castle in view.
Scene III. Wales. Before Flint Castle.
Scene IV. Langley. The Duke of York’s garden.
|
poem
| 96
|
ACT II
| null |
LEONATO.
She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so
much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will
do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.
|
poem
| 97
|
ACT IV
| null |
DON PEDRO.
By my soul, nor I:
And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
I would bend under any heavy weight
That he’ll enjoin me to.
|
poem
| 98
|
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
VENUS AND ADONIS
THE SONNETS
| null |
89
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence,
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt:
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I’ll my self disgrace, knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange:
Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue,
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against my self I’ll vow debate,
For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.
|
poem
| 99
|
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